#a few words for the firing squad

[quiet-victories]

In the radiation of the city sun

[flixpii]

Too Much, Not Enough

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 12.6k

A/N: first, i'd like to thank my wonderful boo thang @iceemochaa for this idea. everyone go give her a kiss. i'd also want to thank some fellow people from the server for very horny-fest ideas: @crxw1ey @itsaaudraw @remmicks-salvation @madkingcrowley

ALSO this is in lowercase because i typed it on my phone (default lowercase squad) and i was already so far in that i didn't feel like going back to capitalize everything

synopsis : he catches you one night—drinking from you as you try to get away. but suddenly, something shifts in him; he starts to feel strange, aroused to the point that you can feel him pressing against your backside. a couple of nights pass before he shows up again—only this time, he’s not after blood. he’s hoping you’ll help him release all the pent-up sexual frustration he’s been carrying.

warnings !! (MDNI 18+) : unprotected sex (p in v), drool/spit, overstimulation, handjob, oral (f receiving), fingering, very soft dom remmick, virginity taking (both?), dream sex

----

blearing, white-hot pain shoots through the side of your neck, and a gasp tears through your throat. it is so sudden—so sudden, and you barely have time to understand how you ended up how you did. 

he had grabbed you, holding you so close to him—his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you upright while his tongue licked lazily up your neck. 

“shh…don’t cry. it’ll be alright.”

he had murmured against your ear, breath hot and dripping with thirst. 

it was a cruel thing.

cruel in the way it stole breath before you could even scream, in the way it mocked the simplicity of your night—how only minutes earlier, your hands had been warm, reaching for the last pair of drawers on the line, the wind tugging gently at your nightgown like a teasing friend. you had only stepped off the porch. just a few steps. just to gather what was yours.

and then he was there.

the roughness of his grip was so sudden, so wrong, it split the air like a crack of thunder. your body flinched on instinct, mind fumbling to catch up to the moment—was this real? did you know this man? were you dreaming? but the pain blooming beneath his fingers on your arm told you otherwise. told you this wasn’t the kind of nightmare you could wake from.

you had opened your mouth to say something—anything, but no words could escape before his teeth—no—fangs punctured your neck. 

his rough tongue darts quickly, his mouth slurping as your blood—warm and tangy—leaks down your neck from where his mouth hadn’t been quick enough to catch. the splatter of it spills onto your cotton nightgown.

a movement—sudden, but clear, spills from him. more so, from the space where he is pressed up against you. a stuttering breath passes through your lips at the contact.

he’s flushed up against you, and aside from the blearing pain flying through your body, you feel him pressing into your bottom.

he ruts against you, chasing the friction provided. he lets out a sound—a whine, you assume through the mind fog. 

a heat flushes through you—sudden, unprovoked, and sickening. it crawls beneath your skin like a fever you didn’t ask for, one that sets your nerves on fire in all the wrong ways. shame follows fast behind it, swallowing you whole. it pulses in your fingertips, clenches in your gut, coats your teeth like bitterness.

you hate that you feel it.

hate that your body reacts at all.

because the pain—sharp, raw, burning—should’ve been enough. but somehow, it’s the shame that lingers heavier. shame that makes you feel small. shame that makes your skin feel too tight. shame that makes you wish you could disappear, not because of what’s happening, but because some awful part of you believes you’re supposed to bear it.

the suction of his mouth grows sharper for just a second—you swear he’s going to drain you. just before he can, you feel his head snap back, the crimson fluid he just stole from you dripping down his chin, coating his cheeks.

“oh….oh.”

your head slowly turns, and you spot his eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the space—or the lack of—between you.

he seems confused as his eyes scan the way he fits against you—firm and hard, like instinct. like muscle remembering what the mind had long tried to forget. Like something inside of him is remembering something he had buried and traded for the concept of survival. 

his mouth opens with a smack, before it slowly forms into an ‘o’.

you’re sure he’s about to say something when suddenly, he presses forward, flushing his chest to your back, ripping a gasp from your throat.

“i…i don’t think this is ‘posed to happen’”

his breath ghosts over your ruined neck, and the confusion falls from his lips.

a groan, low and abrupt, passes through his blood-stained lips. it’s a sound that doesn’t belong to hunger or pleasure—it’s uncertainty. reluctance. it rumbles like a warning he doesn’t understand himself, and it sends a jolt through your body, sharp as a spark beneath the skin. your breath catches. you’re not sure if it’s fear or revulsion or some terrible, trembling mix of both.

your eyes flit back to the porch—to the basket where your clothes lay, spilled and crumpled in the dirt. a shirt hangs over the edge like it’s reaching for you. the sight guts you.

you had dropped it when he grabbed you.

your arms had been full of ordinary things.

of clean linen, still warm from the sun.

and all you want now—achingly, desperately—is to return to it.

“please,” your voice comes out with a breath—choking up in your throat, “…let me go.”

he pauses. 

the arm around your waist tightens and it causes a soft gasp to sound from your throat. 

“why you wan’ me to let you go?”

his nose pokes into the bite mark on your neck, eliciting a wince from you. the question comes out a bit uncertain—like he’s confused as to why you want to leave him like this.

“you don’t feel this,” he punctuates his word with a rut against you. “you can’t leave me like this.”

the tone in his voice is desperate—needy even, causes you to freeze.

confusion laced with desire falls from his mouth. his rough, hot tongue darts out to lick at your neck once more. 

a sound of disgust slips through your mouth—sharp and guttural, rising before you can stop it. it’s instinct, raw and trembling, the only thing you have left to give.

he pauses.

just for a breath. just long enough for the air between you to shift.

then he pulls back—confused, maybe stunned—and that retreat is all you need. you don’t think. there’s no space for thought. only a surge of heat.

you ram your head back, hard into his chin. bone meets bone. the crack echoes inside your skull like a church bell rung wrong.

a grunt tears through his lips, and his hold falters.

you move. not gracefully, not cleanly—

just fast. just desperate.

you push forward, wrenching yourself out of his arms. your feet slam against the cold grass, slick with dew, and the ground tilts underneath you. your vision veers sideways, spinning from blood-loss, from panic, from the weight of everything all at once.

“s-stop! you can’t leave me like this.”

his voice rings out behind you—desperate, yearning, maybe even startled—but it feels distant, like it’s echoing from underwater. you don’t dare look back. the only thing you see is the porch rising in front of you like salvation.

your legs nearly give out as you reach the steps, but you launch yourself upward, stumbling and scrambling until your body crashes against the door with a dull, aching thud. pain flares along your shoulder, but you don’t stop. you brace for the worst—for the hard slap of wood refusing you, for the cruel slam of a locked world.

but you’d left it cracked.

you don’t even remember doing it, but thank god you had.

your body falls forward, toppling past the frame in a blur of heat and breath and blind panic. the wooden floor meets you with a thud, and for a heartbeat, you just lie there—half-sprawled, half-curled, heart pounding against the floorboards like it’s trying to get free of your chest.

past the threshold.

inside.

safe.

the door was still splayed open, and you could hear the heavy boots of him pacing on the worn wood of your porch, but you didn’t care. didn’t care how or why he couldn’t just walk in and take you right back out.

no. you didn’t think that far, and as the weight of the blood-loss settles over your body like a wet blanket, your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

——————

it had been a week. 

a week since you had stepped outside your house at night. 

that morning—when the light finally broke across your floorboards like a quiet apology—you woke with your head pounding and your mouth dry as cotton. every part of your body felt sore, like you’d been wrung out and left in the sun too long.

he was nowhere to be seen.

no shadow. no sound. no sign he’d ever been there at all.

but you knew better.

you didn’t step outside. not even once.

you stayed inside your home, locked behind the door like it was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open again. a strip of cloth was pressed against your neck, stained from the wound that throbbed beneath it. the ache pulsed steady with your heartbeat—a quiet, cruel reminder.

your fingers stayed curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, white-knuckled and still trembling, long after the sun had crept across the room. even when your hand went numb, you didn’t let go.

he didn’t return that day. or the next.

you didn’t want to worry, but a part of you still clung to the idea that he was out there, waiting. waiting for you to slip up so that he could grab you once more.

by the third day, you decided to continue on with your life. stepping outside onto the porch with your breath held in your throat.

he wasn’t there. 

the sun beat down heavily across your home, and the clothes line danced with the wing—rustling gently.

that night, you dreamt. 

your body jolted with each thrust, already caught in the storm, and his voice—ragged and wild—only pulled you deeper under.

“say it… s-say my name!”

it came out in a near-snarl, not cruel, but desperate. like the sound of a man barely holding himself together, trying to find something to anchor to as he pounded into you with reckless, trembling need.

but your voice—

it wouldn’t come.

your mouth opened, but nothing formed, just broken gasps and choked cries, your face still buried in the pillow, now damp with sweat and spit. your throat ached with moans you hadn’t meant to make. you were unraveling, bit by bit, your body pulsing around him, clenching tight as the pressure in your belly twisted into something unstoppable.

his hand on your clit didn’t let up. if anything, it grew more deliberate—ruthless in its rhythm. his thumb swirled over you, hot and slick, heavy and rough as your hips twitched uncontrollably. every nerve in your body was alight, the sound of his groans behind you nearly as dizzying as the slaps of skin and the bed frame straining beneath the force of him.

his cock throbbed inside you, each stroke deep and hurried now, dragging against your swollen walls like he was trying to carve his name into you from the inside out. the sound of it—wet, sharp, filthy—filled the room like a song that only your bodies knew how to sing.

and then it happened.

your body locked.

your toes curled.

and your lungs emptied.

a sharp cry tore from you—his name half-formed, almost there—as your climax hit, sudden and all-consuming. your vision blurred as your body convulsed, waves crashing through you so hard you nearly forgot where you were.

he let out a strangled groan behind you, his hips jerking erratically, chasing your release with his own. his cock twitched deep inside, and with a hoarse, broken sound, he spilled into you—warmth flooding you, filling you, marking you.

he rode it out, his body pressing down on yours, hand still moving, dragging the orgasm from you until it left you limp and shaking beneath him.

your fingers finally released the sheets, trembling, and you gasped into the pillow like it was the first breath you’d taken in years.

your mind blanked.

you woke with a startle—your body jerking, breath caught sharp in your throat like you’d been yanked from the depths of something unspeakable. heat flooded you, thick and sudden, pooling beneath your skin as if you were still there, still lost in it.

your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs aching from how hard they worked to steady you. your hands clutched the sheets without realizing, the fabric damp beneath your palms. your mind, still fogged with fragments, tried to twist back into itself—tried to make sense of what was real and what had only felt that way.

your thighs rubbed together—and you felt it.

a wet, sticky warmth clinging to the soft skin between them. slick and unmistakable. your breath hitched as the realization hit you, and a wave of shame surged through your chest so suddenly, you flinched.

“fuck…” you whispered under your breath.

your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it against your stomach as if the pressure alone could make the feeling go away. like you could press the memory down, flatten it, bury it under cotton and guilt.

your mind spun, trying to make sense of why him.

why that.

you didn’t understand why you dreamt of him in such a scandalous, filthy way—why his hands, his mouth, his body had felt so real.

why your own body responded like it wanted it.

like it remembered.

your face burned.

hot and clammy to the touch, even in the cool quiet of your room.

you squeezed your thighs together, trying to contain the pulsing ache that hadn’t yet faded. it sat there, low and heavy in your gut, begging to be soothed. your fingers twitched at your side, and for a split second, you almost let them drift lower.

but you stopped yourself.

you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes tight, pressing your legs together like a seal. like that would hold back the memory of his name falling from your lips, the feel of him stretching you open, the sound of skin slapping and breathless groans in your ear.

————

by the end of the week, you felt as though he was truly gone for good.

the silence had settled again, not like a threat this time, but like dust returning to undisturbed corners. no voice behind you, no shadow in the tree line, no sudden breath against your neck. just the wind. the sun. the familiar creak of the porch beneath your steps.

it didn’t take long before you slipped back into the rhythm of your days—those quiet, outdoor chores that had always grounded you. you began hanging clothes again, your fingers brushing the warm fabric, sunlight catching the edges of the sheets like a blessing.

in the back of your home, you knelt beside your small herb garden, pressing your fingers into the dirt like it could anchor you. rosemary. sage. thyme. they greeted you like old friends, unaware of what you’d endured. or maybe they knew—and simply chose not to ask.

the peace didn’t last long.

on the sixth night, he returned.

you’re taking the clothes down that had been drying all day—like you had before, when he first got you. 

a crack sounds behind you.

sharp. sudden. too close.

your body jerks, instincts sharper than thought, and your head whips around—fists clenched tight around the soft fabric of a freshly-dried gown. your heart lurches upward, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

your body knows before your mind.

knows the rhythm of danger. the hum beneath the skin.

and without a thought, your feet begin to move—gravel crunching beneath them as you pull yourself toward the front door like safety is just inches away.

“wait.”

you hate how you stop.

how the sound of his voice roots you in place.

there’s something in it—something cracked open. desperate. searching.

and for some godawful reason, it reaches you.

your feet freeze.

your head turns, slow and reluctant, toward the right.

and there he is.

dressed in dark pants, suspenders hanging loose like they’d been tugged too hard, too fast. a pale blue button-up clings to his frame, sleeves rolled, top buttons torn clean open. it might’ve once looked neat. now it clings to him like second skin—filthy, sweat-soaked, streaked in places with grime and something far worse.

blood.

so much of it.

his brown hair is tousled and damp, the front sticking to his forehead in matted curls. and beneath the fabric, the white of a wife-beater peeks out—though it’s barely white anymore. more a rusted red, like someone had tried to scrub the stain but it refused to fade. a thin gold chain glints against his collarbone, catching the moonlight like it doesn’t realize it’s resting on a monster.

your eyes widen.

your breath catches.

you take a step back. your heel digs into the dirt. and still, your gaze is fixed on him—on the smear of blood across his cheeks, dried and flaking at the edges, like war paint. it trails down his throat, painting the lines of his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. it looks fresh.

his mouth opens as he takes a step forward.

you take a step back—slow, deliberate, your heel skimming the earth like you’re testing the ground beneath you, unsure if it will hold.

“i ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

his voice is soft. too soft. like he’s trying to fold himself into something harmless, like he doesn’t still have blood on his face, like he didn’t tear through you once already. it’s a tone that might’ve calmed you in another life. in this one, it makes your stomach turn.

your fingers clutch the dress tighter, knuckles paling with the strain. you can feel the seams of the fabric pressing into your skin, grounding you, even as your body begs to run.

you want—desperately, urgently—to look back. to see how many steps remain between you and the safety of your door. but you don’t dare move. not even your eyes. not when he’s watching you like that. not when you know how quick he can close the space between you.

even the smallest glance away might invite him forward.

“you hurt me before.”

the words fall from your lips before you’re ready. soft. strange. unfamiliar.

the sound of your own voice jars you. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound afraid. it sounds… disoriented. like the memory has begun to blur around the edges, melting into something that doesn’t make sense anymore. like you’re not certain if it happened the way you remember. if it happened at all.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

because you know what he did.

your body still remembers, even if your voice has started to forget.

your mind flits back to the dream—the dream that had you gasping for air once you’d awaken. 

it’s strange. 

here, in front of you, was the man—the beast—who had held your life in the palm of his hand, threatening death with a final pull of your blood into his mouth. 

and now, all you could think about was the way he rubbed against you—like the feeling was both foreign and enticing to him. 

he lets out a strained laugh.

“yeah. you’re right about that, b-but, i ain’t goin’ to do that again. 

“how can i trust you?”

your voice is more certain this time around, and your hands fall to your sides, still holding the dress in your hand as your chest moves with your breaths.

the wind sweeps between you.

he takes another step forward and you mirror by taking another step backward.

his arms lift, elbows jutting out wide as his hands settle on top of his head. his fingers thread through his messy hair, gripping at the roots like he’s trying to hold something inside from breaking loose.

then comes the sound.

low, cracked—something between a groan and a whine.

“please… why is this happenin’ to me?”

his voice trembles at the edges, and for a moment, it almost sounds like grief. like confusion twisted into something uglier. and that unsettles you even more. because this isn’t remorse. this isn’t shame. it’s self-pity—sharp and misplaced.

you blink, heart rattling in your chest.

you have no idea what he’s talking about.

and the not knowing—it’s beginning to twist in your gut, cold and tight.

he starts pacing, erratic and restless, but still a good distance off. far enough that you can breathe. far enough that you don’t yet have to run.

“i’ve been runnin’ ‘round everywhere,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with something that borders on frustration. “drainin’ folks left an’ right…”

he pauses, his body stiffening.

“but i ain’t do this with them.”

his arms drop heavily to his sides, and then one hand presses flat against his pants—lower. against himself.

your breath stutters.

the gesture is crude, almost unconscious, like his body is betraying him, like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. and that’s what makes it worse. not the motion itself, but the fact that he’s unraveling—right there in front of you.

and you’re the one he’s unraveling over.

you take a step backward, slow and cautious, and the snap of a small branch beneath your foot cuts through the quiet like a shot.

he stops.

his head turns toward you—slow, deliberate, like he already knows exactly where you are. his eyes lock onto yours, and something in your chest flinches. not from fear. not entirely.

no, it’s something else.

something low and stirring, unwelcome but real, curling hot in your belly beneath the weight of his gaze. it shames you the moment it blooms, but it doesn’t leave. it sits there, twisting—because the look in his eyes isn’t hungry for blood. not right now.

he looks torn.

like a man fraying at the seams.

like something inside him is breaking open under the weight of a need he doesn’t understand—had forgotten was possible. a craving that wasn’t sharp teeth and crimson thirst, but touch. closeness. something unbearably human.

he takes a step forward.

you don’t move.

“help me…” he breathes, voice cracking as if the words pain him. “i won’t hurt you. just help me feel better. yeah?”

he inches closer, each step careful, almost reverent, until he’s within arm’s reach. and now, this close, you can see it all—his chest heaving, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pants strain from how tightly he’s wound. how unbearably pent up he is.

your eyes flick down. just for a second.

your cheeks flush hot, instant and humiliating, and you curse yourself silently—clenching your jaw as if that alone could rewind the moment. your body had again. as if it hadn’t learned.

he doesn’t let you answer.

he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid any hesitation might send him unraveling again.

your empty hand flies up on instinct, palm raised between you like a barrier made of sheer will.

“stop,” you say.

but your voice—god, your voice—comes out too soft, too unsure, trembling on the edges. it betrays you, just like your body does.

he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving until your hand meets his chest, firm and burning beneath your touch. his skin is hot through the thin fabric, and the moment you make contact, a sound spills from him—deep and broken. a groan laced with something softer, needier. a whine.

his head dips slightly, his breath brushing your skin.

“see?” he murmurs, voice thick, ragged. “see what you’re doin’ to me?”

it takes every ounce of strength to keep your gaze on his, to hold steady beneath the weight of him. but the tension in his body, the ragged rise of his chest, the way he looks at you like you’re both his torment and salvation—it all pulls your eyes downward.

just for a second.

just long enough to see his hand again, pressing against himself, slow and deliberate.

resuming what he had started.

and your breath stutters.

“stop. i don’t know you.”

your voice is firmer this time, but there’s a crack running through it.

a hairline fracture of fear, of confusion, of something far more complicated than either.

his eyes stay locked on yours, wild and pleading.

“remmick,” he breathes.

“what?”

you blink. it comes out before you can process it.

“my name,” he says again, faster this time. “remmick.”

he says it like it means something. like it should unlock something in you.

he pauses, as if waiting for it to take hold, and then looks up—right into your eyes.

“say it. please.”

your hand is still on his chest, trembling now, caught between pushing him away and holding him there. your lips part, hesitating, uncertain. but the sound slips out anyway.

“remmick.”

that’s all it takes.

his body shifts—subtle but unmistakable—as if the word pierced straight through him. he leans forward, just slightly, like he’s being drawn into you by gravity itself. one of his hands lifts, and he presses yours harder against his chest, like he needs to feel it. like he needs proof that you said it. that it’s real.

a soft moan escapes him, low and shivering, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. it curls around you like smoke—dangerous, intimate, and far too close.

a sensation shoots through you—sharp and strange—sparking low in your belly and crawling up your spine like a current. your body shudders, betraying you before you can make sense of it. you suck in a breath through parted lips, and that’s when you catch it.

he’s close.

so close, you can smell him.

not just blood, though that’s there—metallic, sharp, and thick like it clings to him from the inside out. not just dirt either, though earth clings to his clothes, the scent of sweat and soil mingling on his skin. there’s something else. something older. colder. something that reminds you of decay, of things buried and forgotten. it lingers in the air around him like a warning.

your voice trembles as it slips past your lips, low and unsure.

“if…”

you pause, swallowing hard as your thoughts struggle to take shape.

“if i help you… will you let me live?”

your eyes dart away from his, just for a second.

you don’t mean to. but holding his gaze for too long feels like surrendering.

remmick pauses.

it’s slight—barely a beat—but you feel it in your bones.

“i was always plannin’ on keepin’ you,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “couldn’t do that if you’re dead.”

his voice has changed. not just the words—his whole way of speaking. the southern drawl softens, thins out, and something else bleeds through. a different cadence. older. maybe even his real voice. it startles you, but you can’t quite place why. it sounds less put-on. more him.

he studies your face—eyes flicking across your features like he’s trying to read a language only he remembers.

then, a slow smile curves his lips. not smug. not cruel.

curious. certain.

“tell me you feel it too.”

you want to say no.

you want to recoil, to push him away, to scream that this is wrong, that none of this makes sense, that nothing about him feels safe.

but your body—traitorous, aching, alive—gives you away.

because as you look at him, at the hunger and confusion tangled in his expression, something warm begins to spread through you again.

you gather the courage to turn from him, your eyes flicking toward the back door—your door. the one that had always meant safety, the one you weren’t sure would feel that way ever again.

“i can’t let you in.”

the words leave your mouth like something sacred. like a boundary you hope he might honor.

his smile deepens, slow and knowing.

“i know, darlin’,” he says, voice like worn velvet. “you’re not stupid.”

the way he says it isn’t mocking. it almost sounds like admiration. like he means it.

you glance back at him, chest tight, and exhale a shaky breath. your hand softens against his chest, settling there beneath the warmth of his palm—no longer resisting. not quite yielding. something in between.

“okay.”

you barely get the word out before the world shifts.

suddenly, you’re in his arms—lifted with startling ease, pressed tightly against his chest like you belong there. a shocked gasp rips from your throat, your arms instinctively grabbing hold of whatever they can, unsure whether to brace or cling.

his feet move fast, sure, and then the cool slam of the outside world hits you again—your back porch beneath you, the creak of old wood under his boots.

your feet touch down onto the dirty boards, but you barely feel them.

your back hits the wall of your house, and his chest meets yours.

you’re trapped—surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, the tension that radiates off his body in waves. the wall behind you is cool and hard, but his body in front of you burns like fever. he’s close. too close. and yet somehow not close enough for him.

something in him shifts—slow, subtle. like the current inside him changes direction and he doesn’t know how to follow it. you feel it in the way his body stills, then trembles slightly, pressed so tight against you that every breath he takes stutters against your chest.

you can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into your thigh through the worn fabric of his pants. the weight of it, the heat, the way it pulses with no rhythm but his rising need.

he seems… lost.

remmick’s eyes flicker, wild and unsure, and when you meet them, there’s something desperate there. not hunger like before—but confusion. like his body remembered something his mind didn’t. like he had no idea what to do with this kind of ache.

you search his gaze, trying to find a map inside him. something that tells you what he wants. what he expects. but there’s nothing clear. only the trembling look of a man who doesn’t remember how to feel without violence.

then he lets out a groan—low and helpless—as his hips push forward, grinding against your thigh with a need he doesn’t seem to know how to contain.

your body jerks in surprise.

a sharp breath tears from your lips as the movement drags heat through you, low and dizzying. it coils in your belly, thick and sudden.

you hadn’t meant to respond.

but now that you have, you can’t pretend not to feel it.

“do something, please.”

his voice breaks apart as he speaks, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. he begs through it—through the way his hips keep chasing the friction, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

you swallow hard, nerves tangled with something warmer, something you don’t want to name. your fingers twitch where they rest, and you shake your head, barely able to speak.

“i–i don’t know what to do,” you confess, voice thin with uncertainty.

and it’s true.

you’d never been with a man like this—never one so far gone, so undone, so completely at the mercy of his own body. and even if you had… you never learned how to give this kind of touch. never learned how to bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself, never thought you’d have to.

but something about the way he presses into you, so frantic and confused, stirs a reluctant kind of empathy in you—mixed with fear, with heat, with a strange pull you can’t understand.

your gaze drops.

his hips are still moving, slow but desperate, grinding into your leg like he needs more and doesn’t know how to ask for it. something about it makes your breath catch.

almost without thinking, your hand moves down—hesitant, shaking—and you press your palm gently against him, through the fabric of his pants.

he freezes.

utterly.

and then a sound tears out of him—a moan, raw and broken, rising from the pit of his throat like it surprised even him.

his body shudders under your touch, rigid with restraint, but trembling like he’s seconds from falling apart. your hand stills where it rests, the heat of him burning through the cloth and into your skin.

your palm presses down harder, instinct guiding your movements more than experience. and that’s when you truly feel him—solid, straining beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through your skin like a fever. the bulge stretches wide beneath your touch, filling your entire hand, every inch of him throbbing with need you can’t begin to comprehend.

he lets out a choked breath, and then his hand shoots down—larger, rougher—covering yours. he presses it harder against himself, hips stuttering like he’s chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.

“it’s not enough,” he pants, voice cracking as his brows draw together, his face twisted in a mix of agony and need.

you feel your face burn at the words—at the implication of what “enough” might mean. your breath falters, throat tight, but your hand doesn’t move away.

instead, your fingers twitch.

they curl slightly, without thinking, just enough to grip.

the reaction is immediate.

he winces—a shudder running through his body like a jolt of lightning—and his mouth parts with a sound that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“don’t stop.”

his voice is strained—hoarse, almost fragile beneath the weight of his own desire. like stopping would shatter him entirely.

your mind flickers back, unbidden, to the dream from a few nights ago. the one that clung to your skin even after waking. in it, he had been so sure of himself—so commanding, so in control. his hands had known where to touch, his mouth had known what to say, and you had given yourself over without question. there had been no trembling. no hesitation. only heat.

but this—this trembling, panting version of him pressed against you now—this was the opposite.

and yet it didn’t cool the fire in you.

it stoked it.

your heart pounds harder, your face flushing hot as the realization settles deep: he hadn’t felt this in a long time. maybe ever. the touch, the friction, the aching pleasure that left him shaking in your hand—it was unfamiliar to him. and yet he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him whole.

and you… you were the one giving it to him.

there’s power in that. not the kind that demands or dominates—but the kind that hums quietly under the skin. the kind that says he needs you. not just for blood. not just for survival.

but for this.

and that truth alone makes your breath catch, your thighs press closer, the warmth between them blooming hotter, heavier.

you tighten your grip just slightly—just enough to feel him shudder again.

his breaths come out ragged now—uneven, trembling, like every second that passes without release is too much for him to bear. his hand stays pressed over yours, holding you there, grounding himself in the heat and pressure of your palm.

