#and i had to go back to the avoidant factory settings and

[papayadays]

communication — op81

⋆˚✿˖° engineer!oscar x driver!reader — you want your engineer to loosen up, he wants you to win ⋆˚✿˖° warning: mentions of hungary 2024 (curse mclaren for that) ⋆˚✿˖° wc: 8.6k+ | a/n: she's a long one! I've been working on this for months, and it's finally here :) first time writing a longer fic so lmk what you think of it <33 enjoy engineer oscar, after being plagued with this vision

OSCAR PIASTRI WAS WAY TOO UPTIGHT. and it had been this way since your first day at mclaren.

you had been giddy to meet everyone on your first day at the factory after signing for the 2023 season. lando was energetic and funny, andrea was focused, and zak was… well, zak. but then, you were introduced to oscar, your race engineer. he looked young, like fresh-out-of-uni young. it was definitely out of the norm, but your instincts trusted him. what could go wrong? he shook your hand and nodded, merely saying, “welcome to mclaren.” and then proceeded to not talk to you for the next two days.

it wouldn’t be a big deal if he wasn’t your race engineer. regardless, it truly wasn’t as serious as you were making it out to be, but it summed up oscar’s personality well: quiet, reserved, direct. cool, calm, and collected, one could even argue. coming from f2, your relationship with your race engineer was basically a friendship rather than a work partnership, so this was something you had to adjust to coming to mclaren.

you found yourself falling into a routine: arrive at the mtc at the start of the week, debrief with oscar, and then head to the race for the weekend before going back to the mtc. in all honesty, you hadn’t seen oscar laugh or even crack a smile in your time at mclaren. it was baffling to you how someone could be so serious every single waking moment.

and you had tried to get him to open up. god knows you’d tried. throughout race weekends, you had cracked jokes, retold stories, and brought up anything in hopes of getting him to open up beyond his stoic facade, but to no avail. it genuinely seemed like he was incapable of loosening up; at least, at work.

the one thing about oscar, though, was that he was dedicated to his work and good at it, too. your rookie year was better than you had expected, nabbing a podium in suzuka and even a sprint win in qatar. oscar was able to turn the data into helpful tips and points for improvement, which was something you really liked to hear as a driver. but it was so hard to talk to him simply because he was so reserved. 

“osc,” you protested as you walked on the track. you had first used the nickname to try and crack a smile out of him, but it stuck despite not doing much. “have you tried the hungarian palinka yet?” maybe the mention of drinks could get a reaction out of him?

oscar sighed, as if you’d asked him something mundane, like the weather, rather than if he wanted to try a drink. “no, but i would think you should be focusing on maximizing the kerb here,” he responded wryly. occasionally, you’d be able to get a sarcastic response from him, like now, which you considered a win.

“me and some of the team are headed to the club after sunday, you should come,” you suggested, mentally taking a note of turn three. you weren’t sure why you did this; oscar never seemed to come out of his shell, yet you kept asking, despite knowing he wouldn’t—

“sure, but only if you end up on the top step,” your race engineer countered in an even tone. you gaped at him, eyes wide with surprise. there was no way he was serious, right?

“so you think it’s impossible i’ll win here, then?” you asked. “y’know, since you never come out with the team.”

“jesus christ, it’s not a character flaw that i like to stay in rather than go out to clubs,” oscar said defensively, eyes cast upwards, as if he was sending a prayer up to the heavens for dealing with you.

you held your hands up in surrender. “i didn’t say that!” you protested. “and you’re avoiding the question.” pointedly, you raised an eyebrow.

“what, i can’t set a wager now?” oscar rebutted, though it wasn’t serious from his tone. and was that a sliver of an amused smile you saw? you had hardly seen oscar grin, if ever. the only time he’d crack a smile is if zak said something out of pocket or lando made a joke that had the whole factory laughing. so, a win was a win in your book. “just thought you could use some friendly fire.”

your rolled your eyes, tapping at your tablet as you took note of the blind-on-entry in turn six. “yeah, sure, mate,” you chuckled. “if i win, you also have to do shots with me.”