“take ’em off.”

your voice is steadier this time. firmer.

and it surprises even you.

not because of the words, but because of the confidence. the realization blooming slowly but surely in your chest—that you hold him. literally. completely. his need is cradled in your hand, and his body responds like it’s never known this kind of touch before.

remmick glances down, eyes locking onto the way both of y’all’s hands are still cupping him. and something flickers across his face—raw, unfiltered desire.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t hesitate.

he scrambles, fingers fumbling at his belt, unbuckling in rushed, uneven motions like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long. the sound of metal scraping against metal, the zip of fabric—it’s frantic, loud in the quiet space between you.

you watch the way his hands move—desperate and clumsy—and when you glance up, your breath catches.

drool.

thick, glistening, slowly spilling from the corner of his mouth. it stretches into a line, gleaming in the light, trailing from his parted lips as if his body is unraveling faster than he can control it. his jaw hangs slack with need, his eyes half-lidded and glazed.

then his pants fall open, and your hand moves without thought—slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear to grasp him fully.

he gasps—loud and shuddering—and his hips buck the slightest inch forward, as if chasing the warmth of your palm. in that same instant, the line of drool falls, landing wet and hot on your wrist, sliding down over your skin like a mark.

the feeling of his drool sliding warm over your wrist sends a jolt through your body—strange, electric, exciting in a way you can’t fully explain. your thighs press together instinctively, the heat between them building with every breath he takes.

he’s heavy in your hand.

hot. stiff. pulsing with need.

his body leans forward, barely held up by the tension in his muscles. his head tips back, exposing the column of his throat, jaw slack as he pants through parted lips. he’s a mess in your hand—completely undone, breathless and sweating, helpless to anything but the touch you’re giving him.

but your strokes falter.

he’s slick with sweat, and it’s more of a struggle than you expected. your hand catches slightly with each movement, and you glance back up at his mouth, remembering the way that thick drool had spilled from his lips.

you pull your hand from his pants.

at the loss of contact, he stutters—broken and breathless.

“why?”

your face flushes, warmth rising all the way to your ears at what you’re about to ask.

“spit in my hand.”

his eyebrows pull together—not from refusal, but from the sharp spike of desire and confusion. his mouth parts slowly, and then he obeys, cheeks hollowing as he draws the drool forward.

his tongue slips out, mouth wide and willing, and thick strings of spit fall heavily into your waiting palm.

you watch it.

watch how it glistens, how it coats your skin, warm and obscene and intimate.

your hand stills for a beat as you take in the weight of the moment—how close he is, how his body is giving you what you need to bring him pleasure.

then, slowly, you lower your hand again.

your fingers wrap around him, slick now, and the difference is instant. your strokes glide smoother, faster, and his body reacts with shudders and gasps. his hips twitch and his head falls forward, forehead nearly brushing yours.

a ragged moan rips from him, and his hand slams against the wall beside your head, bracing himself—because now he’s truly falling apart.

“s–shit!”

it rips from his throat, a sharp groan laced with more than just surprise. there’s something else in it—something raw, starved. hunger, yes, but not just for release. for you. for more of your touch, your attention, your hand wrapped around him like it was meant to be there.

you move with growing confidence now, dragging your hand up his length until you can tug him fully out of his pants.

he winces as the cool air brushes over his flushed skin, a tremor running through him at the sudden contrast. the heat of his body meets the cold of the world, and he shivers—but doesn’t stop you. not even close.

you see him fully now.

hard and flushed, the tip red and glistening, a thick vein running the length of him like a path carved straight to your hand. pre-cum beads at the head, already smeared down his shaft from where your palm had moved over him before, mixing now with the slick sheen of drool still coating your fingers.

your fist wraps around him again, deliberate and slow, and the combined wetness allows you to stroke him with ease. the sound is soft, wet, and rhythmic—his breaths syncing to the motion like he can’t help it.

his body bows slightly, every muscle tensing, like he’s trying not to collapse from the overwhelming pleasure you’re building in him.

he tenses beneath your hand, muscles locking as your strokes grow faster, more assured. his body is trembling now—not from fear, but from how close he is to falling apart completely.

another thick line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing slowly down his chin. you watch it for a moment, caught in the daze of his unraveling, until your eyes lift—drawn instinctively to his face.

and then you gasp.

his eyes are open.

not fully, but enough.

cast downward, glazed over with pleasure. but just enough to catch it.

a glint. a glow.

red.

dark, pulsing, unnatural—like embers caught in the low light. your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at it, transfixed, and then—almost like he knows—he slams them shut, a sharp whine escaping him.

“aah… wait,” he pants, his voice trembling. “something’s happening…”

you know exactly what.

you feel it in the way he twitches in your hand, in the pulsing warmth building at your palm, in the desperation threaded into every sound that falls from him.

so you don’t stop.

you go faster. tighter. focused.

his hips jerk forward, chasing the friction like he can’t help it, and a strangled moan breaks from his throat. his whole body hunches over you, trembling, until his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“please,” he gasps—voice small now, breathless—as his head turns just slightly, his mouth nearly brushing your neck.

you smell it.

blood.

copper-sweet and heavy on his breath.

then a deep, guttural sound tears up from his chest—a growl soaked in something ancient, primal—but it breaks halfway through, collapsing into something softer. weaker. almost… pathetic.

and then he tenses, hard.

his whole body locking, shaking in your grasp as he finally lets go—spilling into your hand and across the front of your nightgown in hot, thick pulses.

there’s a moment of silence.

thick, heavy.

the only sound is his breathing—hot and uneven—ghosting over your neck, brushing the skin there with every exhale like he’s still tethered to you by need alone.

your hand remains around him, even as he begins to soften, your fingers still slick and warm. only once he’s completely spent do you slowly pull your hand away in one long, fluid drag. the motion makes him flinch, a gasp slipping through his lips at the sudden overstimulation. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t speak.

he stays still, suspended in the hush between you, before his head tilts up. there’s something open in his expression—tender, maybe. something you’re not ready for. his lips move closer, and you know before it happens what he’s trying to do.

he wants to kiss you.

your head turns, just slightly. your eyes soften, but the word comes quiet.

firm.

“no.”

it’s barely louder than a breath, but it lands like a weight between you.

his eyes close slowly, and he leans his forehead back against your shoulder—not angry. just… quiet.

your legs are still pressed together, thighs tense, breath held. your nightgown clings damp against your stomach, the fabric sticking to your skin where he’d spilled across it. the reality of it hums through you, the scent, the heat, the knowledge that you let it happen. that you made it happen.

then you feel it.

his nose against your neck.

the slow inhale.

he’s smelling you.

your body stiffens.

for a second, terror scrapes at your spine. you think—maybe he lied. maybe this is the moment. maybe he’s going to sink his teeth into your throat and finish what started a few days ago. your heart races.

but he doesn’t bite.

instead, he pulls back slightly, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air—curious. drawn.

you follow his gaze.

he leans in again, closer this time, his softening length pressing faintly against your stomach, dragging heat across your skin through the nightgown. and then, his voice—low and hoarse—scratches its way up.

“what’s that smell?”

your stomach tightens.

you hear it—that hunger tucked just beneath the question. not for blood this time. something else. something that makes your skin tingle with anticipation and shame.

his hands move slowly, tracing the shape of your waist, until they settle at your hips—gripping them gently, but firmly enough that you feel the intent behind it.

your brow creases in confusion… until his eyes drop.

you follow the look.

and then it hits you.

you know exactly what he’s asking about.

because while you were focused on him—while your hand moved over him, while you whispered his name and watched him fall apart—the warmth between your thighs had bloomed into something undeniable. your panties are soaked. clingy. shamefully damp against your skin.

your face burns hot as the realization settles.

he smells you.

remmick’s eyes slowly rise to meet yours, and what you see there sends a ripple through your chest—hunger, thick and molten, pulsing just beneath the surface. another line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, thicker this time, stretching as he breathes through it.

his hand moves—slow, sure—and drags down, curling behind your thigh. then, without warning, he lifts. your leg rises with the motion, guided by his strength, and your breath catches.

a gasp slips from your lips as your hands press instinctively against his chest, trying to ground yourself, maybe even push him back—but your limbs are shaking.

“what are you doing?” you stammer, voice barely stable as you feel his hand slide higher. it skids up your thigh, rough fingertips brushing hot skin, slipping under your nightgown like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“you’re leaking,” he says, simply.

like it’s an observation. a fact.

like it’s not the most shameful, intimate thing he could’ve said aloud.

drool slips over his chin, unbothered by the mess he’s making, by the mess you’re in.

your body burns. flushed and twitching beneath his touch, thighs trembling around the hand that now glides so easily against your damp skin. his fingers drag through the heat gathered between your legs, and your hips jolt, a quiet sound caught in the back of your throat.

his mouth hovers just beside your cheek now, voice ragged and breath thick.

“let me taste ya,” he says.

almost pleads.

and there’s something so raw, so utterly stripped of pride in the way he says it—like he’s not asking just to take, but because he needs it. like the ache inside him will never fade unless you let him have this one thing.

you turn your head slightly, breath hitching as you meet his eyes—his mouth still hovering beside your cheek, so close you can feel the heat of his breath skating across your skin.

“i…” you begin, voice quiet and uncertain, “i ain’t never had that done before.”

he lets out a groan—deep, throaty, almost pained.

it vibrates against you like a confession.

“let me do it,” he murmurs, eyes dark and pleading. “please. show me where you like to be licked.”

the words make your heart stutter, but before you can even respond, you feel it—his fingers pressing firmly against your clothed heat, dragging slow and deliberate along the soaked fabric.

“remmick—!”

your voice breaks, sharp and startled, rising without your permission.

your face floods with shame, your body trembling at the sound that just tore from your throat. but desire drowns it out, thick and surging—because the pressure feels too good to ignore, and his touch is reverent, not cruel.

he pulls his head back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

and he waits.

there’s no smirk, no demand. just remmick, gaze burning into you with raw need, silently asking for something he doesn’t know how to take without permission.

you stare at him for a long, aching second—heart racing, chest heaving—before you nod.

slow.

shy.

but real.

that’s all he needs.

he sinks lower, descending to his knees with a hunger in his movements, yet careful—like you’re something sacred. both his hands slide along your legs, settling at the backs of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently into your skin as he looks up at you from below.

his face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead, his lips parted and still shiny from where drool had spilled earlier.

“tell me what to do,” he groans, voice rough with restraint, with admiration.

his mouth is inches away.

but he won’t move until you tell him how.

your body is burning now.

inside and out.

the sound of his voice asking to be guided—tell me what to do—echoes through you, wrapping around your spine and sending a shiver up your back. no one’s ever asked that of you before. not like that. not with that kind of hunger barely held back by restraint.

when you glance down at him again, you find his eyes already on you. waiting. not impatient. not demanding. eager. wide, dark, full of wanting—but still waiting. like you’re the only one who can give him permission to breathe.

“use your fingers,” you say softly.

your voice wavers, shaky at the edges, but it doesn’t matter.

he hears you.

he obeys.

you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch upward—just for a moment—before one of his hands slides up, lifting your thigh gently and settling it over his shoulder. the stretch of it opens you, exposes you, and you gasp as the new position presses your nightgown higher.

then, his other hand moves—slowly, reverently—until his fingers are back at your panties. they’re soaked now, clinging to you, and you can feel every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive skin there.

his eyes flick up to yours again—checking. asking.

and then he slips a finger past the damp fabric, the tip curling just inside you.

your breath stutters in your chest, a sound catching in your throat that you didn’t mean to let out. he watches you. his gaze never leaves your face.

and then—

with a sudden tug, he rips your panties clean.

the sound is loud, sharp in the silence—the tear of fabric quick and final—and the cold air hits you immediately.

your body tenses, thighs quivering around him as the sudden exposure leaves you breathless. every nerve is awake now, burning, aware of the way his hands hold you open, how the cool air contrasts against the heat pooling between your legs.

you’re bare to him.

and he’s still kneeling.

still looking at you like you’re holy.

you let out a soft pant, your breath catching as you feel his finger slowly trail up the inside of your thigh. his touch is warm—rough in texture, but gentle in pressure—and your skin tingles beneath it. his movements are slow, careful, like he’s learning your body inch by inch.

he stops just at your entrance.

he doesn’t go further right away.

he lingers there—testing. waiting. seeing how you react to the nearness, the quiet promise of what comes next.

then, without warning, he slides a finger in.

his middle finger—long, thick—and the stretch of it makes your walls flutter around him.

a low moan tumbles from your lips, your head tipping back slightly as your muscles clench. it’s more than just the intrusion—it’s the heat of him, the weight of that single finger inside you, the way it already fills more than you expected.

your hand reaches down, gripping the hem of your nightgown tightly, bunching the fabric against your stomach as if anchoring yourself to the moment.

he draws his finger back out—slowly, deliberately—and then pushes it back in with a soft, wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. your body clenches around him again at the sensation, and the lewdness of it, the intimacy of being this bare and open, sends another wave of warmth washing over your skin.

he breathes in through his nose, like he’s memorizing the scent of your arousal, and you can feel him growing more confident in the way his finger curls just slightly on the next thrust.

the thrusts of his finger continue—steady, slow at first, then building into a rhythm that leaves your legs weak. each movement sinks in with purpose, the tip curling ever so slightly, brushing against a place inside you that makes your hips twitch.

your walls clench around him, instinctive and aching.

“you’re so warm,” he pants, voice husky with awe, like he’s never felt anything like this before.

you glance down—eyes glazed, breath uneven—and see his free hand working at himself again. his fingers wrap around his cock, now slowly thickening with each stroke. the sight makes your stomach flutter, your lips parting as another moan slips from your mouth, uncontained and needy.

your mind is fogged with sensation—his hand inside you, his hand on himself, both moving in tandem like some unholy harmony of want. your body is no longer your own. it belongs to the rhythm, the heat, the burn of it all.

then you feel it.

another finger at your entrance.

his ring finger this time—thicker than the first. he eases it in beside the other, stretching you slowly.

you wince. not from pain exactly, but from the sudden fullness.

you’d touched yourself before, sure. but your fingers had never felt like this.

his are longer. rougher. firmer.

they reach deeper.

your walls stretch to accommodate him, muscles fluttering as both fingers begin to pump in and out of you. slick sounds fill the air—soft, obscene—and every time he curls them just right, you whimper.

meanwhile, his other hand strokes himself in slow, languid motions, the pad of his thumb brushing over the tip. he groans aloud, the sound low and wrecked, spilling from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

and all of it—his fingers inside you, his pleasure building in front of you—pulls you deeper under.

he starts to move closer.

you can feel it in the way his breath warms your skin, see it in the way his shoulders shift, the subtle rise of his body as he inches toward you like gravity’s pulling him into place.

a low growl rumbles in his throat as he presses his face in, and when the bridge of his nose brushes against that sensitive bud, you tense—hard. a full-body shudder rolls through you, your breath catching sharp in your chest.

then suddenly—his fingers leave you.

you gasp at the loss, clenching around nothing, your body pulsing with the need to be filled again, to feel something.

“let me eat you, baby,” he pleads, voice raw, mouth just a breath away.

his words hit you deep—both filthy and tender, desperate and reverent.

you hesitate.

not from fear.

but from the overwhelming weight of it. the way your body is already responding without needing to be told.

then, you nod.

he doesn’t look up.

but he must feel it—through the way your thigh tenses over his shoulder, through the way your hips shift just the slightest bit forward, offering yourself.

he takes that as his answer.

his mouth descends, and you feel it—his tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line between your folds, tasting you for the first time. your back arches off the wall, sharp and sudden, your thigh slipping, and he readjusts it with one hand, holding you steady with a strength that borders on possessive.

then he licks again.

this time deeper, firmer—and a moan tears from his mouth. the sound vibrates directly into you, and your head falls back with a strangled cry.

“you’re so sweet,” he breathes.

then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your entrance—like a promise—before his tongue pushes inside of you.

you cry out, the stretch of it unfamiliar and overwhelming, but so, so good. his tongue thrusts harshly, rhythm building fast, and every movement sends you spiraling, moan after moan clawing out of your throat as your body writhes against the wall.

your hand flies down instinctively, fingers diving into his hair, clutching at the thick strands. you don’t even realize how hard you’re holding on until you feel him groan again, deeper this time.

and then—his mouth rises, lips closing around that bud.

he sucks.

you break.

completely overwhelmed, shaking with the intensity of it, clenching around nothing but air and the feeling of him devouring you.

your head flies back, colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud, but you hardly feel it. the pleasure ripping through you overshadows everything else. your free hand reaches up, grasping at your hair, tugging gently—desperate for anything to ground yourself as his mouth continues to assault your core with relentless devotion.

“remmick…”

his name falls from your lips in a moan, soft and broken, like a prayer caught halfway through a plea.

he doesn’t stop.

his tongue licks, flicks, drags through your folds, then closes around your clit again, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with rhythm that borders on sinful. the sounds he makes—low, guttural moans and hungry grunts—vibrate directly into you, sending fresh waves of sensation surging through your thighs, your belly, your spine.

he’s pumping himself with the same desperation, his hand moving fast and slick over his length, the sounds of it mixing with the wet noise of his mouth working between your legs. and every time he moans into you, you feel it—feel it everywhere.

then he shifts.

the hand that had been resting firm on your thigh over his shoulder suddenly moves. it slides down—strong and sure—until his fingers press into the flesh of your inner thigh, right beside your entrance. and then he pulls—gently but firmly, opening you wider for him.

a soft gasp slips from your mouth at the stretch, the exposure. you feel so bare, so utterly open. his tongue immediately returns, working deeper now that you’re spread wider for him, and it feels devastating—like you might come apart entirely just from the way he holds you open and tastes you like he’s starving.

your eyes squeeze shut as a stuttering moan tears its way out of your throat—uncontrolled, raw. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, clutching at the only thing tethering you to the earth as his mouth continues to work you open and undone.

and then—

something shifts.

a feeling. strange. unfamiliar.

it starts low in your belly—tight, electric, and rising fast. it coils, curls, builds like pressure behind a dam, and you don’t know what it is, only that it’s coming hard and fast and you don’t know how to stop it.

your breath hitches.

panic flutters in your chest.

your eyes snap open, wide with the sudden fear of losing control, and your body tenses as if to brace for impact.

and then—

it hits.

a violent, blinding explosion rocks through your body.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first—just the air being pulled from your lungs as your release rips through you.

your eyes roll back, vision swimming, and your legs nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. your thighs twitch, body quivering uncontrollably as your climax washes over you like a crashing wave you were never prepared for.

but remmick doesn’t let you fall.

his hands grip you steady, firm and reverent, holding you together even as you come apart in his mouth. he moans into you, greedy and satisfied, lapping up every drop of your release like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you tremble above him, caught in the aftershocks, completely undone.

when he finally pulls back, his cheeks and chin are drenched—slick with you, shining in the low light. his mouth parts slightly as he breathes, dazed and wild, and you can still feel the ghost of his tongue between your thighs. you’re still catching your breath when he moves again—this time, pulling you gently down with him.

your back meets the wood floor of your porch with a soft thud, the cool surface a harsh contrast to the heat blooming in your skin. before you can process it fully, he’s leaning over you, body caging yours in, his cock already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him above you, thick and heavy, makes your breath stutter.

you barely have time to react before you feel him—his tip brushing against your entrance, slicking over sensitive skin, nudging.

you snap out of it instantly.

your hands press to his chest.

“w-wait! stop!”

his body stills.

he freezes above you, panting, chest heaving as he stares down at you. the desperation in his eyes is immediate—sharp and pleading—but he doesn’t move. instead, you feel his fingers tighten around the bunched fabric of your nightgown, clinging to it like an anchor.

your mind is racing.

he wanted to go this far.

he was going to go this far.

and you—god, your face burns even hotter as the thought settles—you’d never done this before.

not with anyone.

not like this.

and the fear coils tight in your belly.

“i won’t hurt you.”

his voice comes soft.

echoing what he said earlier.

but it lands differently now—closer to a promise.

you look up at him, searching.

his hand on your hip is strong, grounding, and though he grips you tight, there’s no force in it. only restraint.

you search his eyes for anything that might read as a lie, some shadow of cruelty or indifference—but there’s nothing. only tension. only waiting.

so you nod.

his gaze softens, and the hand holding your gown lowers, moving between your bodies. he grips himself, lining up carefully, guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance.

you inhale, slow and deep, trying to ready yourself.

then—he meets your eyes.

and begins to push in.

your jaw clenches hard as the stretch begins. the pressure is immediate, unfamiliar, so much. he’s thick—thicker than anything you’ve ever felt before—and your walls struggle to accommodate him.

“s-slowly…” you manage to stutter, breath caught in your throat.

he nods, sweat beading at his brow, his own face twisted with the effort of going slow—of not losing himself completely in the heat and tightness of you. your walls clench around him, instinctively, and he groans low in his chest.

inch by inch, he presses deeper, until—

you feel a pinch. sharp.

not enough to cry out, but enough to make you tense again.

your hand flies down, gripping the wrist on your hip.

“wait!”

he halts immediately, eyes flying up to yours.

“almost there…” he moans, voice strained. “i’m almost there.”

his hand tightens, holding himself still—waiting for you to give him more.

and when you finally nod—heart hammering—he moves again.

he pulls out slowly, carefully, then pushes back in with more urgency this time. the stretch returns, but this time the pain dulls quickly, fading into something else. something thicker. warmer.

his hand plants beside your head, fingers splaying against the wooden floor for balance, and he pushes the rest of the way in until he bottoms out inside you.

you both still.

your bodies tangled, your breath ragged, your skin burning where it touches his. and for a long, pulsing moment—there’s nothing else.

just the sound of panting.

just the feel of him inside you.

just the overwhelming, terrifying intimacy of being this connected

slowly, but surely, he pulls out—just an inch, just enough to make you feel the loss—before pushing back in with a deep, guttural groan. the sound of it vibrates through your chest, and your own moan answers his as your hand flies up, gripping the wrist of the hand planted beside your head.

your grip is so tight your knuckles turn white.

“aah… yea…” he stutters out, breath shaking as his hips roll forward again, his thrusts slow but deliberate, each one more assured than the last.

the drag of his cock inside you leaves your body stuttering—your breath catching in broken gasps, your thighs trembling with every deep, slow stroke. he’s thick. so thick. every movement stretches you wide, your walls struggling to take him and clenching around him with a mind of their own.

he groans—mouth falling open in something pathetic, raw, aching—and the sound shoots straight through you. the hand on your hip tightens, guiding your body with each thrust, steadying you, grounding himself in your warmth.

your walls flutter around him, and he sees stars behind his eyes.

every time you clench, it’s like heaven and hell collide inside him.

your back begins to slide against the porch beneath you, the wood warm and rough, dragging lightly at your nightgown as his thrusts gain rhythm. the pace builds—not fast, but firm, deeper. every push rocks your body just enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

the sound of skin meeting skin fills the air now—wet, rhythmic, desperate.

his grunts are low in his chest, slipping out between clenched teeth.

your eyes open slowly, jaw slack, mouth parting as choked moans tumble past your lips.

and then—

you see it.

his mouth hangs open, panting, and in the haze of your half-lidded gaze, something catches the light. not just teeth. fangs.

sharp. monstrous.

inhuman.

you let out a sharp gasp as his hands suddenly move—grasping the backs of your thighs with a strength that steals your breath. he drags you toward him with ease, your slick skin sliding across the wooden porch until your thighs rest on his, legs spread and trembling as he settles into the new angle.

once you’re in place, his hands return to your hips—strong, possessive—and without pause, he begins pounding into you again.

but now, it’s different.

his rhythm grows more erratic, more primal. he groans through gritted teeth, fangs fully bared now, glistening with spit as his mouth hangs open in pleasure-drunk awe.

he finds that spot inside you again—

and again.

and again.

each thrust is a strike of lightning behind your eyes, drawing stars out of thin air, making your body convulse in helpless rhythm beneath him. you try to say his name, to moan it into the thick air between you—but all that escapes is garbled, slurred noise. syllables tangled in pleasure too strong to form words.

you don’t notice it at first—

the way his fingers change.

the grip on your waist grows tighter, rougher.

his nails stretch, curling longer, sharper, claws forming in real time as his body reacts to you. to this. to everything he’s holding back.

he groans through clenched fangs, jaw twitching with restraint. it takes everything in him not to pierce your skin. not to lose himself to what he is.

your hands reach down, fumbling for the hem of your nightgown, wanting it off, wanting to feel the air, feel him. remmick sees the motion, and something feral flashes in his eyes as he helps you—tearing the gown up and over your head.

it now lays beneath your upper back, your spine pressing into the fabric as your body arches.

the cold air hits your bare skin and a shiver runs through you. your breasts bounce with each thrust, each impact sending them upward and down in hypnotic rhythm.

remmick lets out a guttural sound—desperate and overwhelmed all at once—as drool escapes the corner of his mouth and spills messily across your stomach. you gasp at the sudden warmth of it, the contrast between cold air and wet heat making you twitch.

then his hand moves again.

he lowers it between your legs, and suddenly he’s rubbing your bud—rough and unrelenting. the pad of his thumb swirls over it in frantic circles, careful not to scratch you, using just enough pressure to send another bolt of pleasure through your spine.

you cry out, louder this time, your back arching as your body tenses up around him.

his other hand rises, large and trembling, and cups one of your breasts, kneading it with a kind of reverence that’s quickly undone by the bite of his claws. one scratches just slightly—a soft sting blooming across your skin—and instead of pulling back, you moan louder.

the pain only sharpens the pleasure.

and remmick…

he watches you fall apart like he’s witnessing something sacred.

and he’s the one dragging every sound, every shiver, every tremble out of you.

you’re losing yourself.

your vision blurs at the edges, body flushed and trembling, unable to hold on to anything solid—except him. your hand reaches blindly, desperate to touch, to anchor yourself in something, someone. your fingers find it—the chain. that gold chain around his neck, damp with sweat and heat.

you loop your fingers through it, gripping tight.

the moment you do, his body responds—his thrusts picking up speed, harder now, deeper. his hips crash against yours with ferocity, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing across the porch. each thrust sends his balls slapping against your ass, adding to the filthy rhythm of it all.

“l–look at you…” he pants, voice breathless and broken, eyes wild as he stares down at where you’re joined. “so beautiful… and speared on me…”

your head falls back, jaw slack as he slams into you again—rough, desperate. his thumb is still on your bud, circling fast and tight, and the pressure spirals out of control.

you feel it.

again.

rising.

but this time, you don’t panic.

you welcome it.

your walls flutter, then clamp down hard around him, squeezing his cock in perfect rhythm with your unraveling. your moans tear from your throat, raw and choked, as your body convulses beneath him.

remmick chokes on a moan of his own, hips stuttering as you clench around him. but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

he pounds through it—thrusting through your orgasm, keeping the rhythm alive, drawing it out until you can’t tell where the high ends and the overstimulation begins.

the sounds are obscene.

each time he pulls out, it’s wet and loud, a slick drag that makes your stomach tighten—and then he slams back in, deeper, filling you again with a moan.

your walls twitch, overly sensitive now, and a sharp little wave of discomfort flares in the middle of the lingering heat. it stings, but not enough to stop. not when he keeps going like that. not when your body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him deeper.

your grip on his chain tightens.

remmick moans—loud and broken—as the gold links dig into his neck, and still, he doesn’t stop.

his hips drive into yours with punishing need, his chest brushing yours with every thrust, and you realize—

he’s not just trying to fuck you.

he’s trying to stay inside you.

to live there.

to lose himself in the place where you melt around him.

and it’s becoming too much.

your body is trembling, wrung out and burning, nerves raw from how he keeps moving inside you—deep, relentless, nonstop. the sensitivity spikes, each thrust dragging along your pulsing walls like fire and silk, sending you over the edge and right back again before you’ve even caught your breath.

your mouth opens in a soundless moan, your legs twitching, body locked in that unbearable space between pleasure and pain.

remmick groans above you—deep, rough sounds torn straight from his chest. they rumble through his body and into yours, and you feel the way he’s struggling. holding back. holding in.

his fangs flash as his lips part again, saliva stringing between them as he pants like an animal. he’s trying—truly trying—not to sink them back into your neck. not to bite down and mark you like instinct is screaming at him to do.

you see it in the way his head tilts, the way his mouth hovers near your throat before he jerks back again, forcing himself to focus.

your hands are full now—

one clutching his gold chain so tightly the links dig into your fingers,

the other gripping his wrist, fingernails pressed to his skin, grounding yourself as your body thrashes beneath his.

you whine, high-pitched and breathless, overwhelmed as your thighs threaten to close, but his grip on your hips is unyielding.

his eyes glow—deep, dark red—and when he looks down at you, it’s through that glowing haze of instinct and want and near-unraveling. his jaw clenches hard, fangs bared as he fights the shift overtaking him.

then he tenses.

you feel it—

in the way his rhythm falters,

in the way his thrusts grow sloppy, uncontrolled, missing that sweet spot as his hips jerk with no pattern.

he’s close.

he hunches forward, his whole body curling in on itself, and a loud, broken groan tears from his chest as he spills inside you—hot and thick, pulsing with each wave of release.

you moan, long and soft, as you feel him flood you—coating your walls in warmth as his hips keep moving, fucking his orgasm into you.

he pounds through it, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your skin. the mixture of you both—slick and steady—drips down from where he stretches you open, forming a glistening ring around the base of him each time he pulls back.

“remmick—!”

his name bursts from your lips, sharp and breathless, as your thighs snap tight around his waist, trying to anchor yourself to him—to anything.

your entire body trembles beneath him, and you feel like you might fall apart again, even though there’s nothing left in you but the aftershocks.

“i k-know, baby…” he groans, voice low and shaking, still thrusting inside you. his movements are uncoordinated now, sloppy and feverish, driven more by need than rhythm. his hips jerk like he’s chasing the last of it, like he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being inside you.

your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers finally release their grip on his chain, the gold slipping from between your knuckles.

you trade it for flesh.

your now-free hand reaches up to grab his other wrist, mirroring your other hand—holding him completely. your body, your breath, your trembling form says stay.

his breathing stutters again, another broken groan ripping through him as he thrusts deep—hard—like something inside him is unraveling one last time.

at this point, you feel it—

the steady leak of your shared pleasure slipping out of you, warm and wet, trailing down your thighs and pooling on the floorboards beneath you. the sounds between you are slick and endless—every movement, every shift punctuated by the lewd, messy wetness of it all.

then he pulls back—just slightly—to look.

his eyes drop to where his cock still moves in and out of you, glazed with the evidence of everything you gave him. you feel his stare deepen, and you swear he’s ascending—his lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sight of you stretched around him, milking every last wave of his orgasm.

his hips slow.

slow again.

until they still.

his chest rises and falls, frantic and wild, then slower, steadier—as he begins to return to himself.

he looks up.

eyes searching yours.

his mouth opens, like he wants to say something. like he needs to.

but nothing comes out.

instead, he leans down.

his lips hover just above yours, breath brushing your mouth, waiting—asking. not like before, when you turned your face away. this time, he lingers.

and this time, you don’t pull back.

you tilt your chin just slightly, and your lips meet his in a kiss.

slow. warm. breathless.

not demanding. not frantic.

just real.

and in that quiet moment, with him still inside you, your bodies still joined in the mess of it all, he kisses you like it means something. like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be human again.

[the-shedevil-writes]

Country Girl (Shake It For Me) (Bob Floyd x Reader)

PAIRING: Bob Floyd x Reader DESCRIPTION: After admitting to everyone that you wanted to learn how to country line dance, Hangman decides to help teach you. When the Dagger Squad goes to a local country bar to show off your newfound moves, your timid but supportive boyfriend, Bob Floyd, gets a hell of a show. WORD COUNT: 3.8k WARNINGS: Swearing, Suggestive but no smut, Cowboy hat rule, Sexy dancing hehe NOTES: I've never written Y/N or reader fanfic before so this is a first attempt. (I just used a name and then edited after). MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

It all started that night at The Hard Deck. A few months after the uranium mine strike, the Dagger Squad, now including honorary Dagger Y/N, sat around a beach campfire outside the bar. The night sky was filled with stars that blanketed over the group. And the cool North Island sea breeze ran straight through them, but that’s what the fire was for. 

She listened with genuine interest. They were on the subject of bucket lists, and she observed as they went around sharing ideas. She adjusted in her uncomfortable lawn chair and stretched a little, capturing the attention of her boyfriend, Bob Floyd. 

“You okay? Wanna switch chairs?” He asked, always so attentive. He was sitting in a sturdier wooden chair that didn’t slip in the sand as much as hers did. And of course, he noticed. Bob noticed everything that would appear so insignificant to anybody else. Every minor detail. That’s probably what made him a great WSO. He could take note of multiple screens and all the differing information needed for the jet to operate. 

They’d been dating for over four months now, and she felt like she was truly and properly falling in love with this man. She hadn’t wanted to rush things… but with a man like that? It was hard not to.

She shook her head. “No, I’m alright. Thank you, though.” She said, smiling, as she reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Oh. I’d love to hike a bunch of the famous mountains. Everest. Fuji. Rainier.” Rooster explained.

“Do you know how much training you gotta go through to do Everest?” Phoenix asked with raised brows, looking skeptical. Then she busted out into a grin. “I do. Took me a year of training.” She took a sip of her beer and made an L with her other hand.

Rooster rolled his eyes. “Okay, stay humble.”

“I wanna travel across South America-” Hangman said.

“Because they have the best chicks there.” Fanboy finished.

“Look, I wasn’t gonna say-” The blonde responded with a shit-eating grin, raising his hands. “But bingo.”

Phoenix and Rooster rolled their eyes. 

She and Hangman had had a rocky start to their friendship. She had despised him at first. He was cocky, arrogant and every other synonym for annoying. She couldn’t stand his flirts and quips… Especially knowing that he left Bob and Phoenix in the dust, beginning of training. But then she got to know him. And when you actually became his friend, he’d slowly let down the facade. Yeah, he was still a smug son of a bitch. But he becomes fun, caring, and as much as he’d protest, selfless. 

“How ‘bout you, Bob?” Rooster asked, switching the conversation. 

She was leaned over the arm of his chair. She looked up at him, wondering what his answer was. He looked down at her, smiled softly, then looked up at the rest.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just wanna have that American dream, you know? With the house and- and the kids, and the dog.” He stammered through the middle part, clearly trying to brush over the obvious. It was way too early in their relationship to have a serious conversation about it. But it made her heart flutter anyway.

“Isn’t that everybody’s goal, though? Does that count?” Payback asked

Hangman scoffed, “Sure ain’t mine.” He said, sipping his beer. 

Phoenix’s eyes squinted at Y/N, observing her. “You’ve been awfully quiet over there. What’s on your bucket list?”

A blush immediately covered her face. She smiled bashfully and kicked her feet into the sand. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.” 

Hangman leaned in, “Well, now you have to tell us.”

“But all of your guys’ goals were so cool! I’m gonna look dumb.”

Bob squeezed her hand, “You won’t look dumb.” He reassured.

Rooster put his hands up. “Hey, Phoenix has been making me look dumb all night, so if anything, you’ll at least be above me.” 

“See, you’re right, Rooster. You do look dumb.” Phoenix quipped. He looked around like he had just been shot. She nodded reassuringly,  “Come on, just tell us.”

She sighed, and a pursed smile came up as she glanced away, embarrassed. “I-I wanna country line dance.” She admitted in a small voice.

There was a small silence before a few laughs finally sputtered out. She covered her blushing face. “Don’t laugh at me!” She squealed, though she was also laughing.

Hangman’s head had perked up at her answer, “But didn’t you say you’re from Alabama?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, but I was never really in that crowd. Like, I never went to the rodeos or the country bars. Hell, I was outta there by eighteen.” 

There was a short stillness as people thought about what to say, but Hangman looked her dead in the eye. “Let’s do it.” 

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re looking at a red-blooded Texan. Let’s do it. I’ll teach you to line dance.” Hangman said, which made Rooster laugh. “What’s so funny?”

Rooster, coming down from his initial cackle, sighed, “Nothing. Nothing. Just the image of you in a little cowboy hat and holster flashed in my mind-” He broke again, which made everybody else burst out laughing. 

She looked at him and smiled. “Okay, Seresin. Let’s check it off my bucket list.”

She and Hangman started practicing before nights at The Hard Deck. She felt awkward and clumsy, but he was a decent teacher. It was clear he had done this before and had a couple of dances still memorized. 

She picked up the steps by themselves pretty easily. When Bob would stay over at her house, he’d come and find her doing a grape vine in the kitchen. Or trying to do a triple step when she had a moment alone. He found it cute, and he’d try not to startle her. Because the second she saw him, she’d stop, feeling embarrassed. The problem was combining them all and remembering how they went, which she found difficult. 

One night, she laid on the couch with Bob. Well, she laid practically and completely on top of him. Her chin sat on the top of her hands while they rested on his chest. So when he spoke, the vibrations would send up her face. He craned his neck down to look at her.

“So, when do I get to see these dance moves, huh?” He asked gently, reaching up and brushing some stray hairs out of her face.

“Hangman and I are planning an outing where we all go check out this country bar downtown.” She said with a hint of excitement in her voice.

Then she suddenly remembered. “OH!” Her eyes widened, and she hopped off of him. He sighed, missing the comforting weight of her body.

“What’s up?” He called out, sitting up, looking around for her. 

“I told my mama about the line dancing and…” She echoed from her bedroom.

After a second, she stepped out in a pair of brown cowboy boots and an alabaster cowboy hat. It looked… a little ridiculous paired with her pajama shorts and tank top. But the smile that grew on Bob’s face was genuine. “Ta da! She sent me these.”

He chuckled. “Well, look at you.” 

“They’re my old ones from high school.” She gestured to the boots. “I’m surprised they still fit and aren’t falling to pieces, honestly.”

Bob got off the couch and walked over to her. He wrapped his arms around her lower back and then gently lifted the lid of her cowboy hat. “You know, I’ve never met a real-life cowgirl before.” He said with a lilt in his tone.

“That’s right, Lemoore.” She teased, knowing he grew up in California. “I’m having so much fun. Reminds me of home.” 

They both knew that she had been homesick lately. It was just part of the work they both did. Being a pilot and being a medic, hopping from place to place was normal. But she had been in a lot of rural states so far. San Diego felt like her first real city, and it was so different from the small town smack dab in the middle of Alabama. They felt like polar opposites. 

“That’s good,” Bob said, his voice gentle. “I’m glad.” He rested his hand on the side of her face and brushed his thumb against her cheek.

It would be a lie to say that Bob wasn’t slightly nervous about her taking dancing lessons from Hangman of all people. He was cool and suave… though granted, also an asshole. But at the end of the day, he trusted her. He knew that she’d always come back home to him, excited to cling to him while watching a movie. (Inevitably always falling asleep in his lap).  Plus, Jake had left all that flirting behind once they came out about their relationship. So really, he had nothing to worry about.

It was just the comparisons in his brain that got to him sometimes. Why would she choose him? Out of all his objectively ripped and smooth squad buddies, why him? Bob with the Navy prescriptive glasses, and an utter lack of romantic experience at 30.

But then she kissed him, breaking him out of his thoughts. His mind always emptied when she did that. It was like he’d short-circuit, and all the logic in his brain would go out the door. There was no way to think when all he could smell was her mango shampoo, and all he could taste was her cherry chapstick.

“You sleeping over tonight?” She asked, looking up at him, cowboy hat still on.

He nodded, anxieties gone. “I’d like that.” He said breathlessly.

The next week passed, and finally, the group walked up to Brass & Boots, a country bar not too far from the base. It was a smaller group today. Just Rooster, Hangman, Phoenix, Bob, and of course Y/N, who was practically jumping with excitement as she held Bob’s hand. She was wearing a small gingham top with a pair of boot-cut jeans that hugged her curves just right. Of course, with the white cowboy hat and the boots her mother sent. 

Bob was already having a hard time not staring at those jeans. He was used to seeing her in loose denim shorts or scrubs. The pants fit her like a second skin, and if he looked at them too long, his heart would literally stop.

“You excited to check something off your bucket list?” Rooster asked

She nodded with a big smile. “Incredibly so.”

“You guys won’t wanna miss it.” Jake said with a smirk, “She’s good.” 

“Figured that as much. We all see her dancing circles around us at Hard Deck already.” Phoenix added, making her blush. 

As they walked up the wooden steps of the place, they took in the atmosphere. It was definitely country-inspired. The building itself was dark-stained wood, giving it a cabin-like look. A few benches sat on the porch outside, and trinkets and tchotchkes lined the walls. The sound of a slow classic country song boomed from a speaker inside. 

“So uh- how does this all work?” Bob asked curiously before they stepped inside. 

Hangman turned to look at him. “Well, it’s just like Hard Deck. Only the dance floor is for people who are learning the dance or already know it. But it’s not like you guys are very eager to dance at Hard Deck anyway.”

Bob nodded. Y/N and sometimes Rooster were the only people to dance at Hard Deck. Usually, Bob would join her, but he also spent a lot of his time with the squadron playing pool on the sidelines. 

It seemed like he’d just be watching tonight. But he didn’t mind- watching her dance was one of his favorite things to do. So the prospect of the night already sounded fantastic.

They walked into the bar, and it wasn’t too crowded. A country dive bar in the city wasn’t going to be. Her eyes lit up, taking in the scenery. Even though her upbringing wasn’t on a ranch or a shooting range, she took comfort in seeing the rustic decor. A wagon wheel hung above near the bar, holding lights. The Texas flag hung right next to the California one, and the whole inner walls had state license plates stuck in rows. Neon signs of cowboys and bulls lit the dance floor, which had a few older people dancing. This was just what she needed to be reminded of home. 

The group all found a table close enough to the dance floor and the bar, so both were within reach. Right as they were all sitting down, the familiar guitar strums of Any Man of Mine by Shania Twain played. Hangman and Y/N froze and looked at each other with growing smiles. 

Hangman stood back up and looked down at the group. “First dance of the night, ya’ll ready?” He asked, not even waiting for an answer before heading to the dance floor with Y/N following. 

It was the first dance that Jake had taught her. It was simple enough, slow enough, and she loved the song. That was a big proponent. 

As the verse finally started, they started the steps. Jake was… way too good at this. Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob watched with wide eyes.

“You’re telling me that Hangman could dance this whole time?” Phoenix asked

“Well, I don’t think he’s exactly in the mood to look this dorky at Hard Deck.” Roosted chuckled.

But Bob wasn’t even focused on Jake. He watched as his girlfriend followed the steps, sometimes looking at Hangman for reminders. But as the chorus started to hit, she looked over at Bob with an excited smile that melted his heart. She was so cute, and honestly, outdancing most of the older people in the bar. The steps felt much more natural during the chorus. So she wasn’t just simply kicking, jumping, and moving her feet; she was adding energy and variation to how she did the moves. She gave more effort than the older men and women who surrounded her. Patrons around the squad watched the two, the newcomers who were blowing this out of the water. Her enthusiasm alone could’ve carried her through the performance. 

“WOOO!” Bob yelled out, clapping his hands. 

When she heard him over the music, she burst out laughing and fell behind slightly before catching up to Hangman next to her. 

As the song came to an end, Phoenix, Bob, and Rooster were the loudest cheerers. Jake and Y/N walked back a little out of breath.

“I’m requesting this song at Hard Deck next time,” Rooster said

“I’ll kill you,” Jake replied before holding his hand out for her to high-five him. “Bucket list item achieved.”

She high-fived him and ran over to tackle Bob in a hug. “What’d you think? Did I do good?” She asked, pulling away, revealing the big grin on her face.

“Better than good, baby. Jesus Christ.” He replied, laughing, shaking his head a little in disbelief. “You look like you’ve done this your whole life.” 

“Well, just you wait- there’s more.” She said with a mischievous smile on her face. 

Jake nodded, overhearing as he sipped his beer. “Oh yeah. Your girl’s a quick learner, Floyd. We learned a few.” 

And that they had. Throughout the night, anytime a song they had learned played, her and Hangman would immediately get up to run to the dance floor. Even if they were in the middle of talking, one of them would point to the ceiling and tilt their head with a smirk. 

What Bob felt best about was that anytime a guy would try to get too close to her, Jake would quickly spin and put himself between them on the floor. If you had told him a few months ago that he would be grateful for Jake Seresin, he wouldn’t have believed it. With her on the floor, of course, she captured almost every guy in the room’s attention. That anxiety in him picked up a little, but every time he’d see her twirl and look at him with a proud smile, it would calm down.

It reached a later point in the night, and they all sat around the table, drinking and laughing. Bob loved having Y/N sitting right next to him, happily singing along to the music she grew up with. 

“Hangman, where’d you learn how to do all this?” Phoenix asked curiously

He shrugged, “Mom made me learn growing up. Family events and gatherings. She even had me in lessons for a few years.”

“That explains it,” Rooster said, nodding. “It’s weird seeing you excel at something that isn’t pissing me off.” 

He shrugged again, then some notes on the electric guitar made Y/N’s head perk up. Bob noticed with a small smile.

“What? Another song from growing up?” He asked 

She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Watch this one.” Before getting up and heading to the dance floor. 

He had technically watched every dance she did, but something about the way she said it piqued his curiosity. Jake’s eyes widened as he recognized the song and watched her walk over to the dance floor. 

“Guys, I have a feeling we’re gonna want a better view,” Jake said, getting up and leading everyone to stand by the bar. Bob’s brows furrowed, but he followed him. 

The intro of Country Girl (Shake It For Me) by Luke Bryan played. She stomped her feet to the beat, anticipating the dance.

“You’re not gonna join her in this one?” Phoenix asked, looking up at Hangman.

“Uhhhh. That’s gonna be a no.” He said ominously.

As the verse of the song started, it was already clear why. The dance was a lot more feminine as she started strutting down the dance floor, her hair flowing with her. It started out innocently enough, with a few heel kicks and stomps. She already had Bob’s full attention from just that. But then she started moving looser and swaying her hips, and all the blood rushed to Bob’s face. He couldn’t hide his stare as she leaned over, shaking her thighs. 

Rooster’s eyes widened in a protective anger. “Jake, you taught her this?!” He asked. 

The four of them just stared. Rooster worried. Jake surprised. Phoenix impressed. And Bob trying not to pass out. 

“No- I uh- I think she taught herself this one. Cause I definitely didn’t teach her how to do-” Jake started.

Just then, she just did what the song said to do. Shake it. The denim hugged her body, but it wasn’t stiff and let her move in tantalizing ways that they had never seen her do before. 

“That.” He said

 Her hips and ass moving like that? In those jeans? With her hair flowing, and her top that low cut? Bob was mesmerized. His jaw dropped slightly as his face glowed pink. He always found her sexy, don’t get him wrong, but he didn’t anticipate country line dancing night to be this life-changing. 

She took her hat off for a second and waved it in the air as she turned slowly, arching her back, adding a flare to the dance. And it wasn’t like the dance was incredibly slow and sensual. No, she was rocking her body to the fast beat. Which made this an intense experience for timid Bob. 

Bob swallowed- suddenly, the bar felt sweltering hot, and the collar of his T-shirt felt like it was choking him. The once loud and cheering Bob was reduced to a silent, bashful man who didn’t know what to do with himself. It was like he was seeing her for the first time again, but times that feeling by a million.

Rooster and Hangman looked over and stifled their laughs at Bob’s reaction. They didn’t want him to notice as Rooster sneakily pulled out his phone and hit record. At first, the camera was set on her as she danced to the chorus.

“Country girl, shake it for me, girl. Shake it for me, girl. Shake it for me.”

Then they panned to Bob, who swallowed nervously like a cartoon character. And that made Rooster and Hangman absolutely lose it, breaking Bob’s attention as he noticed the camera. He widened his eyes.

“GUYS!” He cried exasperated.

But Rooster and Hangman were holding onto each other, laughing. Bob returned his attention to his girlfriend with a little more self-consciousness. 

Even though she was putting on the performance of a lifetime, it was clear she was having fun. To Bob, she outshone all the girls there, but she was also talking and laughing with a few of the other girls next to her as they danced in sync. She was having so much fun, and he was glad to see her so happy.

She ended the song on a spin and clapped with all the other girls on the dance floor. Then she ran over to Bob, just like she had done after all the other dances. 

“So, did you like it?” She asked, out of breath, with her hands on her hips.

Bob didn’t even know what to say. 

“Where’d you learn that one?” Jake asked, completely shocked.

“Online!” She said chipper. She looked at Bob’s starstruck expression and giggled. “You okay, baby?” 

He nodded with wide eyes, then dragged his hands down his face. “Y-yeah-yeah- Just… wow. Just wow.” He stammered.

“I think he’s more than okay.” Rooster chuckled, moving to order a drink at the bar with Phoenix. 

She moved in closer, proud of herself for making Bob this much of a mess. She put one arm on his shoulder, then took off her hat, and placed it on his head.

“Uh, Y/N-” Hangman started, “You do know about the-”

“The cowboy hat rule? Yes. Yes, I do.” She nodded proudly, not taking her eyes off Bob. God, he looked really good in that hat. It fit his face perfectly, and she was starting to get closer to how Bob was feeling just from that. 

Hangman shook his head with a smirk. “Good luck, buddy.” He huffed, patting Bob’s back and walking towards the rest of their group.

He looked around confused. So much was going on while his whole body felt like it had been lit on fire. 

“Cowboy hat rule? What’s the cowboy hat rule?” He asked, confused.

“Well…” She said, “If you put a hat on someone else, it means you want to go home with them.” She said, then leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You know, save a horse ride a cowgirl?” 

The surprise on Bob’s face was comical. He nodded quickly, “Yeah, I think I like that rule.” He said, making her laugh.

“You’re so cute.” She teased before leaning in and kissing him in front of everybody there. 

Bob’s anxieties were completely buried. He felt a newfound confidence that the hottest woman in the bar had claimed him as hers. He wrapped his arms around her and didn’t have a care in the world. Screw all the other guys. She chose him. 

[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

[zepskies]

OVER THE BRIDGE

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Soulmate!Reader 

Summary: Your car is teetering on the edge of a rickety bridge. When Sheriff Beau Arlen arrives at the scene to help you, he realizes that for the first time in his life, he can hear his soulmate’s thoughts.

AN: Happy Beau Wednesday! And here we go—my last bingo square for @jacklesversebingo … Round 1! 😉 That’s right, I’m gearing up for a Round 2 of fun prompts! But I had to do something for Beau before I closed out this masterlist for the first round. I’ve also been wanting to do another soulmate AU, since I haven’t written one since Never Say Goodbye (Dean Winchester x Soulmate!Reader). I’ve never seen one for Beau Arlen, so I thought, the time is now! Lol

Jacklesverse Bingo Prompt: “I’m gonna take care of this, but until I do, I need to get you somewhere safe.”

Posted on Patreon: 4/09/2025

Word Count: 4.2K

Tags/Warnings: Survival situation, sort of meet cute lol, angst, soulmates, and romantic fluff.

JVB Masterlist || Beau Arlen Masterlist

You picked your head up slowly from the airbag. You could barely feel that side of your face.

Blood began to drip into your eye, but you managed to wipe it away. You glanced down at your hand to watch the tremble in it, curiously.

Your gaze drifted beyond it, beyond your steering wheel. A sea of wheat-like grass and beds of gravel looked ready to meet you through your windshield. The groan of metal accompanied a slight rocking of your little 2009 Toyota Corolla, back and forth. You sucked in a shaky breath and tried to hold in the urge to cough.

Your chest hurt. It was sharp and aching where your seatbelt clung tightly to your ribs.

Then, your heart fell into your stomach as you realized…

Your car was teetering on the edge of the Morelli Bridge. It was one of the few in Helena, Montana that hadn’t yet been replaced for repairs or sold for scrap, but you knew it was old. An old, old timber bridge, built in 1893…which meant you were infinitely screwed.

You braced yourself on the driver’s side door and held your breath, trying to keep the panic from rising up past the tightness in your throat. Your bruised body was otherwise paralyzed; you didn’t know what to do, or even why you were hit. But you could guess.

You glanced out your window through frizzy strands of your hair at the silver SUV that bulldozed into your back tires. The SUV had spiraled away from your car and hit a lamppost. Now the front of it was crunched like an accordion, where it was smoking on fire. Two men broke open the driver and passenger side doors open with their boots. They were dressed like ranchers in their long jackets, jeans, and Stetson hats, but when they hauled out guns along with them, your eyes widened.

What the hell’s going on?!

You heard a horde of police sirens coming closer, until their lights were half-blinding you through the back windows of your car. An unfamiliar thread of feeling laced through you then. You didn’t know exactly what it was, but it cut into your awareness, for a moment right through your fear.

Goosebumps spread across your arms. A tingling warmth enveloped you, comforted you, if just for a few seconds.

A white van striped with red was racing across the bridge along with the squad cars. Between your ringing ears, you almost thought you could hear a man’s chatter, giving orders to cut ‘em off. Form a perimeter. Like some kind of police scanner.

Tears of desperation filled your eyes.

Please. Please help me.

Beau Arlen heard the thought like it was his own, loud and clear as a bell.

His voice cut off mid-sentence as he was speaking to Jenny and into the police radio. She shot him a look—first in confusion, then in concern.

“Beau?” she prompted.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. His mouth opened to continue giving his instructions on how to round up these guys; they had already ducked behind their smoking car and were shooting at the squad cars pulling up to them. They’d been caught on the act of trying to steal a showhorse. Luckily the horse was safe and being taken to the precinct, but these dusty cowboys were on the run.

“You okay?” Jenny said. “It’s not often that you’re at a loss for words.”

Beau shot her a wry look. He opened his mouth to reply, but the voice in his mind grew even stronger. Sharper. Feminine, and desperate.

Hellooo! Can they even see I’m still alive over here? Oh, God. Please. I can’t move…

Beau blinked in confusion, but the sharp tug of fear and dread inside his chest was even harder to ignore than the thoughts in his head—thoughts that were most definitely not his own. It was the strangest sensation, like a vice-grip on his heart.

Christ, it can’t be, he thought. Here? Now? But where—

His eyes widened when he looked over and caught sight of a little blue Toyota Corolla. It was teetering on the edge of the bridge, already tipping toward the side of falling right off.

“Pull over here. Now!” Beau told Jenny.

His voice was serious and sharp enough that she did what he said without questioning. She might enjoy poking at him from time to time, but he was still the Sheriff, and after the summer they’d had solving the case of Buck Barnes and putting his wife behind bars, Jenny respected Beau. More than she ever thought she would.

She pulled her 1996 Ford Bronco over beside the Toyota. Beau had his seatbelt off before she even hit the brakes. She started to put it into Park, but he stopped her.

“You back up the squad. I’ll handle this,” he said. He opened the passenger door and climbed out.

“What?” she said incredulously. “If someone’s in there, you’re gonna need help.”

“That’s what the Fire Squad’s for,” Beau said, tossing a thumb behind him at the firetruck speeding towards the bridge. He threw Jenny’s passenger door shut and banged on it twice with an open hand, asking her without words to do what he said.

Jenny didn’t like it, but she peeled off to help the blockade of policemen trying to corral the men they were after.

Beau didn’t exactly know why his instinct was to go to the tipping car alone, but he understood it the moment he hurried over and found you through the driver’s side window. Tears streaked down your face while you sat there very still, and very terrified. Not only could he see it in your face, but he could feel it behind his ribs. It made his desire to help you even more visceral—like a gut punch that reached all the way up into his throat.

“Hey!” he called to you.

Your head whipped over to meet him, and your eyes widened in abject relief. He could feel that too, and it made him smile, even as his own heart began to trip up faster. He pulled at the car door handle.

“Sheriff Beau Arlen, ma’am. I’m gonna get you out. Don’t you worry,” he assured. “Can you unlock the door? Slowly. Try not to rock the boat, so to speak.”

You gave a jerky, minimal nod, and you reached over to press the “unlock” button. The sensor didn’t respond for the locks or the windows. Beau’s lips pressed together. No matter how he pulled at the door, it wouldn’t budge. All he had on him was his gun, a pocketknife, and a lockpick that wouldn’t do him much good here.

Damn it. Should’ve grabbed a slim jim, he thought.

Beau noticed the way you paused, your head tilting as you stared at him with wider eyes. It made him pause as well.

“Did you…did you say something?” you asked, raising your voice so you could be heard through the closed window.

Beau was about to respond when a firefighter captain approached from his right.

“Sheriff,” he greeted with a nod. The firetruck was parked near the Toyota, and there was an ambulance coming up from behind on the bridge. “Just the driver in the car?”

Beau nodded at him belatedly. “Yeah, just be real careful. It’s teetering on the edge of the bridge.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” the captain said. “You might wanna step back, Sheriff.”