“nope.” and there was the emotionless oscar again, though maybe he looked a bit less stern. “now focus, so you actually might have a good chance at winning.”

you could start to see why oscar had his doubts. in fp1, you’d done pretty well and got p7, with the pace feeling decent. however, fp2 was challenging, with you in p13 while lando topped the timesheets. hell, if you couldn’t even close in on your teammate, how were you supposed to reach the front?

“are you even listening?” oscar’s voice cut into your thoughts, words still calm, just like the rest of his demeanor.

“sorry, yeah,” you nodded. “just remembering about our deal and how it seems you made a secure bet.”

a noise rose from your engineer’s throat that sounded like either a groan of annoyance at your self-reproach or a tsk. knowing oscar, it was likely both. “listen, it’s not as bad as you think,” he stated. “the car has pace, and with the tweaks i’m going to suggest to the crew, it should be even better tomorrow. and plus, you just need to fine tune some things to get set for qualy.”

you blinked at him in surprise. usually, a “head up, we still have tomorrow” or a “don’t worry, you’ll get it next session” was all you would get from oscar. “thanks,” you nodded. “so what do i need to work on?”

fp3 was a nice boost of morale, with you and lando second and first in the timings, respectively. the car was starting to come alive, like your engineer had said, and the points you went over also contributed. now came qualifying, but you were hopeful. hopefully.

as you were sitting in the car before q3, you glanced at the data display in front of you, oscar’s voice in your ear. “okay, so cars with two new sets are verstappen, sainz, hamilton, and yourself.” it was quite a blessing that his voice was so soothing, so you could never get jumpscared. and in tense scenarios, his constant inpour of information didn’t get too annoying either.

“gotcha,” you replied, pulling out of the pits. you got onto the track, briefly taking note of the rain clouds that you knew were going to be rolling in soon.

after doing an out-lap, you set off on a flying lap, knowing that it could potentially come down to this should the rain start pouring. as you crossed the line, 1:15.763 showed up on the screen of your steering wheel, causing you to frown under your helmet. you were roughly four tenths off where you wanted to be, where you knew lando was lapping at.

“you can keep the pace up on the in-lap. if rain is imminent, we can get out quickly on the second set,” oscar informed you.

the universe had a funny sense of humor, because right as the radio message ended, drops of water started landing on your visor. “rain on my visor now,” you reported, peeling back into the pits.

once back in the garage, you hopped out of the car and took off your helmet, heading to oscar. “i just don’t get it,” you lamented, sitting up on the cabinets. “how am i still four tenths off?”

oscar didn’t say anything, simply folding his arms and giving you a pointed look. his almost withering look made you want to shrink a little, feeling embarrassed. “c’mon, you know you have it in you,” he remarked. “and rain only makes it easier for you. keep the corners precise and tidy, especially in turn three. we’re sending you back out.”

you nodded, putting on your helmet again and sitting back into the car. oscar leaned over the halo, adding quietly, “you got this” and patting your helmet.

peeling out of the pits again, you headed back on track in clean air. this time, you were determined to make the most of it, to try and seal the deal this time.

“doesn't look like the rain is going to be super-heavy on the radar. i think you can do a normal out-lap, you don't have to rush it,” oscar told you over the radio. you pressed confirm as you drove through the last few corners, weaving to warm up your tyres.

as you slowed down around the last few corners, you took a steadying breath under your helmet and started your flying lap. this time, you made sure to nail every apex and brake later like oscar had told you to. gritting your teeth, you had tunnel vision, drowning everything else out until you were rounding the last corner. passing the line, a new time flashed on the display: 1:15.249.

“where are we now?” you asked oscar, voice hopeful. holding your breath, you awaited the sound of the radio on the other side.

“looks like we’re in, uh, p2 now,” oscar reported, and maybe you were delirious, but you swore you heard a smile in his voice. “two hundredths off of lando. nice lap, well done.”

you smiled under your helmet, knowing that there was only two minutes left on the clock and that this could be your determining lap. no, scratch that, this was your last lap. there wasn’t enough time, so this would have to be enough for you.

after heading into the pits, you jumped out of the car and bumped fists with oscar, pushing up your visor. “is that it?”

oscar glanced at his screen, headphones around his neck. “yeah, it’s been red flagged,” he responded, turning to look at you, and to your surprise, there was a wide smile on his face. he patted your helmet, the smile still on his face. “mega job out there. told you that you could do it.”