Beau looked back over at your tear-streaked terrified face, and he shook his head. He wasn’t about to step out of your line of sight. He wanted you to know that he was here, and he wasn’t leaving you.

“Just get this door open for me first, and we’ll get her out,” he said.

The captain took note of Beau’s firmness, and so he agreed. Two more firefighters came with Halligans and power tools to pry the door open. All the while, Beau was focused on you. He could see your growing panic when the tools whirred loudly and shook the car.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. This thing’s going to tip over and I’m going to be a fucking gravel pancake!

Hearing your thoughts again was like another dousing of cold water to his senses, but he felt compelled to get closer—as close as he could without getting in the firefighters’ way. 

It’s okay, darlin’. You’re not gonna tip over. I’m not gonna let that happen, he thought in reply. It was instinctual, but he knew that you heard him. He saw the way you gasped, even as another tear rolled down your cheek.

He was struck then by the look of you. Despite your frizzy hair and a line of blood drying down the side of your face, you were beautiful; your eyes, the shape of your face and the shade of your hair, and the way you were looking at him now, like you were crying for a whole different reason.

You…you’re…

Beau Arlen, ma’am, he answered, with his best charming smile (albeit a bit nervous). He carded a hand through his hair on reflex.

You managed to smile back, wiping your tears away. Yeah, you said that.

What’s your name then, darlin’?

You hesitated, but when you gave him your name, the roll of the letters and the sound of your voice…it all made a strange, warm tingle run down his spine. It filled him with a sensation of champagne bubbly, stirring low in his belly. His hand pressed harder against the Toyota’s hood without him realizing.

The car groaned and began to tip even more.

Shit! Beau’s eyes widened. You gasped and clung to the car seat by your nails.

“Beau!” you yelled out through the glass.

“Got it,” one of the firemen said, and he wrenched the door open.

Beau stepped in quickly and fished out his pocketknife. Flicking it open, he barely had time to meet your eyes before he tore through your seatbelt. Then he slid an arm around your back and under your knees, gathering you to his chest before he scooped you out of the car.

It was just in time for it to snap against the cables secured around the car. You wouldn’t have gone over the edge, even if Beau hadn’t grabbed you and pulled you out…but neither of you had known that.

Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you buried your teary face against his chest. You were shaking. Beau nodded at the firemen in thanks and walked a few more feet away from the car. The ambulance was having a hard time getting through on the narrow bridge with all the police cars and the firetruck itself, so Beau saw no other solution but to have you kneel down on the ground with him, using the firetruck as cover.

“You’re all right. I gotcha,” he said gently.

His heart clenched at the way you clung to him, trembling. You nodded shakily, swiping stray tears from your face. When you looked up at him, he was struck silent again.

Just straight up raw beauty. His lips parted, but not a sound came out. His mouth suddenly felt dry.

“Yes, thank you,” you said. The fear faded out of your expression, melting into a smile. “For the save, and for the, um…the compliment.”

Beau blinked in confusion. Complim— Aw, shit.

You’d heard his thoughts just now. Too bad it was entirely the truth. He couldn’t help but smile too, if a bit sheepishly.

The moment shattered when a trill of gunfire sounded. A couple of bullets actually pierced the firetruck, one of them taking out a side mirror. You screamed, but Beau instinctively protected you with his body. He covered you by tucking your head to his chest and wrapping his arm around you.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said.

“But, my car—” you said, with a tremble in your voice. The firemen were still trying to pull it back onto the bridge. Beau nodded.

“I’m gonna take care of this, but until I do, I need to get you somewhere safe,” he said, cupping the back of your head. “Come on.”

He withdrew his gun and helped you to your feet. He hastened you over to the ambulance, covering your head and your body with his broad frame until he could guide you inside the vehicle. The paramedics collected you from there, but you still stopped short and turned to grab his arm.

“Wait! You’re going back there?” you asked, alarm lacing your tone.

Beau felt your worry for him, your instinct to cling to the newfound connection in your soul, the part of you that sensed its equal. It was like a warm thread thrumming strong between you, but also delicate.

Beau gave you a patient, apologetic smile. “Can’t leave my team hangin’. But don’t worry, I’ll come find you when I’m done here. So we can…”

Your eyes stared deeply into his, and somehow, he knew you were holding your breath. Beau grabbed your hand and squeezed with purpose.

“I’ll come find you,” he promised.

You were reluctant, but you eventually nodded. He was the Sheriff, you reminded yourself. Of course he had to go back. You released his hand, letting him slip away from you.

Every step he took back toward the crime scene—every step he took away from the ambulance revving up to drive away was another step that felt wrong, down to his bones. When the vehicle made its way across the bridge and eventually disappeared around the bend, the warm tendril of connection in his chest dissipated.

He didn’t come.

Not when you spent four hours in the hospital’s Emergency Department. Not when you took an Uber home, ordered takeout, and cried through the entire movie of Fools Rush In to try and make yourself feel like you were home, and not a shaken mess.

However, nothing you did made you feel as safe as you did when the Sheriff held your hand.

Beau Arlen, you reminded yourself. The name that felt branded under your skin, on your heart, the moment he locked eyes with you.

You snuggled yourself deeper into your collection of fuzzy blankets in bed. You pictured his bearded face in your mind, and that small smattering of freckles that only showed up when the firetruck’s headlights hit his face.

You remembered his strength, his little show of badassery when he cut you loose from the car. But most of all, you remembered feeling his determination and his caring. Even if he didn’t say it in words, or even in his thoughts, you knew what you’d felt from his soul connecting with yours. He wasn’t going to let you go over the bridge. 

By Wednesday afternoon, you were standing in front of your last class of the day. Helena High School was large enough that you didn’t have every junior upperclassman in your classes, but your 12th grade Honors English class had to be your favorite. The kids were sharp, and they actually paid attention and took notes when you spoke, even if it was on Wuthering Heights.

“Bye, guys. Have a good day,” you waved at them after the last bell of the day rang.

“Bye, Miss!” the last few of them called back.

So polite, you smiled. That was also what you liked about the honors class. The last girl was struggling to pack everything up into her backpack. A book fell off her desk and tumbled to the floor. She looked up at you sheepishly, strands of her light brown hair slipping out of the ponytail and into her honey brown eyes.

“Sorry,” she said.

“I got it,” you said, and you slipped between the rows of desks to help her. John Grisham. Interesting…

“Legal thrillers, huh?” you noted. “Not your typical reading for a seventeen-year-old, but I dig it.”

Internally you wanted to slap your own forehead. Did people even say dig it anymore?

Emily didn’t seem to mind. She just laughed.

“I know. I’m just not that into…you know, sexy vampires, and sexy werewolves, and…sexy fairies.”

Your brows rose of their own accord. “Sexy fairies?”

She nodded, with a blushing smile. “Yeah. But um, anyway, my dad’s on his way, so I’ve got to get out front.”

“Oh, I’ll go with you,” you said. “It’s my turn to supervise student pickup with Mr. Harrison.”

You leave your classroom with Emily and head down the hall with thoughts other than lesson plans running through your head.

I can’t believe that man. You couldn’t keep the frown from crossing your face. Three days, and the Sheriff couldn’t be bothered to keep his promise? What, he couldn’t get my information from the paramedics? The hospital? My damn police report?

You’d gone to the Lewis & Clark Police Department the very next day after the incident to file it, but the Sheriff hadn’t been in his office. You’d asked a Deputy there, a pretty blonde woman, and she’d told you that he was on a case.

“Do you want to leave a message?” she’d asked, when she noticed you hesitating to leave.

“No,” you’d replied. “No, it’s okay. Thank you though.”

You sighed. It was kind of sad, really. You were an English teacher who couldn’t write a simple note…even if it was to your actual soulmate.

“Are you okay, Miss?” Emily asked, breaking you out of your reverie. You gave her a smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Just thinking about everything I have to do before tomorrow’s class,” you lied. In fact, you lied through your teeth.

You two made your way outside the building and to the pickup and drop off area. You monitored most of the kids getting picked up, but Emily sat on one of the benches with her headphones in while she continued reading her John Grisham book. You smiled at the sight. It was nice to see kids reading of their own free will.

But you became a little concerned as the hour ticked by.

Geez, where’s her father?

You didn’t know much about her family, but you did remember that her parents were divorced. Her private attorney mother went to the PTA meetings whenever she could, outside of her busy schedule. Come to think of it, you supposed you knew where the interest in legal thrillers came from.

And suddenly, it hit you.

Emily Arlen…Arlen.

You gasped out loud, remembering the pair of green eyes that stared into yours so intensely, and the light brown hair that matched his daughter’s.

"Sheriff Beau Arlen, ma'am."

You jolted out of your thoughts when a red truck pulled into the pick-up zone and stopped at the curb. The man at the wheel honked twice, grinning at his daughter through the rolled down window. Your mouth fell open in soft shock.

“Finally,” Emily muttered, but she smiled when she looked up at her dad. She took out her headphones and stuffed her book into her backpack so she could go over to his truck.

She glanced at you as she passed by, about to tell you goodbye. Noting the spaced-out look on your face, she frowned and stopped short.

“Hey, aaaare you okay?”

It was the second time she was asking, but this time, you couldn’t lie to her. Because her dad followed her line of vision and finally found you standing there. His eyes went wide as well.

He quickly parked the car where it stood. He climbed out, and when he came around the hood toward you and Emily, his foot almost missed the curb and made him stumble.

You broke your frozen limbs out of the proverbial ice and reached out a hand, even though you weren’t even close enough to help. You held your other hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter.

Beau righted himself, clearing his throat. Then he took measured steps over to you and his daughter. The cut of his beard, short brown hair that swept over his dark brows, and kind green eyes…he looked exactly the same, if with a different jacket. This one was beige and suede. It matched well with his blue jeans and boots. His shiny gold-on-leather badge hung on his belt.

“Hey, there,” he said, with a short wave.

Your smile grew. “Good afternoon, Sheriff.”

He smiled too, setting his hand on Emily’s shoulder.

“Dad, this is my English teacher,” she said.

Beau’s brows raised high. “Really. Small world.” His eyes were set on you, and they didn’t leave your face. You bit the inside of your lip as your face began to heat up in a blush.

Emily gave him a confused look. “What?”

Blinking, as if coming back to himself, he patted her back.

“Ah, you know what, I actually want to ask your teacher something. Mind waiting for me in the car?” he said. “Just don’t blast the music too loud, kay kiddo?”

Emily gave him a slightly suspicious look, but she did as he asked, waving goodbye to you. You waved back as she went over to the car. It left you with her father.

Beau swept his fingers through his hair. He was a bit nervous, and you were now picking up on it as the connection between you two flared to life. You felt it deep and warm and thrumming in your chest. At least you weren’t alone in your nerves.

“Looks like you’re doing well. I’m real glad for that,” he said.

You nodded. “I am, thanks to you.”

He smiled at that. It was genuine at first, before it turned rueful.

“I uh…I owe you an apology though,” he said.

“That’s a good place to start,” you replied, though you softened it with a somewhat playful gleam to your smile.

He chuckled, and it pulled at the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. Somehow, you thought it just made his smile all the more charming.

Then, he seemed to pause. His lips tugged harder at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, me and my charming smile are most definitely sorry,” he said.

Your face fell. Shit. Did he hear that?

Oh, he most definitely did. His grin kicked up into a smirk.

You covered your mouth when a snort bubbled up, your face flaring with a hot blush.

“So we’re basically human lie detectors now. Great. Just…great,” you said, giggling a little.

Beau’s amusement soon faded. “Look, I can’t excuse myself. First I just…I thought you might want some space after what happened. I didn’t want to overwhelm you. Then…well, maybe I just started second-guessing, letting myself get busy. I had no idea you were Em’s teacher.”

Your head tilted as you considered him. After a moment, you softened with a sigh.

“She’s a good kid. Really smart too,” you said, taking a cautious step closer to him. “Think I know where she gets that from.”

Beau snorted. “Definitely from her mother.” But he drew closer to you too, with a meaningful look. “Who I’m civilly divorced from.”

“I know,” you nodded, “but thanks for that footnote.”

He was a bit hesitant, but he reached out and grasped your hand. You took in a deep breath through your nose at the shiver that ran up your spine. That feeling was different, like the burn of smokey, rich whiskey filling your chest. Your heart leapt as you looked up at his face.

Safe. That was the feeling.

“Do you think I might be able to take you out for dinner tomorrow?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t want to go too fast for you, but considering our situation—”

“Beau,” you stopped him with a gentle hand over his. “You literally saved me from falling off a bridge, not to mention a hailstorm of bullets.” You smiled up at him more brightly. “I already know what kind of guy you are. You also happen to be my soulmate. I think I would very much love to have dinner with you.”

When your words finally registered, Beau’s shoulders loosened in relief. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced back and realized that Emily was still waiting in the front seat of his car and watching you two curiously.

Beau sighed. He knew he was in for a full spotlight interrogation on the way home, but he fished out his phone and texted you his number. Somehow he had it without asking for it first…

“So, can I call you later?” he asked, with another one of those smiles that set your insides fluttering.

“Ah, so you did get my cell number off my police report. And still you couldn’t manage to call me?” you teased.

Beau chuckled, ducking his head in embarrassment. Was he even starting to blush?

“Well, you got me there. I really am sorry, darlin’. I just—”

You reached out for him this time, squeezing a hand over his wrist.

“It’s okay, really,” you said. “You’re here now. Let’s just…figure out what this can be.”

Beau peeled his gaze from your hand and looked back into your eyes. He had to smile. If he let himself, he could feel you. Your relief, your good humor, and your hope. It all felt sweet as pie to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do that.”

Despite lingering insecurities and the remnants of past mistakes threatening to dampen the moment in his mind, he had just one thing winning out above them all.

I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be good, he thought.

He hoped you could hear it.

AN: Bridgerton fans who have also seen Queen Charlotte will get one of those little references in there. 😘

▶️ Read the Sequel: CONNECTION

Summary: Beau saved you from your car nearly going over a rickety bridge, discovering he was your soulmate in the process. Now, the two of you enjoy a milestone date at the county fair.

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[bybobbysbeard]

For the kiss ask:

Bucktommy and 10. …desperately.

Dani, my dear. It’s been a literal month. Sorry. Nevertheless, here you go.

The kiss meme: "Desperately." Bucktommy, 2000 words, post reconciliation, mentioned canonical MCD.

There’s forty-seven steps between his truck and Tommy’s. 

Buck’s paced the distance out; ten, twenty, fifty times. A dozen parking spots. Nearly one hundred and thirty feet of cracked and patched asphalt. He tried to park closer, but the lot is a mess. Between Harbor’s staff vehicles, LAPD squad cars, and engines from three different houses, free spaces are few and far between. The 118 isn’t here, but he’s heard from Juarez on B shift, so Buck knows they’re on call if the situation changes. 

His phone is silent in his hand. Buck spins on his heel, starts the next lap back to his truck. 

Athena’s heavy stare makes the back of his neck itch. 

A plume of black smoke, thick and choking, is still rising up from the main hangar. Even from here it smells acrid, chemical and toxic. The police cordon is wide, keeping him from approaching anywhere near the station buildings. He tried to get through, stating he was off-duty LAFD and here to help, but Maddie must have called Athena. She caught up to him at the  barricade, stopping him dead with a firm hand on his elbow and five short words.

It’s not like the lab. 

They’re still echoing around his head as he paces. He’s jittery, arms and legs jerking in a sad pantomime of his usual stride. He’s tired, but can’t stop. Adrenaline drives him onward, keeps him moving so the weight of memories won’t crush him. Some of the cops are looking at him nervously, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. Athena’s on the other side of the police tape now, standing close to Officer Williams. She’s got a radio up to her mouth, but her eyes never leave Buck. He likes to think he’s matured a lot since they first met, but he’s trying not to lie to himself as much these days. He was definitely just thinking of stealing turnouts from the 122 engine and sneaking in.

Something stops him. Something stronger than Athena’s inescapable disappointment.

Tommy wouldn’t want him to put himself in danger like that. 

Buck was doing laundry when Maddie phoned from Dispatch. An accident at Harbor: a fire, something about a refueling truck. And then, an explosion. Three people seriously injured, one driver and two firefighters, now enroute to Memorial in Harbor’s own ambulances. The 122, 131, and 102 were dispatched. LAPD was setting up a full site lockdown until the scene was secured. 

Maddie’s voice had cracked when she said lockdown. 

It’s not the same. He knows that. There’s no FBI or army. No biological threats, only the complicated chemical components of aircraft fuel and maintenance fluids. The lockdown is to keep everyone safe, not to trap Tommy and his team inside. Buck understood, but it didn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat, couldn’t prevent him dropping the armful of wet towels with a splat he barely heard, and tearing out of the house at full speed. Tommy didn’t pick up when he called him from the truck; Lucy answered on the second ring. She was already headed to the hospital, meeting their captain and some of A shift in the waiting room. She’s the one that confirmed Tommy wasn’t one of the injured. Buck let Maddie know he was heading to Harbor, and she must have told Chim, who told everyone else. Buck muted the group chat twenty minutes ago.

Tommy wasn’t even supposed to be working today. 

There’s more people in the parking lot now. He recognizes the occasional face. Family members of B shift he’s met at Harbor events with Tommy, and a few people from C shift. They’ve all congregated around their cars as they wait for news. He nods when he catches their eyes, tries to look like he isn’t about to shatter apart, like it isn’t absolutely killing him to be stuck out here while his boyfriend is still inside. 

The shiny chrome of his truck’s bumper reflects his filthy sneakers and worn sweatpants. 

Buck breathes out. Forty-seven steps. Breathes in. Pivots, and heads towards Tommy’s truck.

He finishes another three laps before there’s a change. Buck hears the crackle of several radios, relief audible in more than one voice. He stops pacing, midpoint between their two vehicles. Some unseen release of tension runs through the line of officers. Athena finally looks away from him, tipping her head up to the sky and closing her eyes. He’s already headed towards her when she ducks under the tape and clips the radio back to her belt. 

“Fire is out and they’ve neutralized the rest of the spilled fuel. You still can’t go in without gear, but everyone should be coming out soon.” She’s watching his face carefully as she wraps her fingers around the hand still holding his phone. “Lockdown’s over, Buck.”

Her eyes are so gentle. 

Horrifyingly, he feels that tell-tale burning behind his eyes and flashes hot, all-over. God, he’s so selfish. Buck might feel like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin from the overlap, but Athena lost so much more. And here he is, making her keep an eye on him so he doesn’t do something stupid. 

“Athena, thank you. I don’t… I–I’m not sure what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

She scoffs, her lips curving up into a smile. “Of course I’m here. Who else is going to keep the 118 out of trouble?” She squeezes his hands. “You’re family, Buckaroo. No matter what the call is about.”

Buck just nods. He can’t trust his voice right now. 

“Now, you stay right here, and I’m going to go update the Harbor crew. And text your sister please, she’s been blowing up my phone.” With one last squeeze, she lets him go and heads towards the rest of the parking lot. 

It’s another half an hour before figures start exiting the main hangar. Most are fully geared up, heading towards the engines, but there’s the occasional person out of uniform or in coveralls, wearing a respirator and gloves. They head towards the parking lot, ducking under the cordon. They’re soot-stained and there’s more than a few pieces of gauze covering minor injuries. Buck stands at the edge of it all, people streaming around him. He watches reunions happen throughout the parking lot, desperate families ignoring the ash and smell of burnt avgas to welcome their loved ones with hugs and kisses. 

He fumbles his phone back into his pocket, hands shaking. He’s hollowed out, anxiety-carved chunks missing from his heart from the last few hours and leaving him cavernous, ears ringing with his own breathing. 

C shift checks-in with the exiting B team, and Buck hears bits and pieces of the story. From the sounds of it, the main hangar will be out of commission for weeks, and someone at the Chief's Office is already investigating how the malfunctioning fuel bowser passed its last inspection. Thankfully, the fire didn’t spread to the underground storage tanks, but there was still significant damage and at least one bird was totaled. 

The stream of people leaving the hangar slows to a trickle. Buck looks around, but he’s lost sight of Athena. Tommy doesn’t appear.

The empty feeling grows.

At some point, he wrapped his hands around the flimsy black and yellow plastic of the police tape. An anemic breeze coming in off the water makes it sway limply on either side of his grasp. Most of the LAPD officers have walked away, leaving him alone, staring at the half open hangar door and the shadowed interior. 

Finally, there’s movement. Two figures, one in full turnouts, one in a half-undone flight suit in a familiar blue. Buck’s under and away from the tape before he’s consciously decided to move, hurrying across the lot at a fast clip. One of the figures clocks him, and elbows the other. The second one stutters, missing a step. Buck’s heart pounds. The second figure starts moving again, breaking into a jog. Buck speeds up. 

Soon enough, he can see details. The flight suit is ripped and torn, and unzipped to the waist. The revealed grey tee shirt is stained with sweat and ash. There's a red smear on the fabric over the ribs that looks concerningly like blood. A thin pad of gauze is wrapped around a strong forearm, stark-white against the soot. Dark brown curls threaded with grey are messy and falling over a sweaty forehead, eyebrows raised in surprise. Those stormy blue eyes are wide and shocked, but relieved, and oh-so familiar.

Tommy’s got his arms out, reaching for Buck as he sprints closer, and his mouth is open and moving, but Buck can’t hear it. His heartbeat’s pounding through his skull, reverberating and turning everything else to white noise. Buck has the wherewithal to think he should probably slow down, but the thought barely has time to percolate before they’re slamming into each other. Buck feels the breath whoosh out of Tommy instead of hearing it, but those welcoming arms still wrap around him. 

Sound filters back in. First, his own gasping breaths. And then, a voice. 

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m fine, I promise, I’m fine. I’m so sorry, honey. Didn’t know you were here. My phone’s probably in a thousand pieces. Evan, please. You gotta breathe.”

Buck forces a noisy breath in through his nose.

“Good baby, that’s perfect. Just like that.”

His own voice croaks out of his throat, “Are you really okay?”

Tommy hugs him close, one heavy hand on the back of Buck’s head tucking his face against the gritty skin of his neck. “I swear I’m okay. Just a scratch. I had to crawl into the truck to get the driver out.”

Buck swallows roughly, leaning back to look Tommy in the eyes. He’s here, he’s okay. The lockdown’s lifted and no one is trapped. It’s not like the lab. The pit in his chest finally starts to fill in; relief is a cool rush of feeling, leaving him shaky with solace. His hands scrabble at Tommy’s shoulders and he presses their lips together frantically, with zero finesse. 

It is, objectively, probably their worst kiss. Tommy jerks away in surprise, his hands hovering, but presses back in so quickly their teeth clack together. Stubble catches and their noses bump. Buck’s breath is still hiccupping in and out of him, and Tommy is filthy, spreading soot over both their faces. At least they're not in a hospital lobby this time. A second later, that heavy hand is back, guiding Buck’s head to a better angle. Their lips connect again, and this kiss is smoother, warmth and comfort flourishing between them. Another hand lands at the small of his back, bringing their bodies closer. Buck sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth and licking at Tommy’s plush lower lip. 

Heat sparks, catches, like it always does with the two of them. Buck wants to forget the lockdown, forget the parking lot, forget why this day sent him on such a spiral. Tommy moans, low in the back of his throat, and deepens the kiss, sucking Buck’s tongue into his mouth. One of Buck’s hands finds the edge of the flight suit, fingers dipping under to feel the body-warmed cotton of Tommy’s boxers. Buck aches to be closer, needs to crawl inside of his boyfriend so he never has to feel this way again. He settles for running his tongue over the back of Tommy’s teeth, tasting the soot in his mouth and trying to remove every trace.

A throat clearing behind Tommy makes them both jump. 

“Not that this ain’t sweet, but Sergeant Grant is on her way, and I’m pretty sure you were supposed to stay behind the yellow line, Buckley.”

Buck swallows, and carefully disentangles his limbs from Tommy, who pouts adorably. “I mean, she didn’t exactly say that. She mostly said don’t go in the hangar. But, um, thanks, Captain Deluca.” Tommy wraps his unbandaged arm around Buck’s middle, and Sal falls in at his other shoulder. They slowly start making their way towards the trucks.

“Kid, I’ve just seen you play tonsil hockey with my best friend. And you’re off-duty. I think you can call me Sal.” Sal’s voice is wry and Tommy snorts a laugh.

“Best? At this point I’m your only friend.”

“Is that so? Maybe next time I’ll just let the hangar burn down around you.” 

“God, you’re such a bitch when you have to clean your kit.” 

“And you’re such a bitch when you actually have to fight a fire instead of flying around in a chopper all day.”

“A chopper? I’m sorry, did we fall into an eighties action movie sometime in the last five minutes?”

“You would know, you fucking nerd.”

Tommy looks so offended, Buck can’t help it. He laughs. Soon Sal’s chuckling too, and Tommy’s failing to fight off a smile. He’s looking at Buck, his eyes sparkling, when Athena catches up to them. She takes one look at Buck, giggling helplessly, and Tommy, helplessly charmed, and her stern expression just melts away.

[loulou-land]

Let Me Struggle, Carry That Weight (All Your Troubles, All Your Pain)

Bucktommy | 8x17 spoilers | post MCD | I don’t know what this is 🤷🏻‍♀️ prob a bit too on the nose but it wanted to be written (haven’t read it through so I’m sorry for any errors)

Buck can’t be here anymore.

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him. It doesn’t matter how much he’s tried to make this place feel like home—his personal touches scattered over every corner of it—it all feels hollow now, like he’s misplaced. An intruder. Tense silence hangs over the kitchen, the weight of it oppressive. Buck feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin.

He just wants it all to stop.

The pain. The emptiness and numbness. Missing Bobby like a phantom limb he keeps trying to use.

And the thing is, he’s tried so hard to hold it together. Just like Bobby asked. He’s been there for everyone. The rock. The steady hand. Open ears and a shoulder to cry on. All while trying to smile, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He doesn’t want to talk about his pain. That’s not important right now. He doesn’t need Eddie to tell him not to make it about himself—he knows. He didn’t think he was, but okay, he can fix that. But god, he just wants the ache in his heart to go quiet. Just for a minute.

Buck presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop the tears from coming. Because if they start, he’s not sure they’ll ever stop.

His breathing starts to stutter. And he knows what’s next. The spiral. The tightness in his chest. The panic that rides in on the back of his grief.

Before he can tip into it, he grabs his keys, rushes past the Eddie shaped lump on his couch, and slips past the door.

He doesn’t have a destination in mind. Just the cold sting of the night air on his cheeks, the rush of cars passing by and sounds of the city at night. He lets it all press against the static in his head until he realizes he’s stopped. Parked in a familiar driveway.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. He sits in the silence until the porch light flicks on and Tommy steps out.

Buck’s breath escapes in a shaky rush.

He climbs out of the car like every move takes all his effort. As though every step cost him something. He walks toward Tommy like a man facing a firing squad.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, voice thick. “I didn’t know where else to go. I—”

But the words crumble inside his mouth. There’s no way to explain the hollowed-out ache in his chest. No way to describe the guilt eating him alive. The panic that weighs on him all the time. The grief trying to claw its way out of him.

But the thing is—he doesn’t need to. Tommy takes one look at him and knows. He understands.

Tommy’s never asked for more. Never demanded Buck explain the mess inside of him. He’s always taken him exactly as he is.

He just opens his arms. Opens his door wider, into his home. And Buck falls in.

He slumps into the warmth of Tommy’s arms, lets him take all his weight. Grateful. Trembling. But also, so ashamed.

He didn’t even make it a few weeks. He tried so hard to be strong. Tried to carry it all by himself. But here he is, breaking apart in Tommy’s arm, making it his problem.

“I—fuck,” Buck breaths into Tommy’s neck. “I’m sorry. I just—I miss Bobby.”

His voice cracks. It isn’t what he meant to say. He was just going to apologize, like always. But that’s the truest thing he’s said in weeks.

“Shhh,” Tommy murmurs, wrapping his arms tighter around him. “I know, sweetheart. I’ve got you.

Just that. Steady understanding and comfort. No judgement.

And Buck breaks.

His sobs come sharp and sudden, pulled from the pit of something deep and long ignored. He clings to Tommy like a lifeline, fingers clinging into the back of his shirt. No one’s held him like this in a while. Without taking pieces of him in return.

Tommy just holds him. Like he’s not a burden to carry.

And for the first time in weeks, he lets himself be comforted. The knowledge that this—Tommy—is a place where he can fall apart and not be left to sweep up the pieces all alone.

Eventually, his sobs taper off. He’s exhausted. Completely wrung out.

Tommy pulls back just enough to cup Buck’s cheek, catching his tears with his thumb. “Evan, you don’t ever have to be sorry for coming to me,” he says, voice low but sure. “And sure as hell not for needing someone. Not with me. Never with me.”

Buck looks into those endless blue eyes and believes it. He nods, eyes glassy, throat raw. “Okay

[quietstormxr]

Forgotten

Pure, unadulterated angst.

Reader x ?

Poll Results: Reader x Xaden Riorson

A/N: Fourth Wing Spoilers, Mentions of depression

Word Count: 1.7k

Trying something different and asking for y'alls input. There will be a poll at the bottom for you to participate in the story if you're interested.

Tomorrow, Always Tomorrow - Home

You watch as they rally around her. The way they are now busy watching her every move. Training her at every opportunity. They even made her a damn saddle for her dragon. They constantly train her on the mat, design daggers for her hands and strength. 

Staring at the blazing fire in the common room, you slowly watch your surroundings and the comings and goings. But no one knows you’re there. 

You’re invisible.

Not only to those who you thought cared about you, but also thanks to your signet. You huff a laugh as you mask yourself in the alcove that you’ve come to claim as your own. 

All you must do is survive for a few more days before you’re free from them all. Free from any eyes looking for you, free from expectations, from them.

You always knew that you weren’t a priority. You always faded to the back of conversations, the back of the room. Left to your own devices, you let the resentment fester, the feeling of not being worthwhile. 

No one ever described what a bond breaking between a dragon and a human felt like, but you could feel the way your dragon’s voice seemed to start feeling like it was underwater. The communication line between the two of you seeming to be drowning, the same way you felt yourself breaking apart at the seams. 

As you arrived in formation when the alarms went off, you kept to yourself and your eyes straight ahead. Nothing in your mind registered anymore. The only thing behind your eyes was the festering of relentless anger.

As you go to leave formation and gather your things, you feel a tug on your arm. You look back to see Imogen tapping your shoulder. 

“Xaden wants you for the headquarters squad.” You raise your eyes to hers and give a tight nod, nothing showing in your eyes.

While packing your things, you can’t help but wonder if you could just walk away from it all. If they think you’re dead, it wouldn’t matter at this point. With a plan forming in your mind, you pack everything that you deem important and leave the rest of your things behind. You close the door, not leaving a note or anything to find. You’ll either succeed in your plan or you’ll face a punishment you won’t return from.

You head to the flight field. Your dragon waits behind all the others. You huff a laugh at the fact that even your dragon knows how much you just want to fade into the background of it all. 

You may not want to listen or watch the comradery of those you used to consider friends or even a lover, but you make sure to keep your eyes sharp. You watch as everything unfolds in front of you, until you watch as Xaden and Garrick stride towards you.

“I assume Imogen told you that you’re coming with us.” Xaden says, no pretense of niceties in sight. 

“Yes.” Succinct. Final. There’s nothing more to say. 

Both look at you seeming to take in the stone of your appearance, most likely confused by your lack of warmth they were so used to seeing. They exchange a look, but Xaden nods to you and strides away. You watch as they both stride towards Liam and Bodhi, all of them collectively looking back towards you. Even though you are eager to lash out at them, yell, scream, and cry, you just look back with a look of impassivity. 

“Headquarters squad, let’s go.” Xaden calls as he mounts Sgaeyl. 

You fly at the back of the riot, which your dragon does willingly. There’s no need for you to voice your feelings towards those in front of you when your dragon is already well aware. 

The way you lag behind the others has you touching down at the lake about ten minutes after everyone else. As soon as you do, you’re met with a scene that causes you to snort in derision. 

Of course Sorrengail wasn’t going to react well to things that were kept from her. You knew that from just watching the way the girl had treated her friends. Everyone is so preoccupied with the scene in front of them, they don’t realize you’ve landed. 

Forgotten again.

The pattern is now almost comical. You watch, still mounted as Xaden tries to reason with Sorrengail, Liam trying to prove his friendship, Bodhi and Garrick waiting hesitantly.

Soon enough, it seems Xaden has calmed the little scribe down and everyone is mounting again. No one even realizes that you weren’t even aware of the gryphons either. No one tries to reassure you; you just must reassure yourself.

Once at Athbyne, you search the empty barracks on your own and honestly can’t believe your luck. The plan you have may just be easier to pull off than you ever thought. 

While you’re exploring the rooms of the outpost, it seems the group has come to a decision to fight. As you make your way up to the wall where everyone is standing, you listen as Sorrengail goes into details on the venin you’re about to face. 

Without caring to hear more, you turn and head back to your dragon. You’ll still execute your plan, but there’s no way that you’re going to leave innocent people out there to die. If you do, then you’re no better than anyone back at Basgiath. 

As you sweep the perimeter of town, you’re met with a sight that breaks your own heart. A child has been left behind in the mess of confusion and fleeing. A little girl crying, curled up in a ball, wailing somone’s name to save her. 

You can’t help the tears that swim in your eyes feeling like you’re watching yourself break into a million pieces. 

You command your dragon to land and immediately pick up the girl. You begin running towards the mine where the rest of the townspeople are but stop in your tracks. Eyes flaring wide, you watch the venin completely drain Soleil and her dragon. 

You turn again and sprint as fast as you can with the girl in your arms back to your dragon. You mount and command your dragon to bring you to where the rest of the townspeople are being gathered. 

Once there, you bring the little girl to a woman who has her arms out and seems to be shouting the little girl’s name. Watching as she is now cradled and being comforted, you turn your back on the scene and take a deep breath. All you want is someone to comfort you like that. No, not just someone. One specific person. 

You shake your head at the thought that causes your heart to crack open.

When you bring your head up, you’re met with red eyes and a shock of tattered purple robes.

“Such pain for such a young person.” The male voice hisses in a raspy voice that sounds like a distorted rumble.

You can’t hide the flash of recognition at the words that settle in your mind. 

“Why don’t you take all of that pain and channel with me?” He says while beginning to circle around you.

Looking around, you realize that you’re alone. There aren’t any other riders or fliers in this area.

“You can show them what real power looks like and show them you aren’t one to be forgotten.” The words he’s spitting begin to swirl in your mind. The thought of being able to be powerful and not just a shell that’s been rejected hitting you square in the chest.

You shake your head trying to escape the hold that the venin’s words have seemed to settle in your mind. 

“I won’t be controlled. By you or any power.” You spit through clenched teeth, trying to bite back from the hold that you can’t seem to shake from your mind.

“Your spirit is fierce. It would be so pleasant to break you.” The venin continues. 

You find yourself reaching for the sheath that was given to you months ago with instructions not to use unless absolutely necessary. You suppose this situation would render it’s use necessary. 

You double over with the sheer amount of power that the venin seems to be plying towards you. Without overthinking, you grab the hilt of the dagger and fling it. Your aim is the one thing you’ve never questioned about yourself and as you expect, it finds it home in the chest of the venin. 

The creature’s eyes seem to blaze with the fury that you were able to best him. You find yourself crawling backwards trying to get as far away as possible.

Suddenly the din of the battle still going on around you crashes back into your mind. You look up to see dragons locked in battle, to your left and right civilians are still running for cover. Realizing that your own dragon’s focus is taken helping Deigh eviscerate a wyvern, you know this is when you have to make your decision. 

You take a steadying deep breath, trying to calm yourself from the interaction with the venin. As soon as you feel your heartbeat return to something a little more normal, you’re off. You swing your pack on your back as you run. With one look back, you feel like your entire being is breaking, but you just can’t imagine staying anymore. 

A slight panic tries to break through your thoughts, it must be your dragon knowing what you’re about to do. However, as you continue running, you feel your dragon’s connection growing thinner and thinner. There’s no reason to devote much thought to it as you keep going, if you die away from your dragon, so be it. No matter what, from now on it will be on your terms. 

You steal into a thick cover of forest and throw your bag down. You slide down the trunk of a tree and collapse into a tired heap. At this point, the sun has crested on the horizon and night is beginning to set. Your mind can’t help but wonder if anyone has even realized that you’re gone. The last thought you have before sleep finds you is that your dragon can find a new and worthy rider.

[hereforuconnwbb]

The Study of Us - CHAPTER 2

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

word count: 6.4k

warning: language, mention of injury

heres chap 2 guysss !!! im tryna follow the ideas u guys gave me, so im not 100% sure if its exactly what yall had in mind, but im gonna slowly build it up from here 🤞🏽 hopefully there’s no mistakes and it all makes sense cause i wrote the last bit of this chapter and read through this half asleep 😭 anywaysss hope u guys enjoy 🫶🏽

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

It was still early, but the campus was already alive. The buzz of conversation, the shuffle of students walking to class, and the occasional skateboard rolling past made it feel like the world had hit play again. Paige stood by one of the low stone benches just outside the library, sunlight hitting her face while a gentle breeze played with the hem of her hoodie.

She was early, way too early, but she’d never admit she was nervous. Her phone was in her hand, thumbs scrolling through Instagram, even though she hadn’t really seen a single post. She kept checking her reflection in the dark screen anytime it dimmed. Hair was decent. Fit looked casual but intentional. Nothing screamed I’m trying, even though she absolutely was.

Calm down, she told herself for the twentieth time. It’s just tutoring. You need help. That’s all it is.

A group of students passed by laughing, and Paige looked up, spotting Caroline a few feet away walking with her coffee, headed her direction. She was with Aubrey, Ice, and KK all of them talking shit about something and laughing loudly. Paige already regretted her decision to come to this part of campus.

Caroline smirked the second she saw Paige. “So,” she said, greeting her with a little side hug. “You texted Azzi?”

Paige gave her a side-eye. “How do you already know that?”

“She told me last night,” Caroline said innocently, sipping her coffee.

Aubrey lit up. “Wait, wait, you messaged her? Already? Damn, that didn’t take long.”

KK raised her eyebrows. “What’s going on? Who’s Azzi?”

Caroline turned to her with a smile. “Azzi’s my best friend. She’s super smart. Paige needed help with some classes, so I suggested Azzi could tutor her.”

“And I said I was fine,” Paige muttered.

“And then you texted her anyway,” Aubrey said, grinning. “Knew you would. Couldn’t go under 24 hours without seeing her again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Paige said under her breath, adjusting her bag strap to have something to do with her hands.

Ice laughed. “Hold on, is this the same Azzi girl that Aubrey said had you all flustered yesterday?”

Aubrey nodded proudly. “Yup. Paige met her once and forgot how to talk.”

“I didn’t forget how to—geez, will you all chill?”

KK leaned in toward Ice. “Now I really wanna see what this girl looks like.”

“You might get your chance,” Caroline said casually, checking her watch. “She’s got class with me in a few minutes. She’s probably walking up now.”

And almost on cue, a voice called out from behind them.

“Hey, Caroline!”

The group turned and spotted Azzi walking up to the group of girls, backpack slung over one shoulder, her braids swaying slightly as she walked. The sunlight caught on her hoops, and Paige went completely still.

Azzi looked laid-back and composed, like she hadn’t just unknowingly walked into a firing squad of nosy basketball girls. She gave Caroline a warm smile before her eyes moved naturally to Paige and paused. Her smile lingered, just a bit softer now.

“Hey, Paige,” she added.

Paige nodded quickly. “Hey.”

They made eye contact, and it was enough to set off another wave of chaos in Paige’s chest. She was hoping no one would notice, but of course, the girls clocked it instantly.

Ice nudged KK and whispered, “Yeah, I get it now.”

KK nodded slowly. “Mhm. She’s got that calm, pretty energy. No wonder Paige’s out here acting like a freshman with a crush.”

“Shut up,” Paige hissed through gritted teeth, though her ears were turning red.

Azzi looked toward the two new faces in the group, a little curious but she does recognise them. Caroline jumped in. “Azzi, this is KK and Ice our teammates. KK, Ice, this is Azzi.”

Azzi offered a polite smile. “Nice to meet you guys.”

“You too,” KK said, still smirking. “Heard a lot about you.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

Aubrey was barely holding it together. “We didn’t even say anything yet,” she said, laughing. “But sure, Paige. We’ll be on our best behavior.”

“Liar,” Paige muttered.

Azzi glanced at her, still smiling, and Paige felt the air shift again so subtle, but it was there. That unspoken thing sitting between them that no one was addressing. Paige quickly looked away before her teammates could start up again.

“Welp, I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Caroline said to the group. “Azzi and I have class.”

“Later,” Aubrey called as Caroline and Azzi started walking away. Aubrey turned towards Paige with a smirk so evil Paige felt it in her bones.

Paige groaned. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

“Oh, I’m saying everything,” Aubrey said gleefully. “The way you just shut down when she looked at you? Paige Bueckers, the ultimate rizzler herself, turned into a puppy.”

Ice laughed. “And she didn’t even do anything. She just said hi”

“Fuck off,” Paige muttered, but she couldn’t even bring herself to be mad. Not really. Because yeah, Azzi hadn’t done anything. And yet here Paige was, heart racing from a single look.

—-----------------------

Azzi settled into her usual seat beside Caroline in the lecture hall, her notebook already open, though the pen in her hand wasn’t moving. The lecture hadn’t even properly started yet, but even if it had, she knew she wouldn’t be paying attention right away.

Her thoughts kept wandering.

Specifically, to the text she’d gotten the night before. From Paige.

She hadn’t expected to actually hear from her, not after how Paige had brushed off the idea of tutoring like it was unnecessary, even laughable.

Azzi had stared at the message for a solid minute before replying.

Even now, she wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about it.

“Earth to Az” Caroline murmured, nudging her gently with her elbow. “You’ve been zoning out for the past five minutes. Thinking about someone?”

Azzi blinked and turned toward her, caught but trying to play it cool. “No. I mean—sort of. Just… thinking.”

Caroline’s smirk said she wasn’t buying it. “Thinking about how Paige Bueckers finally caved and texted you for tutoring?”

Azzi let out a soft sigh and shook her head. “I told you last night. I was just surprised she actually did it. She looked so confident yesterday like she was going to fake it till finals.”

“Well, she is confident,” Caroline said, half-amused, half-approving. “But academics? Paige only pretends she doesn’t care. Inside, she’s stressing big time when she’s behind. Girl’s too proud to admit it most of the time.”

Azzi tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook, thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect her to be the kind to reach out. Especially to someone she barely knows.”

“She knows who you are,” Caroline said, shooting her a look. “You’re the quiet one who actually takes notes and doesn’t worship the ground she walks on. That probably intrigued her.”

Azzi gave her a look. “I don’t worship anyone. I just… don’t care about basketball or any other sports.”

“Exactly,” Caroline grinned, tapping her nails against the desk. “That makes you different. Refreshing, even.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, unsure how to take that. “I don’t know. I just didn’t think I’d actually be tutoring her. It feels weird.”

Caroline turned more fully toward her, her expression softening. “Weird because you don’t know her, or weird because she was lowkey flustered around you?”

“I don’t think it was anything like that,” Azzi said slowly, trying to sound firmer than she felt. “She was probably just nervous about needing help. That’s all.”

Caroline tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “Sure. That’s all.”

Azzi sighed. “I don’t even know her. Like, I’ve heard of her, obviously, but we’ve never talked until yesterday. And it was barely even a conversation.”

“You don’t need to know her to notice when someone’s acting different around you,” Caroline said, her tone a little more knowing now. “I’ve seen Paige with a lot of people. She’s got this… guard. But with you? She was definitely off her game.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was starting to feel the flutter of nerves deep in her chest. “You’re reading into this too much. I’m just going to help her study, that’s it.”

Caroline shrugged. “Alright, fine. Just tutoring. But don’t act surprised if she tries to flirt in her weird, awkward way.”

Azzi snorted, brushing her hair behind her ear. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” Caroline teased with a wink.

Azzi leaned back, glancing up at the slowly-filling lecture hall. “I’m not trying to get involved in anything messy. I’ll help her study. That’s it. No weirdness, no distractions.”

Caroline raised both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not saying you like her. I’m just saying… keep your eyes open. Paige Bueckers may be all cool and untouchable to the rest of the world, but around you? Something’s shifting.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away, letting the words hang between them as the professor started setting up slides at the front of the room.

She wasn’t crushing on Paige. She didn’t even really know her.

But there was something about the way Paige had looked at her outside, something a little tentative, a little unsteady, that stuck in her head longer than she wanted to admit.

Azzi shook herself out of it and looked down at her notebook again, forcing her mind to focus on the lecture.

Just tutoring. That was all this was.

Right?

—-----------------------

It was 10 minutes to 3, and Paige was sitting stiffly on one of the benches just outside the library steps, her jacket zipped all the way up despite the mild afternoon warmth. She kept pulling at the zipper down halfway, back up, then down again like it was a dial for her anxiety. Her foot bounced restlessly, her fingers twitching every few seconds to check her phone, even though it hadn’t buzzed.

Aubrey was fully stretched out beside her, taking up way more space than necessary like this was a casual trip to the beach instead of her best friend’s slow descent into chaos. One arm was draped over the back of the bench, the other cradling a half-empty iced coffee that had long since lost its chill. She watched Paige out of the corner of her eye with a grin that kept creeping up every time Paige adjusted something for the hundredth time.

“You know,” Aubrey drawled, lifting her cup to her lips, “if I had a dollar for every time you checked your reflection in your phone screen, I’d be rich enough to drop out and live off vibes alone.”

Paige didn’t even look at her. “I was fixing my hair.”

“That the same ‘fix’ you did 3 minutes ago? Or the one right after you dabbed your hoodie with water to flatten that invisible wrinkle?”

Paige groaned and let her head fall back against the bench. “Why are you even here?”

“Entertainment. I live for this.” Aubrey shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “Besides, watching you spiral over a girl you met yesterday is 10 times more fun than whatever I was gonna do with my afternoon.”

Paige turned her head slowly to give her the most deadpan look imaginable.

Aubrey beamed back. “Seriously though, you’re killing me. You’ve checked your lip balm, like, four times. What’s the difference between ‘subtle shimmer’ and ‘barely there glow’? They’re the same.”

“They are not the same,” Paige snapped, immediately regretting how fast she said it.

Aubrey’s laugh rang out loud enough to make a student walking by turn their head. “You hear yourself right now?”

Paige pulled the hood over her head and groaned into it. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You just hate that I’m right.”

There was a moment of silence as Paige exhaled slowly, pulling the hood back off and sitting upright again. Her knee was bouncing now, the nerves nowhere near subtle.

“I just… I don’t know,” she mumbled, eyes flicking toward the library entrance. “She’s really…”

Aubrey perked up. “She’s really what?”

Paige shook her head quickly. “Forget it.”

“Nooo, no, no. Don’t back out now. Say it. I need this.”

Paige sighed and looked out across the quad like the grass was gonna give her strength. Her voice dropped just above a whisper. “She’s really pretty.”

Aubrey clutched her chest like she’d been waiting her whole life to hear it. “There it is!”

Paige frowned, eyes still ahead. “And seems smart. Like, scary smart. But not in a loud way. In a ‘makes you feel dumb without even trying’ kind of way.”

Aubrey raised her brows, clearly loving this. “Damn. You’re gone.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, folding her arms.

“I’m just observing. You’ve had a crush for a solid twenty-four hours and you’re acting like it’s prom night.”

“She’s tutoring me. That’s it.”

“Mhmmmm. You mean she’s ‘tutoring you’ and you’re ‘definitely not falling apart at the seams’ while trying to remember what two plus two is when she looks at you?”

Paige glared. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re in denial.”

“I’m gonna throw your coffee across the quad.”

“I’ll buy another one. Worth it.”

Paige groaned again, running her hand through her hair. “God, what am I even doing? I’m acting like a middle schooler.”

“You’re acting like a college student with a gay panic problem,” Aubrey said with a shrug. “It’s fine. It’s cute. Just maybe stop adjusting your jacket every time someone walks by or they’re gonna think you’re shoplifting nerves.”

Paige looked down at herself and huffed, trying to smooth it down one more time before stopping mid-motion, catching herself. “Damn it.”

“See?” Aubrey grinned, nudging her. “You’re spiraling. It’s kinda adorable.”

Right then, Paige’s phone buzzed. She yanked it out like it was on fire.

2:57pm

Her breath hitched. She shot a glance at the entrance.

A flash of dark curls pulled into a ponytail appeared just inside the glass doors of the library.

“Oh shit,” Paige whispered, standing up too fast. She quickly brushed invisible dust off her sweatpants, glanced down at her sneakers, frowned at a smudge, then looked back up.

Aubrey watched with a lazy smirk. “You good?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Paige muttered. “How do I look?”

“Like someone who’s about to fail basic math but win the gold in gay panic.”

“Okay, seriously. Stop talking.”

“I’m done,” Aubrey said, hands up in mock surrender. “Go learn some equations and maybe flirt like a human person while you’re at it.”

Paige took a deep breath, wiped her hands on her pants, then started walking toward the library steps.

Aubrey called out one last time, “And maybe try not to stare at her!”

Paige didn’t even turn around. She just lifted her hand behind her and gave Aubrey the finger as she reached the door.

Her heart was pounding. Her palms were a little clammy. But she was walking.

Paige let out one last breath.

The second Paige stepped through the library doors, it felt like her shoes were too loud. Like every step echoed through the entire building even though the carpet was doing its best to muffle them. She tugged her hoodie sleeve down over her palm, eyes sweeping over the rows of tables until she found her.

Azzi was near the far corner, by the window. The sunlight filtered through the glass, catching the edge of her curls and lighting up the gold tones like some kinda magic effect from a movie. She had a pencil in hand, lightly tapping the eraser against the page, her other hand flipping through a worn notebook covered in neat little tabs. She looked focused. Comfortable.

Paige was very much neither of those things.

She hovered for a second, literally just stood there, trying to remember how walking worked before finally forcing her legs to move. Her palms were sweaty again. Her backpack felt too heavy. She hoped her hair wasn’t doing anything weird.

Azzi looked up right as Paige reached the table. “Hey,” she said, a casual, soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Paige’s brain glitched for a second. “Hey,” she said, and it came out a little too fast.

Azzi closed the notebook and motioned to the chair across from her. “You’re on time.”

“I’m always on time,” Paige said, slipping into the seat like her limbs were made of static. She regretted the joke immediately. “I mean, usually. Sometimes. Not like always always, but—”

Azzi raised a brow, amused. “You’re good. I’m just saying I expected a minute or two buffer.”

Paige laughed nervously and tugged at the sleeves of her hoodie again. “Yeah, no. I was already out here. Early. Just, you know… prepping.”

Azzi gave her a look like she was trying not to smile. “Prepping to be tutored?”

“Exactly.”

Azzi chuckled under her breath and opened a different notebook, one already half-filled with notes. “Ok. So I looked over the syllabus and the last few slides from class. Want to start with the stuff from earlier in the week?”

“Please,” Paige said, dragging out the word like it physically pained her. “That whole section might as well have been written in some foreign language.”

“Alright,” Azzi said, flipping to the page. “We’re still on systems of equations and matrix transformations. Did you get the basics?”

Paige hesitated. “Define basics.”

Azzi didn’t even blink. “Like… what a matrix is?”

“…Is that the Keanu Reeves one or the number box one?”

Azzi snorted, shaking her head. “Okay, let’s start with the number box one.”

She turned the notebook around and slid it across the table so Paige could see. Her handwriting was crazy clean. Paige immediately noticed how she circled everything in soft, pastel highlighters—blue for definitions, pink for formulas, green for notes. It was weirdly calming to look at.

“So this,” Azzi said, tapping the first example, “is a 2x2 matrix. Two rows, two columns. Easy enough?”

Paige leaned in a little, squinting at the page like it might bite her. “Yeah. I think I remember this part.”

Azzi looked up. “You’re allowed to say you don’t. No judgment.”

“I mean, I kind of remember it. It’s more like it shows up and I recognize the face, but I don’t remember the name.”

Azzi laughed again, light and genuine. “Alright, we’ll reintroduce you.”

She walked Paige through the basics, what each position meant, how they worked when you multiplied them, the reason why flipping them could screw everything up. Paige nodded, trying to focus on the numbers, the shapes, anything that wasn’t Azzi’s voice being low and patient or the way her curls bounced when she looked down to write something.

At some point, Azzi switched to a blank page and turned the notebook so Paige could try a problem herself. She watched closely as Paige worked through it slowly, brow furrowed, tongue slightly poking out the corner of her mouth.

“You’re overthinking it,” Azzi said, voice soft. “Just take it one step at a time.”

Paige huffed and leaned back, pencil pressed between her palms. “One step at a time is how I ended up failing that quiz.”

“True,” Azzi said, grinning. “But now you’ve got me. Upgrades.”

That earned a real smile out of Paige. “Yeah. This is definitely better.”

Azzi looked at her for a second, then tapped the page. “You’re actually not far off. You just missed one sign. Wanna try again?”

Paige nodded, gaze flicking back down to the numbers.

She could do this.

Well… she could try.

And maybe, just maybe if she didn’t totally embarrass herself, there’d be more study sessions like this. Not that she was hoping for anything.

—-----------------------

The soft hum of the library was like a low lullaby, comforting in its quiet, yet full of the sort of focused energy only a place of learning could have. Books, notebooks, and pens were strewn across the table between them, yet all Paige could focus on was Azzi.

Azzi was reading the textbook aloud softly, walking her through another set of equations. Her voice was calm, steady, yet there was an underlying intensity in the way she spoke, like she genuinely wanted Paige to understand. Every now and then, Azzi would pause and ask if Paige was following, looking at her over the top of her glasses, and Paige would just nod though most of the time, her attention wasn’t entirely on the lesson.

She caught herself again, staring. Azzi’s hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few strands framing her face, and those glasses—those damn glasses. Paige had to fight the urge to look away every time Azzi adjusted them, because the way they sat on her face, giving her an effortlessly smart, put-together look, made Paige’s stomach flutter in a way she hadn’t quite figured out.

Azzi wasn’t even trying to impress anyone. She was just sitting there, leaning over the textbook, completely engrossed in helping Paige. Her calm demeanor was almost too much for Paige to handle sometimes like the sort of quiet confidence that was magnetic.

She caught herself again, looking at Azzi’s profile as she read. The way her lips moved as she pronounced the words, her fingers subtly tapping on the page as she went through the steps in the problem.

“Paige?” Azzi asked, her voice snapping Paige out of her daze. “You still with me?”

Paige blinked and tried to clear the fog in her head. “Yeah, sorry,” she said, focusing on the math in front of her. She quickly scribbled a few numbers down, even though she was far more focused on the way Azzi was looking at her now, brows furrowed in concern.

“I said we can move on to the next problem if you’re ready,” Azzi added, voice softer now.

“Yeah, I think I got this one,” Paige lied, her words more rushed than she intended. She was trying her best to concentrate, but the math seemed to fade into the background as she found herself distracted by the soft rhythm of Azzi’s voice and the quiet rustling of pages. The way Azzi’s fingers traced the lines of the book as she found the right spot. The way her eyes would flicker from the textbook to Paige every few seconds to check in on her, making sure she was following along. It was like everything Azzi did was just too perfect, too natural, and it made Paige feel something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Do you want me to slow down? I know this part can be tricky,” Azzi offered, her eyes searching Paige’s face for any sign of confusion.

But the truth was, Paige wasn’t confused about the math at all, she was distracted by Azzi’s presence, her calmness, the way her voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She gave a small shake of her head. “No, I’m good,” she said, though her voice came out quieter than she intended.

Azzi nodded, returning her attention to the problem at hand. She explained the next step slowly and clearly, but Paige’s mind wasn’t really processing it. Instead, she was watching the way Azzi’s lips moved as she spoke, the way her fingers tapped the paper, the way her glasses slightly slid down her nose as she read the equations. Paige couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly cool Azzi seemed. She looked so unbothered, so calm in her own skin, and it was something Paige both envied and admired.

The longer they sat there, the more the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken things. Paige could almost feel the weight of the silence, but not in an uncomfortable way, in a way that made her want to lean forward, ask Azzi about her life, about everything that made her the person she was. And yet, every time she tried to get her words together, her thoughts scattered like smoke in the wind.

“Paige, are you sure you’re following?” Azzi asked again, this time with a small frown forming between her brows. She wasn’t accusing or frustrated; just genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paige quickly said, shaking her head as if to clear the distraction. She forced herself to focus, finally pulling her eyes from Azzi’s face and onto the equation in front of her. “I think I get it now. Thanks for being patient.”

Azzi smiled softly. “No problem. You’re doing great, really. You just need to take a breath every now and then. You’re trying too hard.”

Paige bit her lip, trying to suppress the chuckle that almost slipped out. “Trying too hard?” she repeated, her voice teasing. “I’m not trying hard enough for this?”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, her eyes softening as she leaned back in her chair. “Well, maybe you should try a little harder. You’re already getting the hang of it.”

Paige felt a little flame of pride in her chest at Azzi’s praise, but at the same time, she couldn’t shake the sensation of being drawn to the way Azzi sat there, calm and composed, like she had everything under control. And Paige was… well, a mess of emotions she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

She forced herself to focus back on the book, willing her mind to follow the equations instead of her thoughts, but it was getting harder with each passing second. She glanced back at Azzi, who was quietly writing out steps on the page. Azzi’s head was tilted slightly, a sign of concentration. And it hit Paige then how deeply she was starting to care for this girl. How much more than just math sessions she was starting to crave.

“Alright, I think I’ve got it,” Paige said finally, trying to focus back in, her voice steadying now.

Azzi looked up and nodded, smiling again. “Good. See? You’re getting it.” She paused, and for a moment, Paige thought she saw a flicker of something in Azzi’s eyes—something warm and unspoken. But then it was gone, hidden behind the coolness of her usual composure.

Paige nodded, forcing her eyes to stay on the page, though her thoughts felt like they were running a mile a minute.

“Alright, let’s take a short break before we do the next one,” Azzi suggested. “You’ve been at this for a while now.”

Paige didn’t protest. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and let herself relax for a moment, her gaze slipping to Azzi again, just long enough to catch her watching her with that same quiet focus. That same soft intensity that made Paige’s heart flutter in a way she wasn’t used to.

Paige didn’t mean to do it—didn’t mean to let the curiosity slip out, but the words came before she could stop them.

“So, uh, what made you agree to tutor me?” Paige asked, her voice softer than usual, as if she was treading into unfamiliar territory. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but something about Azzi seemed different. Quiet. Like there was so much more beneath the surface.

Azzi paused, her hand hovering over her bag, and then looked up at Paige. For a brief moment, there was that same familiar flicker of something behind her calm demeanor, but Azzi quickly masked it with her usual composed smile.

“I dunno,” Azzi said after a beat, voice casual, “You seemed like you needed help. And I guess I’m a sucker for helping people out, especially if they’re willing to put in the work. You seem like you actually care about getting it right.”

Paige nodded, appreciating the honesty in Azzi’s voice. “I do. I just… get distracted sometimes.” She chuckled softly, but the sound felt more nervous than anything.

Azzi smiled again, a little warmer this time. “Yeah, I noticed.” She shrugged slightly, picking up her notebook and tucking it into her bag. “I like helping people. I used to tutor a lot when I was in high school. It just feels good, you know?”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “What else? You seem like you’ve got other stuff going on. What do you do for fun when you’re not helping people like me?”

Azzi hesitated for a moment, clearly considering whether to answer. Paige almost regretted asking, but then Azzi sighed, almost reluctantly.

“Well, it’s a bit of a random fact, but I used to play basketball. Like, competitively.” Azzi glanced up at Paige, her eyes not quite meeting hers. She continued quietly, “I stopped playing a few years ago. Tore my ACL in a game, but that’s not the reason I quit. I just… lost the love for it, I guess.”

Paige blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected that. Azzi, with her calm confidence, so different from the athletes Paige was used to, didn't seem like the type who would’ve played a sport like basketball. “You played? For how long?”

Azzi shrugged, her fingers tapping against the desk idly. “Since I was a kid. But by the time I hit high school, I wasn’t really feeling it anymore. It wasn’t about the injury. I could’ve come back after the rehab. But after a while, I just realized it wasn’t my thing anymore.” She paused for a moment, eyes flickering to Paige, then away again. “I guess I was just… over it.”

Paige couldn’t help the slight frown that tugged at her lips. She knew how much basketball meant to her. The idea of walking away from it, losing that love—she couldn’t imagine it. “So, what did you end up doing after that?”

Azzi gave a small smile, almost wistful. “I got more into school. Focused on things I could control, you know? It’s where I found my rhythm again.”

It was almost like she was shutting that chapter down, not wanting to revisit it. But Paige didn’t press further. It was clear that basketball, once a major part of Azzi’s life, had faded into something she didn’t want to talk about too much.

“Sounds like you figured things out,” Paige said softly, leaning back in her chair, watching Azzi carefully. “I respect that.”

Azzi finally met Paige’s gaze, her expression softening a little. “Yeah, well… I guess everyone finds their own way eventually.” She gave a slight shrug, as if brushing the conversation aside, before turning her focus back to the textbook in front of them. “We should get back to it. I think we’re almost done with this chapter.”

Paige hesitated for a moment, a thousand questions swirling in her head, but she could tell Azzi wasn’t quite ready to share more. And for now, Paige was okay with that. She’d already learned something important—that Azzi was much more than the quiet, composed classmate/tutor sitting across from her. There was depth to her, layers that Paige would have to be patient to peel back.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Paige finally said, refocusing on the math in front of her. “Let’s finish this up.”

As Azzi started explaining the next set of equations, Paige felt a little more settled. They were getting somewhere, and for the first time, Paige wasn’t just focused on the math in front of her. She was focused on Azzi, her presence, the way she spoke, the little things she hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just about the lesson anymore. It was about being with Azzi, understanding her in ways that went far beyond equations and textbooks.

—-----------------------

They finished the last practice question with a shared sigh of relief. Azzi leaned over, checking Paige’s final answer with a quick glance, then nodded in approval.

“Yep. You got it.”

Paige blinked down at the scribbled page. “Wait… I did?”

Azzi chuckled, a genuine laugh that made Paige’s chest feel weirdly warm. “You’re improving. You just need to stop second-guessing yourself.”

“Easier said than done,” Paige muttered, setting her pencil down and rubbing at her temple. “But I’ll take the dub.”

Azzi started to neatly organize  everything back into her bag. “I think that’s enough math for one day.”

“Agreed,” Paige said, stretching again. “My brain’s officially fried.”

Just as she grabbed her water bottle and leaned back in her chair, a voice cut through the quiet hum of the library.

“Yo, Azzi.”

Paige looked up and instantly regretted it.

Strutting toward them like he owned the place was Jace McCallister—tight end on the UConn football team, cocky smirk permanently etched on his face, confidence dripping off him like cologne. Paige knew him. Everyone did. He was loud, flashy, and flirted like it was a full-time job. The kind of guy who wore his jersey to class and thought everyone should thank him for showing up.

Azzi glanced up, face unreadable. “Hey.”

Jace leaned casually against the edge of their table, not even glancing at Paige. “Just wondering when our next session is? You free this week?”

Paige’s brows knit. Our session?

Azzi nodded politely, unfazed. “Yeah, I think tomorrow. Same time?”

“Perfect.” He flashed her a grin. “Can’t say no to learning from the smartest girl on campus.”

Azzi’s lips pulled into a tight, polite smile. “Well thank you.”

Jace chuckled and finally glanced at Paige, as if just noticing her. “Oh. Hey, Bueckers.”

“McCallister,” Paige replied, voice flat.

He raised a brow. “Didn’t know you needed a tutor too.”

“She doesn’t,” Azzi cut in smoothly before Paige could answer, her tone calm but firm. “We’re just going over some extra stuff.”

Paige didn’t say anything. She just watched the exchange, something unsettled building in her chest. She knew Jace. Knew his reputation. And the way he was looking at Azzi now, like she was the next thing to win over, made her stomach twist.

She shouldn’t care. It was just tutoring.

But still.

Jace winked, then tapped the table. “Catch you later, Azzi.” He turned and walked off, not a single ounce of subtlety in his swagger.

Paige stared after him, jaw tight.

“Ugh,” she muttered under her breath.

Azzi looked over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Paige said quickly, shaking her head. “Just… don’t like that guy.”

Azzi tilted her head, curious. “Why not?”

“He’s a walking ego,” Paige said, grabbing her stuff. “And he’s a player. Like, in every sense of the word. He’s not exactly subtle about who he hits on.”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. Just zipped her bag and stood up. “He’s harmless.”

“Sure,” Paige muttered, a little sharper than she meant to. “Just be careful, okay?”

Azzi blinked, surprised at the tone. Paige ran a hand through her hair, sighing.

“Sorry. That came out weird. Just forget it.”

Azzi gave her a long look, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

They walked in silence toward the library exit, Paige internally screaming at herself. ‘It’s not that deep. She’s not yours. You’re literally just studying.’ But no matter how many times she told herself that, her clenched jaw said otherwise.

As they stepped out into the afternoon sun, a small group of girls standing near the library steps caught sight of them—specifically Paige.

“Oh my god, that’s Paige Bueckers,” one of them whispered, eyes wide.

Before she could even react, one of them stepped forward, all smiles and nervous energy. “Hi! Sorry, we don’t wanna bother you, but could we maybe get a picture? We’re huge fans.”

Paige blinked, caught off guard but immediately smiled.

“Of course,” she said, already stepping toward them, voice warm and friendly. “What’s your name?”

One of them nearly melted. “I’m Sam. This is Ava and Kayla.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Paige said, handing her phone to one of them after snapping a few selfies together. “You guys coming to the game on friday?”

“Yeah! We can’t wait! Good luck!”

“Thanks,” Paige said sincerely. “I’ll try to put on a show for y’all.”

They grinned, waved, and scurried off giggling, still whispering to each other as they walked away.

Azzi stood a few feet back, arms loosely crossed. Watching.

Paige turned toward her and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Azzi shook her head slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I just… didn’t expect that.”

“Didn’t expect what?”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “You being… like that. With people.”

Paige tilted her head. “Like what?”

Azzi gave her a soft shrug. “I guess I thought you’d be more… I dunno. Big-time athlete energy. Standoffish. You’re not.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, amused. “So you thought I’d be a bitch?”

Azzi smiled. “I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it, though.”

Azzi’s smile widened just slightly. “Maybe. A little.”

Paige laughed. “Damn. That’s cold.”

Azzi’s gaze lingered on her, more thoughtful now. “You surprise me. In a good way.”

And Paige couldn’t help the flutter in her chest as they started walking again, side by side.

They walked in silence again for a bit, the quiet not uncomfortable—just filled with a weird hum Paige couldn’t place. It clung to her like static, buzzing beneath her skin every time she glanced over and saw Azzi walking next to her, face calm, unreadable as always.

When they reached the small fork in the path outside the library, Azzi finally slowed to a stop.

“This is me,” she said, shifting her bag on her shoulder.

Paige stopped too, a little slower. “Right. Yeah.”

Azzi looked up at her. “That wasn’t too painful, was it?”

Paige snorted. “I mean… there were a few moments where I considered setting my notebook on fire.”

Azzi smiled. “But you didn’t.”

“Thanks to you.”

There was a beat of quiet. Paige swallowed and scratched at the back of her neck. “So… when do you wanna do this again?”

Azzi tilted her head, thinking. “I’m free Thursday evening. If that works?”

Paige nodded too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

Azzi gave her a small nod. “Okay. I’ll text you.”

“Cool,” Paige said, trying not to sound weird. “Coolcoolcool.”

Azzi’s brows lifted just slightly. Paige looked down at the ground, internally facepalming.

Azzi smiled again, more to herself this time. “You’re kind of strange.”

Paige looked up. “Rude.”

Azzi started walking backwards slowly, smirking. “But I mean that in a good way.”

Paige watched her go, lips twitching. “Sure you do.”

Azzi turned around and gave a small wave over her shoulder. “Later, Paige.”

Paige stood there for a second too long after she was gone, staring at nothing in particular. Then she finally exhaled, rubbed her hands over her face, and mumbled under her breath.

“Fuck.”

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

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 12

Kinktober Masterlist vi coactus - "under duress" Simon "Ghost" Riley/TF141 x f!reader Kinks > SHAME, forced orgasms, bimbo/dumbification Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

“Under duress” — A quick exfil means limited seats in the TAC-V. Simon lets you sit on his lap, but it’s a really bumpy road. When you realize that his thigh is the perfect shape, and that it’s pressing against your most sensitive spot, there’s not much you can do to stop yourself. Might as well enjoy the ride.

Warnings: SHAME! EMBARRASSMENT! SHAME!!!!, mean teasing, slut shaming, it's not non-con but no one asks for permission; this truck is not a safe-space.

No one said a word. Once the noise of the petrol explosion and the machine guns faded from your ears, all that you could hear was the rattle and rumble of the engine of the TAC-V. The mission had been successful, but barely. You’d secured the package, but it had cost you the chopper exfil that you’d been desperately counting on. What was a quick twenty minute flight was now an eight hour drive through the bumpiest mountain road known to man, and you were sitting on Ghost’s lap for the entire trip.

The TAC-V sat two in front and three in back, so with Price and Gaz up in the driver and passenger seats, you should have been able to fit in the rear with Ghost and Soap. But, the care package was taking up your spot. As the smallest member of the squad, you were relegated to lap-status, much to your audible dismay. 

“Shut your mouth and get in the truck, Corporal!” Price had shouted, spraying cover fire over the hood of the vehicle. 

So, that’s where you found yourself. Mouth shut. Seat secured. 

There was only one problem. Ghost’s thighs were enormous. He never skipped leg day, and when you tried to sit against his hips to distribute your weight, his gear vest was in the way. So, he’d shifted you over onto his right thigh, forcing you to straddle him, and now you could feel… everything. 

Every time Price hit another bump – which was once or twice every few seconds at this point – Ghost’s rock-solid quad muscle would jerk up into your pussy, shaking your most sensitive bits. It was savage, but it was making your body respond in ways that you did not appreciate. And now, you were in the middle of fighting off the most embarrassing orgasm of your life. 

You could feel how wet you were through the canvas pants you were wearing. Your panties were soaked in the first hundred kilometers, so they were useless against your slick pleasure. Soon, Ghost would be able to feel the warm stain of your cunt imprinting itself on his own trousers, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had tried to shift away in the beginning of this trip, rotating your hips back and forth, trying to search for a less-shameful angle, but he had grumbled, 

“Sit still, love. Tha’s enough squirmin’ around.”

His hand had reached out to secure your hip, pulling you down into a deep seated position, crushing your soft lips against his thigh and spreading them apart unknowingly.

You’d managed to suffer in pure silence so far, but that was becoming more and more challenging as the ride got rougher. The desire to roll your hips against him to take the edge off of the blinding friction you were experiencing was mind-numbing. You were sweaty from battle and now you were sweaty from nerve-racking lust, and there was no escape. You still had hundreds of kilometers to go, and you didn’t know what you were going to do.

Your body knew exactly what it was going to do, though. It was going to come whether you wanted to or not. 

“You alright, lass? Car sick?” Johnny asked, peering over at you as your head rested against the driver’s headrest in front of you. 

“Need a break, babes?” Gaz turned in his seat to check on you. 

“No can do,” Price shook his head and peered at you in the rearview mirror, “Still in the red zone. We can’t stop here and expect to make it out without drawing unwanted attention.” 

“Here,” Gaz reached back and unclipped your vest, “At least take this off so you can catch a breath.”

You let him slip the vest off your shoulders and stuff it in the footwell on the floor in front of him. He passed you his canteen, and you tried to open it with trembling hands. 

“She’s not fuckin’ sick,” Ghost hissed, grabbing the canteen and opening it for you before lifting it to your lips so you could drink.

The rest of the truck-full of men waited to hear the rest of Ghost’s explanation. You felt heat rush to your cheeks in painful humiliation as you waited for him to reveal your predicament. You knew, now, that he could feel you. You had thought you’d gotten away with it so far, but it was too obvious. He could feel the wet, sticky patch on his quad growing with every tremulous shake of the truck, and he knew what was happening to you. You could almost hear the jeering smile on his lips when he told them, 

“She needs a quick wank, innit that right, Corporal?”

You tried to keep your eyes trained on the floor, but you had to see what their faces looked like. You lifted your gaze to meet Price’s bright blue eyes in the mirror, the evidence of Ghost’s truth written all over your expression. 

The silence was broken up only by the road noise. No one spoke and no one breathed. You looked to Gaz and saw his mouth open in shock, curling at the edge of his lip with a boyish glee. Soap’s brow was furrowed in disbelief,

“S’that true, bonnie?”

Ghost didn’t even give you a chance to answer him. He shoved his gloved hand under your crotch as if to feel the evidence on his hand that he was sensing on his thigh, chuckling at your sorry predicament,

“Bumpy road, been wet and warm for almost an hour. Gonna have myself a pretty little pussy stain by the time we get to base. And if I give her somethin’ to work against…”

Your lieutenant curled his fingers that he had shoved underneath you, finding your swollen clit with a surprising ease. As if he’d pushed a button, you let out an obvious moan. You cut it short, unable to hold it back from crawling out of your throat, but the damage was done. 

Silence again, and then Gaz’s low voice,

“Holy fuck.”

Ghost removed his hand and settled back in his seat, keeping his grip on your hips with a steadfast strength. He was looking at you in the mirror along with Price who kept glancing up from the road. The message in Ghost’s eyes was a clear challenge; he wasn’t going to give you any more relief, and if you wanted to come on him, you’d need to figure it out yourself. 

The urge to hump his solid thigh was overwhelming, and now that the cat was out of the bag, you thought it wouldn’t be possible for you to be any more ashamed, so you started to hump your pussy against him, ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly… but, Ghost couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“See? Needy thing’s grindin’ on me. Can’t help yourself, huh, love?”

You shook your head, looking to Price for some sort of rescue, but what could he do? Your captain was driving as fast as he could out of enemy territory, and you were stuck in place, tumbling into an orgasm and suffering the pain of embarrassment in front of your whole squad. 

You moaned, trying to hold your breath, but your whole body shook as you came. Your hole was so wet and burning hot, and you could feel yourself gush as you clenched your muscles around nothing, wishing you had something… someone… inside of you. 

“There she is… good girl,” Ghost teased you, rubbing your back as you shuddered above him, rolling in your high. 

“Did she just…” Soap gaped.

You looked up at him, and even though your eyes begged for pity, you received none from him. He met you with a filthy grin,

“Come over here with me, lass. I’ll give you somethin’ to fuckin’ sit on.”

He reached for your arm, attempting to drag you over the care package, but Ghost jerked his hand away and wrapped his arm around your belly, forcing you to lean back against him, the tools in his vest digging into your flesh,

“She’s fine where she is, Sergeant. Aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

You felt hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes, and you squeezed them shut, whispering,

“I’m s-sorry…”

“Shh, love. Nothin’ to be sorry for. Can’t be fuckin’ helped. C’mon,” he snarled in your ear, his mask smelling like his menthols and sweat, “Beg me to help you. Beg for my fingers, princess.”

“Simon,” Price warned, watching your degradation unfold behind him. 

“Eyes on the bloody road, Cap,” Ghost chuckled, “Bumpy enough back here as it is.”

Gaz hadn’t stopped staring, and you watched in horror as he palmed his hard length over the rough denim of his jeans. 

You felt yourself building to another crescendo, the waves of your first orgasm swelling to threaten a second, easier now that you’d let down so much silky come, allowing your pussy to slip that much faster over Simon’s huge thigh. 

“Beg me, baby,” Ghost growled in your ear, “Beg me to fuckin’ touch you right here where they can all watch me make you come.”

“No…” You gasped, “I can’t… I’m not…”

“Not what? Not a dumb little slut? Oh, sweetheart. Yes, you are. You’re so fuckin’ wet it looks like you pissed yourself. I bet those pretty knickers are fuckin’ ruined, aren’t they?”

He grabbed you by the chin roughly, startling you, making your core clench tight, turned on by his cruel aggression as he almost shouted in your ear, 

“Aren’t they? Tell the fuckin’ truth. Tell it to him,” Ghost’s eyes turned toward the rear view mirror and you looked up at Price, pleading with him for forgiveness in your tone. You mumbled, 

“My panties… are…”

“He can’t hear you, baby.” Ghost held your face, forcing you to look at his captain in the eyes through the reflective glass.

“My panties are ruined, sir.”

“Is that so, Corporal?” Price asked in a low droll, and you saw him readjust himself in his pants before putting both fists back on the steering wheel, gripping it so tight that his knuckles turned as white as bone. 

“Better see for myself, yeah?” Ghost chuckled, unbuttoning your trousers and yanking down the fly. 

He reached inside and grabbed the fabric roughly in his hand and, with a strength that shocked you, he tore them right off of your body with a loud rip, breaking the elastic at the seam and slipping the scrap from under your lips and ass. He held it up for the entire truck to see, showing them how the gray cotton was stained dark from your wetness, how they gleamed in the light of the setting desert sun. 

Soap reached out and snatched them from his hand, and Ghost laughed out loud, watching Johnny shove them to his nose and moan out a breath of satisfaction. 

“Go on, then,” Ghost turned his attention back on you, “Beg me for it. I wanna hear you say please, sir. You got that, Corporal?”

He snaked his hand back down the front of your belly, barely touching your furry mons, resting his gloved finger just above the hood of your clit, touching you with a light, teasing pressure. 

You could feel the rough canvas against your soft pussy now, and the seam was giving you something to grind against, but it was nothing like the feel of a strong finger. You chased another orgasm, but it was just out of reach. You were humping him lewdly, at this point, rocking your hips back and forth with abandon, unable to stop yourself from chasing your second, hard burst of pleasure. 

You bit your lip, struggling with all your might, but you were failing to surge over that exaltant peak. You needed his help, but you didn’t want to beg for it. You couldn’t. You were too dismayed at your fallen state.

You looked at Gaz, hoping he could talk some sense into your lieutenant, but he was jerking himself off with a hand down his pants, watching you through hooded eyes. You turned your gaze to Soap who had your ripped panties in his hand and was using them to wet his own heavy cock, smearing your juices all over his ruddy head. 

Ghost’s grip tightened on your jaw, and he turned your head toward his passenger window, stopping you from looking at the other men, 

“They can’t help you, love. Just me. Now, use your fuckin’ words.”

“Please… touch me,” your voice was barely a whisper.

“Please, what?” He bit back.

“Please touch me, sir,” you whined, sick to your stomach at your own weakness.

“Tha’s a good girl,” he smiled.

He moved his fingers lower, shoving two of them between your lips, applying firm pressure to your clit. He didn’t even need to rub you. Your pussy started to come the moment it had his relief, and you cried out like a paid whore, keening into the hollow cab, rolling your hips against him, chasing your crashing orgasm. 

Then, he started to move his hand frantically, rubbing you back and forth, dragging out your bursting come even further than you thought was possible, turning one orgasm into two, back to back, a painful overstimulation, enough to make your body convulse from his effort.

“No, no… oh, fuck!” You screamed, trying to close your legs but his thigh was in the way, and all you could do was ride him. 

“Yeah, tha’s it, love. Give it to me. Come on me, you filthy fuckin’ slag. Let ‘em hear what I’m doin’ to this needy cunt.”

“Mmngh! Please… Ghost, please, oh, fuck…” 

“Listen to that sound, lads,” he grunted, commenting on the wet, milking noises your cunt was making under his hand, “Runnin’ like a hot tap.”

“Hurry up, LT,” Soap barked, pulling on his cock with your panties wrapped around the hard shaft like he was furious with it, “I’ll only be so patient.”

Ghost shook his head,

“Tsch, tsch, alright, Johnny. If you insist. C’mon, baby. Keep those legs spread f’me like a good girl, yeah?”

You felt him ruck down the back of your pants and shove them onto your legs, exposing your ass to the whole truck. Then, you felt the tell-tale drag of his cockhead over your folds, and before you could even think to protest, he was shoving himself inside of you, slipping through your slick without much resistance, your wet come helping guide his length all the way up to your womb. 

Once he had whet his prick down to its root in you, he used both hands to lift your hips and slam them back down, using you like a cocksleeve. He was so thick, but your body was primed and ready to take him, and you found yourself without words, only able to moan and whine as he filled you up. 

Gaz reached over, leaning out of his seat to grab your face, turning you towards him so that he could kiss you. You couldn’t even kiss him back, you were so mindless, and he spent most of his time licking your lips and sucking on your tongue as you whimpered for Ghost’s heavy dick, your body jerking up and down as he slammed you onto his steel-hard length repeatedly. 

“Does he feel good, babes?” Gaz asked you, sticking two of his fingers into your mouth and down your throat, making you choke on him until you started to instinctively suck and swallow against him, “Tha’s it. Pretty thing just needed somethin’ in her mouth, didn’t she?”

Every time you choked from Gaz’s hand in your throat, you clenched around Ghost’s cock, and he begged his sergeant for more,

“Choke her again, Garrick. Makes her so fuckin’ tight.”

Gaz laughed, full of mischief, and reached up with his other hand to pinch your nose. Then, inside of your mouth, he pressed his fingers in a downward motion over and over and over, making it feel like he was fucking your face with a throbbing dick, too big for you to breathe. You gagged, and then, when you tried to take a breath, you gagged again, your whole body spasming, fighting for air. You could only suck in short breaths when you opened your mouth wider, and Gaz held the relief of those moments from you for as long as he could. 

Finally, Ghost wrapped both of his hands around your torso and ripped you away from Gaz’s cruel hand, laying you against his chest and fucking his cock up into you from below, creating loud, pornographic slapping sounds that filled the truck. 

“Fuck!” Ghost groaned, “Gonna make me come, love. Say please, baby. C’mon. You can do it. Say it.”

“Dinnae think she’s still with us, LT. Fucked her brains right out of her head,” Soap chuckled. 

“She can do it,” Ghost insisted, “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re not gettin’ my come until I hear you beg for it.”

 You looked at his eyes in the mirror again, not recognizing yourself in such a mindless state of indulgence, drowning in pleasure and losing yourself to it. He was looking at you with such an intensity, you wanted to please him. You wanted to follow his orders. You wanted to show him that you could be such a good girl. 

“P-please…. Please! Ungh, please, sir… Give me your come. Please, sir… I need it. I need it. I need… mmnff-fuck!”

You felt his cock swelling, throbbing, and bursting with hot, sticky ropes of his cream, buried deep inside of your walls, coating the head of your womb as your pussy squeezed out another orgasm, milking him like a hungry mouth. He pulled out a bit only to ram himself back in, deeper this time, stretching to touch the end of your sheath, aching to plant his seed. 

“Fuck, finally,” Soap grunted, reaching over the crate with both hands this time to drag you from Ghost’s lap, “Couldnae wait much longer, LT.”

You felt Ghost’s cock slip from you, spilling his come down your leg, your pants sliding down to your boots as Soap dragged you into his lap.

“There she is,” Gaz smiled, returning to his efforts and shoving his fingers back down your throat, this time shifting them back and forth, massaging your tongue as he fucked you on his hand, “Suck them for me, baby. It’ll be my turn, soon.”

“Better enjoy the easy ride while you can, Corporal,” Price sneered, “You’ve got PT in my quarters as soon as we get back to base. Might take all night.”

As Johnny’s fat dick squeezed into your come-soaked pussy, you wanted to protest. You wanted to make some snide comment back, but your usual biting retorts were unavailable at the moment. You really were blissed out of your mind, and the only thing you could do was fuck and suck like the dumb little slut that you were.

If anyone comments on this OBVIOUSLY TAGGED shame kink fic that it was "too embarrassing to read!! huehueuhe"/"i tried but i couldnt do it. too cringe!", I'm gonna come to your house and shit in your shoes, you coward. Get the fuck off my page.

[angstywaifu]

Treating You Right - Aaric Graycastle

Summary: You and Aaric grew up together, but you never got along. But when you both end up as cadet's in the riders quadrant, he changes. His behaviour for all those years not entirely being how he wanted to treat you. A/N: I had so many requests for another Aaric fic so I kind of just compiled them all into one. So if you sent a request for Aaric, this is for you! Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. Fingering. Unprotected Sex. Use of pet names (sweetheart). Rivals/enemies to lovers. Masterlist | Links

“You’re staring again.” Sloane teases, pulling me from my thoughts or lack there of.

Across the room, Aaric is in the middle of a challenge with another cadet from Third Wing. And as per usual he’s making it look easy. Barely breaking a sweat as he does it. Like he always has. I’m one of the few that knows who he actually is. Cam Tauri. The son of the King. A son I grew up around and never got along with well. He always acted so up himself. Living up to his title. But since being here, he’d changed. Or maybe he was putting on a front all those years.

“I am not.” I snap back as she laughs at me.

”You were. Like you always do. Starting to think you don’t hate him as much as you let on.” She teases again with a knowing smile.

I roll my eyes at her and shake my head. ”Trust me, I hate him.”

”Then why are you staring at him?” She states with a cocked brow. Gods she was too good at reading me. I’d only known her a few weeks and I felt like she knew me better than anyone.

”Figuring out the best way to take him out.” I point out.

She rolls her eyes at me. “I’d believe you if it weren’t for the fact were on the same squad.”

”Maybe I’m waiting till we graduate to take my shot.” I fire back.

She wasn’t wrong though. I had been staring. And not for the reasons I was telling her. If it wasn’t for the fact we disliked each other, I’d be all over Aaric. And I hated that I wanted that. Hated how I’d started noticing him more since we had been here. And being in the same squad, there was no escaping him for the next three years if we both survived that long.

I’m grateful the library is rarely used by other cadets in this Quadrant. It was the one place I could find alone time with all us first years crammed into the same dorm. The one place I could let my guard down and relax. Or so I thought. The sound of the door opening pulls me from the book I’d been reading for Kaori’s class on the different dragons. Footsteps sound around the empty library as whoever it is makes their way further and further into the space. I prayed they were heading towards another spot in the library. But it seems luck was not on my side as the familiar face or Aaric rounds the corner of one of the shelves.

”Oh great, it’s you.” I say with an eye roll, turning my attention back to my book. “To what do I owe this pleasure.”

”Ouch. And here I was coming to you in peace.” He states as he walks over to me and sits down in the chair across the table from me.

”I didn’t say you could sit your highness.” I throw at him, watching as he stiffens at my words before relaxing again. We both know we’re alone, no one nearby to hear me.

”Well someone’s cranky.” He notes, leaning back in the chair as he clasps his hands and rests them in his lap.

I slam my book shut and look up at him. “And someone needs to shut up. I’m trying to study. So unless you need something, you can go.”

”I’m here to apologise.” He tells me as his green eyes pierce into me.

I cock my eyebrow at him. “You? Apologise? Didn’t think you were capable of that.”

He sighs heavily as he turns his head. “Well I am. I had to keep appearances up for my father. Treat certain people a certain way. But I don’t have to anymore. And I wanted to say I’m sorry for how I treated you before we got here. That I wish I could have treated you how I wanted to. Be your friend.”

I scoff and shake my head at him as he turns to look at me again. “Please, don’t pretend you give a shit about me.”

”I’m not pretending. Not anymore.” He tells me as he leans forward, resting his arms on the table.

I just stare at him, unsure how to take what he’s telling me. Part of my wants to grab my things and storm off, not believe a single word he says. But part of me wants to listen to him. Believe what he’s saying. Because part of me knows it’s true. He was never like his older brothers Alic and Halden. They were cruel and harsh, always bullying me. Something Aaric never did. He would say things to me, but nothing like his brothers. In his own way he was being kinder, but doing enough to not arouse suspicion. My family was nothing to his. My father might have been part of his father’s court, but we were nothing to him. And we’re treated as such.

I grab my book, shoving it into my pack before standing up. “Sorry Cam, but I’m going to need more than some apology to prove what you’re saying to me.” I go to walk past him, heading towards the door to take me back into the Quadrant, but he moves quickly, stepping into my path.

”What do you need then?” He asks me sternly as he looks down at me.

”Prove to me you actually didn’t want to treat me that way. Treat me like you actually want to be my friend or ask for whatever it is you want from me.” I tell him.

He furrows his brow. “Why would I want something from you?”

”Because I’m not sure why you have the sudden interest in being my friend after all these years if you don’t have some ulterior motive. Your family hasn’t given me a lot of reasons to want to trust you.” I point out, Aaric nodding his head slowly. “So prove this is not some ploy on your fathers behalf.”

Over the next few weeks Aaric does start to prove it. Not once does he treat me like he use to. Hell, we even manage to have pleasant conversations which come easier to me than I expect, which earns me a few curious looks from Sloane as she takes in mine and Aaric’s new found friendship, if that's what you could even call it. But it doesn’t last long when we’re thrown into chaos. Not even two weeks after we bond our dragons we’re thrown into being part of the rebellion. All of our squad ending up in Aretia with other fliers willing to defend Navarre from the real threat of Venin and Wyvern. And now we all had to rethink everything we’d ever been taught, meaning all of us we’re drained at the end of the day with adjusting to our new routine and relearning everything. Meaning our squad had barely had time to have some down time.

A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. Strange. We’d all gone to bed an hour ago, who the hell is knocking at my door at this hour? I chuck the pack I’d taken on our bonding exercise with the Fliers under my bed and walk over to the door. I pull it open, revealing Aaric whose hand is raised again to knock on my door. His bright green eyes locking onto mine immediately. I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong when he rushes forward, his hands grasping my face as he crushes his lips against mine.

I instantly melt into the kiss, hands grasping the front of his shirt as I pull him into my room as he kicks the door closed behind him. His kiss consumes me, my whole body wanting more of him, giving into the thoughts I’d had over the last few months. His hands leave my face, skimming down my body as they glide over the material of the silk night dress I’d changed into for sleep. His fingers play with the edge where it ends at the top of my thighs before grasping my thighs as he picks me up with ease before turning around. He sits on the edge of the bed, settling me in his lap as my legs settle either side of his.

I break the kiss, giggling as Aaric tries to chase my lips and growls in annoyance. He goes to object but stops when he sees me grasp the edge of the nightdress, his green eyes following my movements as I pull the material up my body, leaving me in just the matching panties as I sit in his lap. I turn my eyes back to him as I discard the material to the floor, my cheeks flushing as he just stares at me in awe. On reflex I go to cover myself up, but his hands reach out and grasp my wrists.

”Don’t.” He tells me, his voice rough and commanding. “Don’t ever cover yourself up.”

I just look at him and nod as I lower my arms, resting my hands on his shoulders as his hands caress my skin, leaving goose bumps where he’s been. I lower my hand to the edge of his shirt, Aaric leaning back to give me room to remove the material from him. I’d seen Aaric shirtless before thanks to challenges and various training sessions in the gym. But I can’t help but stare at the toned and defined muscles of his torso as I trace over them with my fingers, causing him to shiver at my touch.

My eyes meet his again, catching the slight smirk on his lips before he kisses me again. It starts off softer, slower. Almost as if he wants to savour the moment. But it doesn’t take long for it to build in intensity. A moan escaping my lips as his hands grips my hips and pull me down on him is his undoing. His fingers digging into my hip as he tilts his head and deepens this kiss as my hand rests against his neck, the other tangling in his hair. My hips rocking back and forth against his, causing his fingers to grip on to my hips tighter, to the point I’m sure they’re going to be bruised tomorrow. I yelp as he flips us over, my back hitting the bed as he looms over me before gripping the matching panties to my night dress and pulling them down my legs.

”Careful Prince, wouldn’t want someone to think you’re impatient.” I tease as he tosses them to the floor.

His eyes raise to mine as he smirks at me while pulling down the linen pants he wears before getting onto the bed, causing me to scramble back to make room for him as I lean back on my arms. He kneels between my legs, shoving them open as he settles between them.

”Trust me sweetheart, I’ve been patient.” He tells me as he looks down at me.

I open my mouth to reply, but a moan comes out instead as he glides his fingers between my legs before toying with my clit. Fucking hell.

”Seems I’m not the only one whose impatient tonight.” He teases as he continues to smirk at me.

My hands fits the sheets as he lowers his fingers and pushes them inside of me. “Fuck me.” I nearly moan out, throwing my head back as he thrusts them in and out.

”Oh, I plan to sweetheart.” He assures me, curling his fingers inside of me.

The room is filled with my moans and heavy breathing as he continues to thrust his fingers in and out, spreading them wider and wider as he goes. I whimper as he pulls them out, my body sagging at the loss of them. I yelp again as he flips me onto my stomach, grabbing my hips and pulling me into a kneeling position as he settles between them, his cock rubbing against me. I cry out when he thrust in, not wasting any time as he slides all the way in, the position I’m in causing him to hit the perfect spot immediately. I’d already been close from just his fingers. There was no way I was lasting long now he was inside me. I look over my shoulder at him as I push myself up on my hands, watching as he looks down at where he slides in and out of me. His green eyes flicker up and meet mine as he bites his bottom lip. Holy shit, that was more attractive than it should be.

”Doing such a good job sweetheart.” He tells me, praising me as he continues to slam into me. “Feel so good.”

”Aaric… please.” I moan out, lowering my head as my body starts to shake, rocking my hips back and forth to meet his thrusts.

”Please what sweetheart? Use your words.” He tells me, his hands gripping my hips as I start to go limp.

”I’m c-close.” I stutter out as my arms give out, my head and upper body resting against the bed.

My whole body feels like it’s on fire, feels like it’s about to combust as I teeter on the edge. Aaric reaches around, his fingers finding my clit and applying pressure. I cry out as my body starts to shake as I tumble over the edge, Aaric drawing out my pleasure as he continues to thrust in and out while using his hand. A few moments later Aaric’s hips still as he falls forward, bracing himself above me as his hands land either side of my head. Both of us gasping for air as we come down from our high.

”You have your own room, right?” Aaric asks after a few moments.

”Y-yes.” I mutter out, doing my best to nod incase he doesn’t hear me.

”Good.”

I feel Aaric move, the bed dipping to my left before his arms wrap around me, pulling me into his side. My body instantly relaxing at his touch. I barely register him placing the blanket over us before falling asleep with my head against his chest.

[danieyells]

UPCOMING CARDS!!!!

The PC may have like a month and a half to live but time does not stop for her--Tanbata is here(in-game. tanbata isn't for another few weeks irl) and so are the story cards for this episode!!! And the Tanbata outfits are so pretty!!!

And of course the episode itself comes out in about 20 hours! They still no longer show the next episode's sprite information in the files so unfortunately I won't know what or who's in the following episode. But I'm sure you've come to expect that by now. But we do know the title at least! Anyway--cards!

Character Card: Firelit Wayfarer(「あたたかな灯の指す方へ」  "Pointing Towards The Warm Light") Skill: First Festival(「初めてのお祭り」  "First Festival") Fully Awakened Skill: Up-And-Coming Cowherd(「新進気鋭の牽牛」  "Up-And-Coming Altair" or "Young, Energetic Altair". "Altair"--or 'Hikoboshi'--is the name of one of the two pivotal stars in Tanbata.) Warding Card: Festival Night(「"お祭りの夜に」  "The Night Of The Festival")

Character Card: Yearning Altair(「誰が為の彦星」  "Altair For Whom?") Skill: Milky Way Admiration(「天の川への憧れ」  "Yearning For The Milky Way") Fully Awakened Skill: Footloose Cowherd(「マイペースな牽牛」  "Altair Who Does Things His Way") Warding Card: Fire Flowers(「灯の花が咲く丘」  "The Hill Where Light Flowers Bloom")

Character Card: Swirling Stars(「星と想いは波の随に」  "Stars And Thoughts At The Mercy Of The Waves") Skill: Shrine Ferryman(「本殿への舟守」  "Captain Of The Ship To The Main Shrine") Fully Awakened Skill: Serene Cowherd(「静謐なる牽牛」  "Peaceful Altair") Warding Card: Sweet Burst(「甘くはじける味」  "Sweetly Bursting Flavor")

Character Card: Unmade Wish(「心に秘めた願い」  "A Wish Kept Secret") Skill: Wish Trivia(「短冊のトリビア」  "Tanzaku Trivia" 'tanzaku' are long, narrow strips of paper on which Japanese poems are written vertically. On Tanbata it's customary to write a wish on tanzaku and hang it on bamboo.) Fully Awakened Skill: Swallowed Words(「飲み込んだ言葉」  "Swallowed Words") Warding Card: Support From The Sideline(「射的応援中」  "Shooting Gallery Support")

There's one more warding card Grand Entrance (「満を持しての登場」 "Long-Awaited Entrance") but the image of the card itself isn't in the files yet. Based on it being an SR and its position however it's most likely the story SR from last episode.

There's also a new cosmic bond! It's most likely just these cards, given it's clearly the cosmic bond for this episode.

Darkwick Cowherds (「ダークウィック七夕伝説」 "Darkwick Tanbata Tradition")

The next episode title is The Vanishing Homeroom (「神隠しホームルーム」 "The Mysteriously Disappearing Homeroom")! I guess this will be an on campus sort of mission, although it could easily be at a civilian school in Tokyo. . .and if it's anything like this one and the previous one maybe it'll be another inter-house squad.

Uuuh is that everything? Beside the stats I mean? I think that's everything! Feels like it's been ages since I did this many cards in one go @,@ Okay quickly wrapping up!!

Gacha is gambling! Banners rerun! I know how rough FOMO can be but it's okay if you don't get the units you want this first time around--they will always come back! If you're going to spend on the game please be sure to set limits for yourself and stick to them! Gambling addiction is real, so please seek help if you find yourself struggling!

My Japanese isn't very good! So please take my translations with a grain of salt.

Why don't you make a wish? You can learn how to make a tanzaku here. I've read that in Japan they're often set afloat on a river or burned at midnight/the next day, so once you've made it and let it exist in the world for a while, dispose of it how you see fit perhaps. It may just be a silly little activity but writing things out, putting them in the world, can be cathartic even if it does nothing else. It's important to do meaningless things and things for yourself sometimes.

Here are the stats! Good night, good luck with any pulls you make, and I hope this is a good episode!! 🎋🌌

[loki-hargreeves]

Mercy

Pairing: Poe Dameron x f!Reader (she/her pronouns used a handful of times) Warnings/Tags: enemies to lovers (vibes at least), hurt/comfort, angst, descriptions of injuries, name calling (nothing too serious), mentions of death and killing, fluff at the end if you squint Word Count: 4.6k Summary: Poe should kill you. You're his enemy. Yet when he sees you, weak and injured, he struggles with his decision. A/N: Writing this instead of starting another series rn because I have self control...

"Eyes on target," Poe speaks into the comms, his eyes locked on the TIE fighter in front of him. In the vast emptiness of space, there are few obstacles it can hide behind as Poe chases behind, loading the weapon system of his trusty X-wing.

Poe and a few other rebels from the black squadron were surveilling Jakku after getting intel about a first order weapons trade taking place on the planet. Safe to say that the intel was legit. The place is swarming with first order fighters. Luckily, they were met by a small TIE fighter squad in the sky. The real goal is to get rid of them without letting them warn the bigger first order fleet that's surely on standby, ready to send backup if needed.

"Fire away. We're right behind you, Black One," Wexley responds to Poe, reassuring that they've got everything under control for now.

Poe's thumb brushes against the button that's the only thing between him and the enemy ship getting blasted into stardust. His heart is racing from the adrenaline of battle, no matter how big or small. This should be the last target in the sky.

He presses the button.

A flash of light fills his cockpit for a second. Pew. Then, the enemy is gone. It happens so fast that Poe can't even see the TIE fighter blow up before it's gone. The only evidence left of the enemy is scrap floating around in space. Poe's X-wing passes the debris by so fast that it's quickly left far behind. A memory, if even that.

"Target cleared," Poe tells his squadron. Now he can relax. He smiles a bit as his comrades cheer, most likely more relieved to have survived rather than actually being happy and cheerful. They managed to wipe out a bunch of TIE fighters without losing any of their own.

BB-8 beeps from the back of the ship, the droid joining in on the excitement of the rest of the squadron. Usually, Poe would be amongst the first to make a comment about getting rid of first order scum one by one - but he's tired.

Ever since Poe joined the Resistance, he's been dedicated, climbing up the ladder, worked on becoming the best pilot he can be, focused on defeating the enemy. People jokingly call him the Resistance poster boy... yet lately he's just been feeling guilty, as if he's betraying the cause he's dedicated his life to. Poe struggles to see himself as the leader people want him to be when he can be affected by someone who is supposed to be his enemy.

"What's the plan?" Wexley asks, noticing that Poe has been quiet for a while. It's unlike the pilot who usually always finds something witty to say. Hell, Poe has put on more shows than one can count, even on the battlefield.

"Start the descent to Jakku," Poe clears his throat, slowing down a bit. His gaze lazily zoomed across the stars that are scattered all around them. "Let's make sure the first order never receives those weapons."

"Roger that."

"Aye."

Poe watches as his squadron turns to the sand planet. Poe stays behind, wanting to watch their backs and take a change from leading. However, Poe doesn't get the chance to start his descent to Jakku before his radar beeps. His dark eyes are glued to the screen in a split second. One dot. One ship has joined them, arriving from somewhere in light speed.

"We've got company!" Poe warns the others but they're already too far gone to catch that. Poe is on his own.

As Poe skillfully flips his ship around to point the nose of the X-wing toward the enemy, he recognizes the ship. It's not just another TIE fighter. It's you.

Kylo Ren's little spy. Poe hates your guts, or at least he's convinced himself of that. He's called you every name in the book but prefers scrampweasel, sneaky little spy-worm or the simplest of all - shadow rat. Very creative. He's trying them out to see if any names will stick.

Poe hates how you're doing your own thing, no squadron, no rules. You appear whenever and wherever, usually at the worst of times, only to wreak havoc and piss him off. He hates how you slip away from situations that you should never get away from, how you spy on people and run back to Kylo Ren to tell him your intel. He hates how damn smart and resourceful you are and you're his enemy. He wishes your skills could be used for the good of the Resistance instead.

"You're late to the party, scrampweasel," Poe connects his comms to your ship. Staring you down from afar. He can imagine how you look in that ship, probably pissed that the first order squadron has been wiped out.

"Nah," You simply reply, your voice slightly distorted due to the comms system. "Also you've done better than scrampweasel, poster boy."

"Ouch, you're breaking my heart, sweetheart," Poe mutters sarcastically, "unfortunately I'm not taking constructive criticism right now." A few buttons are pressed. His ship buzzes to life as he loads his weapons again. Loading...

BB-8 beeps nervously as he recognizes your voice and ship. You and Poe have been head to head many times before, in the sky, on land, probably underwater. It always gets out of hand, it's always chaotic and especially when flying, the poor droid will get a good scare when Poe flies like a maniac after you.

"Where are your friends, Dameron?" You ask, noticing that he's alone.

Seems like the rest of the Black Squadron descended on Jakku, or at the very least entered the planet's atmosphere before you got here. Unless Poe tells them what's going on by turning the long distance comms on, they won't know until they notice that he never followed them to Jakku. Perhaps it's better that way.

"It's just you and me," Poe mutters and feels his pulse quicken. His weapons are almost fully loaded now yet a small part of him knows that you're too quick and smart to just wait for him to blast your ship to pieces. This is a standoff that's just the start of your usual dance that you always, always, find a way out of.

BB-8 beeps at Poe, reminding him that he's there too.

"I know, buddy," Poe reassures the droid, turning off the comms while speaking to him. As he listens to the intense beeping, he smirks because he can tell BB-8 knows what's coming.

"Too bad. No one will be around to see you get your ass dragged," You sigh into the comms, riling him up. It's your specialty.

Poe shakes his head and rests his thumb on the buttons again, one click away from blasting you into Jakku's atmosphere. He hesitates.

"Why aren't you doing anything?" Poe asks, suspecting that something is off. You haven't tried to blast him, not even once. Are you... stalling? "Performance issues?"

PEW

Poe saw it coming from a mile away, the first red blast from your ship. He laughs as adrenaline courses through his veins, ducking from the rain of blasts coming his way. This little tug of war you've got going on is fun for him.

"Now we're talking, baby!"

"You're so weird," You groan and set off into a compelling chase.

Poe speeds up, avoiding your blasts like second nature. BB-8 screeches as it begins. Then at top speed, Poe lowers his ship and slows down. You fly right past him, surprised by his dropping speed. Now he's behind you. He clicks down on the blast button as green light flickers across his face with each beam.

Of course, none of them hit you. Poe has convinced himself that you're just a good enough pilot to avoid getting blasted too easily. It's a lot for him to even think that a first order spy is a good pilot. He thinks it's just an unfortunate truth. He'd never consider the thought that he avoids vital parts of your ship on purpose, because then he'd be taking mercy on an enemy. Poe can't do that.

You're leading him away from Jakku. Taking your sweet time.

Poe is stalling because he wants to give his squadron enough time to stop the weapons trade on Jakku. You're stalling because you think Poe is alone and you want to give the team on Jakku enough time to finish the trade. Poe feels like he has the upper hand. He just needs to keep you distracted for just a little longer...

"Have you thought about my offer?" Poe wonders curiously, speeding up behind you. Every time you meet like this, he asks you to switch sides. Or at least to consider it. However, the way he delivers his offer makes it hard to tell just how serious he is.

"How's this for an answer?" You reply angrily and make a 180. Poe takes a sharp right as you blast back at him, your beams meeting his and creating a bright firework effect. You both have to fly away from each other to regain composure.

Every time the answer is the same.

"Is that a maybe?" He teases and tries to lock the automatic target tracking system on you again. The box tries to lock around the dot that represents your ship on the screen but you're expertly flying side to side to avoid detection. Poe has to take aim manually.

"The thought of seeing you every day and taking orders from you makes me a bit sick, actually," You insist harshly.

"But you have no issue taking orders from Kylo Ren?" Poe raises his brow although you can't see him.

Silence.

Poe is surprised that you didn't have a lively remark up your sleeve at that. He finds it odd, considering your reputation as Kylo Ren's pet spy. Thought you'd be quicker to defend him.

"Don't question my alliances."

"Maybe I should? Maybe you should?" Poe pushes a bit more, giving you so many opportunities to surrender and switch sides. He's giving you more mercy than most others. Poe tells himself it's only because you have skills that the Resistance could use. That's all.

BB-8 beeps suddenly, warning Poe of company. Another dot appears on the radar, far away. It's not one of his own. Poe thinks you've got backup, so he says nothing. Just prepares to fight you and some other first order scumbag.

What happens next completely takes him by surprise.

The first order ship that appeared takes a shot at you.

"Kriff me!" Poe curses, shocked at the events that unfold before his eyes. He has to back off to avoid getting blasted as well. The other ship comes closer and Poe recognizes it.

That's Kylo Ren.

At the sight of the approaching vessel, Poe gets ready to get out of there and fast. He's on his own and even if he'd like to blast Kylo Ren into bits and pieces, he can't do it on his own. The smart move is to go to Jakku and rejoin the rest of the Black Squadron, who by now have probably sabotaged the weapons trade and that's why Kylo Ren is here.

Poe speeds up his ship, heading toward Jakku. Things just got real.

As he flies away, and his heart beats like crazy, Poe thinks about what just happened.

Kylo Ren blasted you down.

"Kriff," He curses again, slamming his hand at the cockpit dashboard. Maybe it's shock. Poe certainly didn't see that coming. The one person you've been loyal to just discarded of you like it was nothing. Poe just knows your ship crashed on Jakku. He shouldn't care. He should just keep moving, find his squad.

But a thought forms in the back of his mind. Poe should be responsible and make sure that you're dead. Yeah, so he can know for sure that you won't cause any more problems. That this chapter is over.

Poe changes his course and programs the systems to track your ship. BB-8 makes a concerned noise, worried about Poe.

"Just tying up loose ends," Poe explains to the droid. "She could be alive. She... could be..." He trails off. Poe can't believe what he saw.

Why would Kylo do that?! Why would he dispose of the best spy the first order has? Sure, you didn't spy in the traditional sense by being a mole or anything like that - you actually stalked your targets and stayed in the shadows most of the time, dug up information that most people would never find. Surely, a valuable asset for someone like Kylo Ren.

As Poe enters the atmosphere, beginning his descent on the dark side of Jakku, he locates the crash site. Then he flies toward it, his gut wrenching oddly as he thinks about what he might find. Poe tells himself he only feels this way because he's so shocked by Kylo's unexpected actions.

"He must be losing it," Poe mutters to BB-8, questioning Kylo's grip on reality and his sanity as the war gets worse with time - as does the pressure on both sides.

No matter how many times Poe checks the radar, he can't see any signs of Kylo following him. It's incredibly suspicious but Poe keeps going.

He lands behind a sand dune and instructs BB-8 to stay put.

Then he starts making his way to the crash site. He can smell it, the bitter smoke lingering in the air. Your ship is in pieces, halfway covered in sand and flames. Too remote and desolate that Jakku's infamous scavengers haven't come to collect parts yet. This looks bad.

Poe puts his hand on his blaster as he gets close, unsure if he can trust you if you're alive. It's dark outside, night having fallen upon this side of Jakku. A sand desert with no life in sight. Just your wrecked ship and a sky full of stars. The flames on the debris create a dim, orange glow.

Then he sees you.

You've managed to crawl out of the cockpit but you've slumped down only a few feet away from the ship. Bloody, bruised, helmet broken. It's a miracle your skull didn't take a bigger hit when you crashed. Poe doesn't even think about it, he runs up to you.

"You're alive," He says in shock. Then Poe freezes, unsure what to do.

You're his enemy. You've spied for the first order for the longest time. Even though Kylo Ren shot you down now, it doesn't erase your past.

You lift your head weakly to look him in the eye. Poe notices how tears mix with the blood on your face. Those eyes... even when you're full of anger, he hates to notice just how captivating you are. Surely an attribute that's helped you in your spying and scamming ways.

"What are you doing here?!" You ask him and groan in pain as you fail to push yourself up. It doesn't take a genius to tell that something is most certainly broken. Poe cringes as he sees how injured you are. He almost feels bad.

That's a good question.

He opens his mouth to speak. It's a rare moment of Poe Dameron feeling speechless.

A cold breeze of desert wind makes the flames dance a bit brighter, sand hitting you both in the face. Days on Jakku can be scorching hot but the nights are definitely a cold pain in the ass too.

"Too scared to finish the job?" You ask him in tears, unsure whether it's rage or the pain of betrayal that has you falling apart. Of course, you're aware that it was Kylo who shot you down. You saw him approaching the scene, thinking he was gonna back you up. Thinking he was gonna deal with the trade on Jakku. But no.

Kylo shot you down because he felt you were getting attached to the enemy, too soft-hearted to kill, therefore no longer trustworthy. Apparently, he could sense you had failed to use your full potential against Poe in battle. After everything you'd done for Kylo, he stopped trusting you because of the damn Resistance fly boy.

As you face Poe, in your weakest moment, you see your own failure reflected on his entire being. It's his fault!

"You...for maker's sake, you really should've questioned where your loyalty lies!" Poe scolds you and then covers his mouth with his hand, struggling to compose himself. He hates seeing you like this. Bloody, trembling in pain, too weak to get up. The rage in your eyes is unlike anything he's seen before.

"I was weak," You admit and hang your head in both shame and pain. There's a throbbing headache that's banging in your skull, making it hard to think. Is this it? Is Poe really the last person you'll see? Is this how it ends?

Poe grabs his blaster and takes a shaky breath. He paces a bit, kicking the scrap that's scattered across the dune as your ship fell apart. He knows what he should do.

"If you don't have the guts to finish the job, I'll die anyway," You tell him sharply, grasping onto your tough exterior. Even when facing potential death, you're hiding behind a wall of your own creation.

Poe turns to look at you with a dark look in his eyes. He just nods, indicating that he's listening to you. He hasn't felt this conflicted in a long, long time. The easy thing to do now is to kill you and no one would ever question it. You're an enemy.

"I'll either bleed out here or Kylo will send someone to finish the job," You explain, knowing the ways of the first order. No job is left unfinished or half-assed, at least not when Kylo is in charge. This was personal and he would hate to leave you living.

"You win," You whisper now, thinking about how many times you and Poe have been in battle. How many opportunities you've both had to kill or hurt the other yet you haven't, only prolonging this game of yours. It had to come to an end eventually.

"If you have mercy, you finish the damn job..."

Poe closes his eyes as he listens to you. He can't take it. His blood begins to boil the longer he stays uncharacteristically quiet and takes in your pitiful words. It's sickening that you believe what you're spewing.

"Mercy?" Poe snaps now, "You call this mercy?!"

The pain is getting worse as you use your last bits of strength to keep your head up, looking at Poe. Like tiny daggers sinking into your skin all over, white hot agony burning up your neck. There's probably scrap pieces of metal in your flesh, or at least it feels like it.

"You fool," Poe growls, but his voice cracks a bit. He pities you. "You should've...should've seen this coming..." Poe keeps lecturing, then he sinks down onto his knees. He grabs your shoulders and turns you around, making you lie on your back and stop using your strength to keep your head up.

The movement makes you wince in pain, although there's undeniable relief in being able to lie down. There's not even an attempt to fight back.

Being angry is exhausting. It's so damn tiring. Every day it's the mask you put on. Something to hide behind. The only way to make people take you seriously.

As you look up at the stars, you don't have the energy to be angry anymore. Instead, an overwhelming wave of sadness crashes over you. Like a blanket, weighing you down. It's cold and ugly, making your heart feel like is gonna tear to pieces. Maker be damned, you're crying in front of Poe Dameron.

"Well I didn't see it coming," The words leave your mouth in a whimper, lips forming a small pout. The lump in your throat is too hard to swallow or ignore. The emotions you've bottled for so long are finally spilling over.

Poe is surprised by the change in demeanour, sensing raw vulnerability. He looks at your injuries, trying to find the worst ones. Trying to help. He's hesitant, almost nervous as he brushes his fingers over your bloody shirt. He's never touched you this gently.

"Are you happy?"

Poe freezes for a second. You can see that his jaw is clenched and the vein on his forehead stands out. He looks so tense.

"No," Poe is honest, "I'm not. I don't think you were meant for this."

"You don't even know me."

"You're not meant to waste your skills on an useless organization like the first order and die while being loyal to an unpredictable maniacal hothead like Kylo Ren," Poe insists harshly, looking you directly in the eye. "I'm not happy. I made it clear long ago that I wanted you to switch sides and realize your potential. You still have that potential but you need to open your damn eyes!"

Taken aback by his rant, you just blink at him. To think this is the man you've been bantering with for a while now, always thinking it was out of pure spite. He actually saw good in you.

"I'm not like Finn."

Poe hates how stubborn you are. He clenches his jaw as he carefully lifts your shirt, revealing a nasty wound. He threads a thin line as he tries to remain respectful while also having to reveal your skin in order to assess the wounds. A piece of metal is lodged under your skin, bleeding crimson all over your skin, your shirt and now his hand. Poe doesn't try to remove the metal, knowing it's hindering even worse bleeding. He has no bacta spray on him but if he could get you to his ship, he could treat you.

"No, but he did the right thing and saw through all that first order nonsense. Others can do that too," Poe insists as he rips his shirt and uses the fabric to compress the wound. It's not clean but it'll have to do until he gets actual first aid supplies.

"Aaah!" You cry out sharply, squirming as he pushes the fabric into the biggest wound in your abdomen. It hurts like hell but it slows down the bleeding for now.

Poe hates hearing you cry out in pain.

"What are you doing?"

Poe can't believe what he's about to say;

"I'm saving your life."

Neither can you.

You close your eyes and grit your teeth, having no choice but to endure the pain. In a desperate attempt to understand what's happening, your brain rakes through every explanation but comes up empty. It makes no sense that Poe is helping you. He has no reason to.

"I don't deserve it..."

Poe's heart just breaks at that. He knows you're supposed to be his enemy but something tells him to help. That there's good in you and the reason you haven't killed him is because deep down you want Poe and the Resistance to succeed. He truly thinks you can do what Finn did and one day you'll laugh about how you were 'enemies'. That everything will be okay.

"Come on, let's get you up," Poe says surprisingly gently. He grabs you securely, under the arms as he lifts you up slowly. It hurts, it hurts so bad to even try to stand. But he's got you.

"What are you doing?" You ask again, choked up on tears and unable to phantom that someone like him would help someone like you. The sand is soft and unforgiving under your feet, forcing you to cling to Poe for support. Maybe it's instinctual, something deep and primal within you that clings onto survival, but you find yourself holding onto his arm and jacket so tightly that you're afraid you'll break him.

"There we go," Poe says softly and leads you toward his ship. His arm wraps around your waist as he supports you. There's truly nothing around these dunes. Just sand as far as the eye can see. Had he not come, there's no doubt in his mind that you would've bled out all alone in the cold. It's not a pleasant thought.

Finally, you reach his ship. Poe makes you sit down on the co-pilot seat. Then he begins to rummage through his stuff, finding the first aid kit that everyone is always supposed to keep onboard. He finds something that he can use. Bacta spray. Poe shakes the container and then uncaps it, spraying the cooling spray on your wound to disinfect it.

You watch as he works on you, patching you up so that you won't bleed out on him. Hopefully, you'll hold on until the Resistance base.

"You shouldn't help me."

"I probably shouldn't," Poe agrees and shrugs. He rips a package open with his teeth and grabs a handful of gauze. "You're really...messed up," He mutters as he sees the injuries in better lighting. It's disheartening to witness such wounds on anyone.

"I...I failed..." You whisper, leaning against the seat as reality begins to sink in. Kylo could sense it, there was no denying it. You were fully aware that you were going easy on Poe, letting him go when you had chances to hurt him, letting Poe defeat you on many missions. You hate Poe yet you let it happen. He's infuriating, always getting on your nerves yet you always prolonged every standoff with him. It makes no sense.

"What do you mean?" Poe asks gently as he throws bloody gauze away and uses fresh patches to soak up more blood. There's gotta be something else he can use in that kit. He drops more stuff on the floor of his ship as he tries to find something useful.

"I was supposed to kill you or... or capture you," The revelation doesn't really come as a surprise. Poe knows that he has quite the price on his head after becoming such a high-ranking member of the Resistance and successfully escaping from Kylo Ren's watch multiple times.

"But you haven't done that," Poe states the obvious.

You shake your head.

"I...I haven't. I didn't... I didn't want to," You confess. There it is. A simple truth. You didn't want to hurt or capture the enemy.

Poe stops in his tracks for a moment. He sighs deeply and meets your eye, his own eyes searching for answers so desperately, hoping that you can mend his own similar confusion. Why hasn't he let you die either? He's had many opportunities.

"Funny thing," Poe cracks a small smile although he's far from amused, "I haven't been able to kill you either, although I probably should've. And could've. You're a terrible pilot, got that auto tracker on you in seconds."

That's the Poe you're used to, a fucking smartass.

You chuckle, even at the cost of a shot of pain in the abdomen as your muscles tighten.

"Yeah yeah, I'm sure that's the case." A small curl tugs at the corners of your lips as well.

"Could've blasted you out of the sky a million times," Poe insists as he cleans your wounds. He's distracting you from the worst pain by talking and consequentially talking shit.

"Bad timing, you insensitive-"

"Woah, woah, woah!" Poe interrupts you before you can insult him and he laughs softly. "Don't I get a pass for coming here to save you?" He asks and then gives you a look that you can only describe as a man having puppy dog eyes. What's his issue and why is he so cute and charming?

"Whatever," You smirk and sigh shakily. His words don't actually offend. They're kind of comforting right now. Everything feels so scary as the life you know has changed completely. The moment Kylo shot you down, there was a disconnect from your previous life and the present.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Poe promises a bit more seriously now, "but you're gonna have to switch teams. Don't you want that?"

It's a valid question. The difference from the million times he's asked that before versus now is that Poe can see your expression.

Your gaze sinks to the floor as you think about it. It's an offer that has tempted you before but you've denied out of fear and an obscure sense of loyalty to someone you thought you could trust.

After thinking for a while, you finally break the silence.

"It's gonna suck to take orders from you," You mutter and gather the courage to face Poe. To see his reaction.

He seems happy. Relieved. It's weird that he can smile and trust that someone like you will turn out good. But if he believes in you, maybe there's hope.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it. Maybe you'll like it," Poe wiggles his brows playfully.

A/N: Forcing myself to stop here before I turn this into a series or smut (or both??)

[demie90s]

Hehehehehehe

My request: reader X uconn team

So reader is known as the mum of the group when it comes to alcohol, she's always the designated driver but one day she let's loose and she's so wild, they get kicked out of the club then reader goes missing and the whole team panics and looks for her all night, they go to the police multiple times. So the next day she goes for practice and finds nobody (they're still looking for her) so she texts the GC and ask if practice is cancelled and they just release Thier breaths they ask her where she went and she says she saw a tattoo shop so she went to get a quick tat but by the time she came back out, everyone was gone so she went home.

Sorry it's so long

One Night Off

UConn WBB x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: I’m always the designated driver. But one night? I blacked out, got a tattoo, and dipped. The team thought I was missing. I thought practice was still on.

Warnings: Alcohol, chaos, team panic, found family vibes

Word count: ~0.4k

Nobody ever expects me to be the problem.

I’m the mum of the team. The one holding purses. Holding hair. Holding back the urge to slap a bouncer when Paige gets loud for no reason. I’m the one who says, “Let’s just Uber home,” while everybody else still tryna twerk on elevated surfaces.

But last night? Nah. Last night I said, fuck it.

I did a couple shots. Then a few more. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of the dance floor with Ayanna on one side, KK behind me, and Ice in front like she dared me to keep up. My hoodie’s gone. My bun is out. I’m dropping low like my knees paid tuition.

And when the lights came on, the DJ got quiet, and the security guards approached?

Yup. We got kicked out. Whole squad. UConn Women’s Basketball, dragged out the back like a bad reality show reunion.

I disappeared.

Not on purpose, but like, I saw this neon sign for a tattoo shop across the street and it was glowing like the Lord Himself was saying, go do something dumb but meaningful. So I went. Stumbled in, slurred through my vision, and said, “I want a paw print. Husky. Real cute. But put my girls’ initials in it. And maybe their birthdays. You know. Just something light.”

Tattoo artist didn’t even blink. Just asked, “You sure?”

“I’m drunk, not stupid,” I said, swinging my feet off the side of the chair.

Took an hour, maybe two. I fell asleep during it. Woke up, tipped extra, and went home. Not the team hotel. Not the bus. Home. Straight to bed. No regrets.

Until this morning.

I walk into practice all casual, hoodie on, iced coffee in hand, hair wild but still cute. The gym is silent. Like creepy silent. No ball sounds. No whistles. No Geno.

I frown. “Y’all cancelled practice without me?”

I pull out my phone. The group chat is on fire. Missed calls. Texts. “WHERE TF ARE YOU.” “Please answer.” “We called the cops.” “KK throwing up.” “I can’t breathe.”

I scroll and scroll.

I text: Wait… y’all still out there?

Paige: YES. WHERE TF DID YOU GO.

I text back: I saw a tattoo shop. Got a quick tat. Y’all wasn’t there when I came out so I went home. And then—dead silence. For like a solid minute. Then the reactions start pouring in.

Ayanna: “I was CRYING outside the precinct.”

KK: “My stomach still hurt.”

Aubrey: “I thought you got kidnapped and sold to a lacrosse team.”

Jana: “You got a TATTOO??”

Ice: “Send pic right now.”

Caroline: “Sweetie… you need to talk to someone.”

I sigh, push my hoodie sleeve up, and snap a photo. Right there on my arm is a small husky paw, with all their initials curled into the pads. Their birthdays wrapped around it in a soft arch. It’s simple, sharp, and honestly? Fire.

I send it. The GC loses their mind.

Paige: “Awwwww wait no I’m crying again.”

KK: “I’m getting matching hoodies made.”

Aubrey: “I’m still mad but like… you’re cute.”

Geno (yes, he’s in the group chat): “You’re running suicides until the ink fades.”

I’m smiling like an idiot, flopped on the floor with my iced coffee, knowing damn well I love them more than anything. Even when they wild.Even when I’m worse.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @zizi-bee-yapping @kaliblazin @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey

[sky-is-the-limit]

P: Firefighter!Gaz x F!Civilian Reader

CW: SFW/NSFW, Cunnilingus, Fingering

Captain Price's version

Firefighter!Gaz who would first appear like a savior from a dream, broad-shouldered and calm under pressure, breaking into the stuck lift with the rest of his squad.

The doors would groan open and you'd find yourself staring up at a pair of big, brown eyes and a reassuring smile that makes you forget the claustrophobic panic.

''You alright in there? I’ve got you.'' You would’ve never thought your first day at your new job would lead to this.. being pulled out by the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Firefighter!Gaz who would run back to the firetruck just moments after ensuring you're safe, nearly knocking over his crewmates on his way just to rummage through a compartment to pull out a leaflet for a “fire safety course” hosted at their firehouse and then jog back to you, a little breathless but still flashing that gorgeous smile, saying,

"You know, it’s always good to know what to do in an emergency… I’m teaching it next week if you’re interested." The hint of nerves under his confident charm evident, realizing he’s probably more interested in seeing you again than fire safety.

Firefighter!Gaz who would watch you walk away from the scene but couldn’t stop himself from calling out, ''Don’t forget about the course!'' and when you turn back with a teasing smile, he'd feel a flutter in his chest he hasn't felt in a while. His crewmates would tease him mercilessly, Soap mostly, the entire ride back but he wouldn’t care. He’d already be planning how to make sure you’d show up.

Firefighter!Gaz who would be all cool and collected when you walk into the firehouse a week later for the course. He’d spot you immediately among the few others and make a beeline to your side, leaning down slightly, ''Glad you made it. Thought you might stand me up.'' He'd hover just close enough for you to catch a whiff of that clean, intoxicating scent he seems to carry.

Firefighter!Gaz who would make sure to focus his attention on you throughout the course, earning a few warning glances from his Captain, using every excuse to come over and “help” you like adjusting your posture when you’re learning how to hold a fire extinguisher, his hands warm and firm against your arms, his breath tickling your ear. ''Like this… see? Much better.'' He'd say, his voice lowering slightly, sending fireworks down your spine.

Firefighter!Gaz who would hand you a piece of paper at the end of the course, scribbled with his number and a cheeky note: ''In case of emergencies… or, you know, if you’re bored.''

When you look up, he'd wink but there’s something earnest in his gaze that makes you think he’s serious about you calling. You'd tease back, "Only if you come in uniform!" and for the first time, you’d see his confident exterior crack. He’d chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, his cocky smirk turning into the sweetest side smile.

Firefighter!Gaz who would text you later that night, unable to help himself by finding your number in the contact information you had to give for the course. ''So, about that uniform request..'' He’d type, heart pounding like he’s back on a 'building on fire' mission, wondering if he’s coming on too strong or not strong enough. The thought of seeing you again would make him grin like a schoolboy with a crush.

Firefighter!Gaz who would invite you for a private “tour” of the firehouse, making it sound official but his tone giving away his real intentions. He’d lead you around, all professional until he catches you looking at him like that again, hungry, intrigued. He’d clear his throat, trying to hide the effect you’re having on him and suggest maybe you check out the back room where they keep the gear, his mind racing with all the possibilities.

Firefighter!Gaz who would find himself leaning against a wall, you pressed close in a tight corner of the equipment room. He’d be all smooth words at first, but the moment you close the distance and place your hand on his chest, he’d lose track of his train of thought. His hands would move to your waist, gripping tighter than he intended, the tension between you crackling like a live wire.

Firefighter!Gaz who would pull you flush against him and murmur, ''You know, I don’t usually do this… but there’s something about you.'' He’d trail off, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks, half-dazed with wanting, half-reeling from how much he’s already wrapped around your finger.

Firefighter!Gaz who would be breathing heavier as you drag him in by his uniform collar, your lips crashing together in a messy, heated kiss. He'd think he’s never been in a more dangerous situation in his life, the kind he never wants to escape from..

He’d press you back against the wall, hips pinning yours as his hands roam your body with one sliding down to cup your ass, giving it a rough squeeze that makes you gasp into his mouth and swallow that sound, his tongue already plunging deeper, desperate to taste more of you and breaths turn ragged, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to ground himself but the way you grind against him makes it clear that he's already losing control.

Firefighter!Gaz who would groan low in his throat when your hands slip under his uniform shirt, feeling the defined muscles of his chest and stomach. His skin would be hot, his body shuddering under your touch as he bites down on your lower lip, tugging it back before whispering, ''I’ve been thinking about this since I saw you in that lift.''

Lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping and sucking hard enough to leave marks. His hips start to rock into yours with a slow, rhythmic grind and he’d chuckle against your skin when he feels the damp heat between your legs through your clothes.

Firefighter!Gaz who would quickly get impatient, tugging your pants down just enough to get his fingers where he needs them. He’d groan when he feels how wet you are, his fingers sliding over your slick folds before teasing your clit with slow circles.

''Fuck, you’re soaked… all for me?'' He’d murmur, his lips brushing the shell of your ear and when your hips buck against his hand, he’d press harder, rubbing faster, feeling your body respond to every flick and swirl.

Firefighter!Gaz who would sink to his knees in front of you, tugging your jeans and underwear down in one swift motion, his breath hot against your inner thighs. He’d look up at you with those big brown eyes, licking his lips like he’s about to devour his favorite meal. His mouth would be on you in seconds, his tongue flicking over your clit before plunging deep into your folds.

The sounds he’d make.. Low, needy groans vibrating against your pussy, just to drive you wild, especially as he works his tongue in and out of you, his nose brushing your swollen bud with every move.

Firefighter!Gaz who would hold your thighs open with a bruising grip, his mouth latching onto your clit, sucking and licking with a ferocity that sends waves of pleasure shooting through your body and he’d keep at it, his tongue working faster, messier, saliva mixing with your wetness as you grind against his face, riding his mouth like it’s the only thing keeping you alive with filthy, hungry slurps filling the room, mingling with your breathless moans and gasps.

Firefighter!Gaz who would grow more desperate the more you tug at his hair, his fingers digging into your thighs as he fucks you with his tongue, his mouth covered in your slick. He’d be almost feral with it, moaning against your clit as if he’s getting off on your taste alone, ''Fuck, you taste so good-'' he’d mumble between breaths, diving back in like he’s starved, tongue flicking relentlessly until you’re a trembling mess.

Firefighter!Gaz who would slide his long fingers inside you, curling them just right to hit that sweet spot while his lips stay latched on your clit and watch you lose yourself, your moans getting louder, your body arching off the wall as he pumps his fingers in and out, matching the rhythm of his tongue.

And he’d love every second of it, love the way you’re falling apart, completely at his mercy, your juices coating his fingers and chin as he brings you closer to the edge.

Firefighter!Gaz who would pull back just enough to whisper, ''Wanna make you cum so hard you forget whoever tried before me.'' Tone all rough and needy as he’d dive back in with even more intensity, fingers thrusting faster, deeper, while his tongue flicks your clit with rapid, precise strokes that would have you on the verge, teetering right there and he’d feel it, doubling down with everything he’s got.

Firefighter!Gaz who would almost growl when you finally come undone, your thighs squeezing around his head, your pussy clenching around his fingers. He’d keep working you through it, his tongue never slowing, fingers still fucking you deep as he savors every drop of your release. His name would spill from your lips like a prayer, and he’d drink it in like it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

Firefighter!Gaz who would proudly drape his fire coat over your shoulders, the name “Garrick” emblazoned across the back and slip his hand around your waist, pulling you close as he leads you out into the hallway where the rest of the squad is gathered just to make sure that the message is clear. You were his and he wasn’t shy about showing it.

[dragonridersandhighlords]

omg please do a garrick smut 🙏🙏 he’s legit my fav man in the series ARGHH

Strategic Surrender

Summary: In a tense, late-night strategy session, simmering tension between you and Garrick boils over into an intense and intimate encounter.

Notes: Listen, Garrick fucks and he fucks hard🤤

Pairing: Garrick Tavis x reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, all smut no plot, semi-public sex/exhibitionism? (risk of getting caught), Dom/Sub dynamics, rough (Garrick practically throws you around like a rag doll at one point), no mentions of birth control (wrap it before you tap it)

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

Riorson House is shrouded in silence, the stillness of the night wrapping around it like a thick fog. The echo of footsteps faded long ago, leaving behind the remnants of a day spent in strategy and scheming. Cadets had drifted to their quarters, Assembly leaders had retreated to their chambers, and even the Duke and Duchess were lost to the embrace of sleep. But not you. Not with Garrick Tavis by your side.

The dim glow of an oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the strategy table, illuminating the intricate parchment maps that sprawled before you. You tried to concentrate on the territories, the routes, the defenses—anything but the man beside you. He leaned casually against the edge of the table, one hand idly tracing the contours of the Navarrian defenses, his fingers moving with a deliberate grace that made your heart race. Garrick’s gaze was a weight you felt on your skin, and it ignited a fire that left you restless.

“Your flank is exposed,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind that sent shivers down your spine. “You’d be dead before your squad took five steps.”

“Then maybe I’ll let you die first,” you shot back, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just for the quiet.”

His laughter was sharp, the kind that held secrets. “You’re mouthy when you’re nervous.”

“I’m mouthy because you’re cocky.”

“Cocky?” He pushed away from the table, drawing nearer until the air between you crackled with an intensity that was hard to ignore. “If you’re going to throw words like that around, you better be prepared for what they do to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you blinked up at him, suddenly acutely aware of the space that had vanished between you. Garrick towered over you, his uniform rumpled from the day’s drills, a few straps still undone. The lamplight danced across the scar that cut through his temple, revealing the storm brewing in his eyes.

“What—” You began, but your words faded into the heavy silence as he reached out, dragging his fingers along your jaw with a touch that was both tender and possessive. The tension between you, always there, began to hum with a dangerous promise, ready to ignite with just a single spark.

“You know how long I’ve been waiting for you to push me just a little too far?” he says, his voice low and husky, each word dripping with unrestrained desire. “How long I’ve imagined bending you over this gods damned table while you're still spewing stratagy objections?”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words igniting something deep within you, awakening a surge of boldness that you didn’t know you possessed. “Then do it.”

The moment those defiant words leave your mouth, Garrick springs into action. In one fluid motion, he clears the table, sending stacks of parchment and colorful markers tumbling to the floor with a heavy thud that reverberates in the dimly lit room. The sound of chaos is almost intoxicating, a symphony of anticipation that makes your heart race. Without breaking eye contact, he seizes you by the hips, effortlessly lifting you onto the table as if you weigh no more than a feather.

His mouth crashes into yours, fierce and hungry, a whirlwind of heat and intensity that leaves you breathless. The kiss is possessive, unapologetic, as though he’s claiming you—body and soul. You gasp, surrendering to the way his tongue sweeps into your mouth, exploring with a confidence that makes your pulse quicken. In this moment, you feel utterly consumed, as if your very essence has become entwined with his.

“I could ruin you right here,” he growls against your lips, his hands sliding up your thighs, calloused palms brushing against the fabric that separates you. “Right on top of classified documents. Where anyone can come in and see.”

A soft moan escapes you, the sound escaping unbidden as you clutch at the fabric of his collar, pulling him closer. 

With a swift motion, he pushes you onto your back, dragging you down the table until your thighs dangle over the edge, vulnerable and exposed. He deftly pulls your pants down your legs, revealing more skin to his eager gaze. Kneeling before you, he hooks your legs over his shoulders, the world around you fading into nothingness.

His fingers tug your underwear aside, teasingly slow, igniting a fire that burns bright within you. “No teasing,” you warn, your voice strained with anticipation.

A smirk dances across his lips, barely brushing against your inner thigh. “I never tease. I devour.” 

And he does.

His tongue moves with an exhilarating skill and precision, igniting a wave of sensations that draws a strangled cry from your throat. As he licks into you, the initial slow rhythm builds with an eager urgency, each flick of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge. He holds your thighs wide, his thumbs pressing bruises into your skin that mark your surrender, making it impossible to squirm away from the relentless pace of his assault.

You feel the world around you blurring into nothing as pleasure surges through you like wildfire. The heat of his mouth consumes you, and before you can process it, you come fast, a symphony of bliss crashing over you as you cry out his name. Your back arches off the table, seeking more of the intoxicating pressure, more of him. He doesn’t stop—not right away. Instead, he licks you through the waves of ecstasy, savoring every shudder that ripples through your body until your legs tremble against his shoulders, thoroughly spent yet craving more.

Only then does he rise, lips glistening with your essence, eyes burning with an insatiable ferocity. “Still with me?” he asks, his voice a low growl, fingers deftly undoing his belt, the sound echoing in the charged atmosphere.

You nod, breathless, still reeling from the aftershocks coursing through you.

“Good.” His pants slip down to his knees, revealing the hard evidence of his desire. He steps forward, lining himself up, his gaze locked onto yours, thick and commanding, and thrusts into you with a single stroke that knocks the wind from your lungs. 

A gasp escapes you as he fills you completely, the sensation overwhelming. “Fuck,” Garrick groans, his voice thick with lust. “You feel—gods, you feel better than I ever let myself imagine.”

He sets a brutal rhythm, hips crashing into you with a fervor that makes the table rock beneath the force of his thrusts, wood creaking in protest as if echoing your shared desperation. His grip on your hips is vice-like, bruising yet intoxicating, each thrust driving you deeper into a haze of raw pleasure. Low curses spill from his mouth, mingling with your own breathless gasps as he takes you without restraint.

“You love being fucked where anyone could walk in,” he pants, the wildness in his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Don’t you?”

You nod frantically, lost in the way he fills you, the way he claims every inch of you with primal ownership. 

“You want them to know you’re mine now?” he asks, and the intensity of his gaze makes your heart race.

“Yours,” you breathe, the word spilling from your lips as an affirmation of surrender.

He growls deep in his chest, a feral sound that reverberates through the air, igniting a primal instinct deep within you. With every thrust, he pushes deeper, harder, the relentless rhythm driving you toward the precipice once more. The world around you blurs, and stars burst behind your eyes, a kaleidoscope of brilliance exploding in a haze of ecstasy. A second orgasm rips through you, raw and violent, leaving you gasping as waves of pleasure crash over your body like a tempest, each pulse radiating from the core of your being.

Garrick follows suit with a harsh grunt, the sound rumbling from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, filling you completely as he spills inside you. The warmth of his release mixes with the electric energy still coursing through your veins, a heady combination that sends a shiver down your spine. For a moment, time seems to suspend, and all that exists are the ragged breaths that escape your lips and the creak of the old table beneath your shivering bodies, the haunting music of your surrender echoing in the stillness of the room.

The air hangs thick with the scent of sweat and sex, an intoxicating blend that wraps around you like a cocoon, blurring the lines between pleasure and reality. Garrick leans down, his breath hot against your skin, lips brushing your ear with a tantalizing intimacy that sends goosebumps racing across your flesh. “Objections?” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety growl that stirs something fierce within you.

You let out a laugh, breathless and wild, the sound mingling with the soft thrum of your racing heart. “None. You win,” you reply, the words flowing effortlessly.

His mouth curves into a smirk against your neck, a predatory satisfaction lighting up his features. The way he looks at you now, with a mix of triumph and hunger, sends a thrill coursing through your veins. “Good,” he replies, his tone rich with a promise that hangs heavy in the air. “Because I plan to run these drills again. Thoroughly.”

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