“yeah, yeah, mate,” you grinned, pulling him in for a hug. “thank you, osc.” he seemed to freeze for a second before wrapping his arms around you and patting your back, the relief evident as his shoulders sagged.

“all you,” he chuckled, making you do a double-take. was this the same oscar? “now, go do your interviews so we can debrief after.” ah, there he was again. you gave him a playful salute and headed off with your press officer.

when you came back to debrief, changed into a t-shirt and cargo pants, you sat down across from oscar, who was dialed in, eyes honed in on the telemetry while you could practically see the gears spinning in his mind. “okay, so here’s the strategies we’re considering,” he said with no prelude, jabbing at his computer screen with the back of his emotional support pen.

“gotcha,” you nodded. “tyre preservation, i know.” oscar continued on, showing you the data on his computer.

“wait, so what’s the deal with me and lando tomorrow?” you interjected. “is- are there going to be any team orders?”

oscar’s mouth pinched into a tight line as he met your eyes. “i think the team is a little, uh, ambiguous about it, but i’ll make sure they’ll give you a fair chance.” so, they wanted to prioritize lando, is what you heard. of course. at least oscar was in your corner, but would he really fight with the team just to make sure you didn’t get team orders?

“thank you,” you said quietly, mind mulling over what could possibly happen tomorrow. lando was obviously doing well in the driver’s championship, so it was within reason for the team to swap positions. even if oscar said he would get you fair competition, who was to say the team couldn’t override it? given that you couldn’t even outqualify your teammate, it would be clear to see who would be given priority, as much as it stung.

“hey, are you with me?” oscar asked, waving a hand in front of your face. his eyes scanned your face, eyes holding the type of gaze that figured you out and saw right through you.

you blinked, quickly refocusing. “yeah, sorry.” you needed to get a grip, to get your head back in the game.

oscar frowned, closing his computer. the quick action surprised you—oscar wasn’t one to abandon his work haphazardly.  “you’re getting in your head,” he said, matter-of-factly, almost gently if you didn’t know him well enough. “i promise, you’re just as likely to win tomorrow as lando.”

“right,” you mumbled, fiddling with a zipper on your pocket. because mclaren definitely had no bias, and even so, was there any fighting chance of a win if you were two tenths off in qualifying?

“hey, look at me.” you glanced up, seeing oscar’s face stern. “i don’t know why you’re doubting yourself, you’re a mega driver. you won a sprint race in your rookie season, and you’ve bagged multiple podiums already. you’ve got what it takes.”

“it’s not that,” you sighed, fingers folding and unfolding the corner of your debrief paper as if the paper would give you answers. “it’s just- i want to win, but there’s so many things out of my control that could go wrong, and that’s… pretty intimidating.”

if possible, oscar’s eyes softened as he glanced at you, setting the pen he had been clicking nonstop for the past few minutes down. “i’m not going to tell you that you shouldn’t feel intimidated, but you also shouldn’t feel like you don’t have control,” your race engineer said, the gentlest you’d seen him. “you and i know that we can’t let crucial moments come to us, you have to make them. and i know you can, so if you’re ready, let’s debrief so you can win tomorrow.” you glanced up at him, taking a moment to mull it over. oscar was right, you of course knew that, but seeing oscar this encouraging struck you differently.

“i thought you weren’t supposed to help the other side in bets?” you joked, an attempt to lighten the mood. in return, oscar rolled his eyes, snorting.

“well this is kind of my job.”

it was race day, the umbrella over your car shielding you from the hungarian sun and prying eyes.

“you, uh, good?” oscar asked, leaning over the halo to look at you, rays of sunlight peaking over his head like a crown. today, he was extra diligent in checking in with you, making sure you were in the right mindset. and you appreciated it, having someone care amidst the draining cycle of interviews, pr activities, debriefs, and training. it was steadying; grounding, almost.

“yeah, i’m fine,” you replied under your helmet, visor up. “everything looking good?”

oscar blinked at you, as if he were confused why you were asking that. “since you last asked before you got into the car, yes, nothing broke,” he snorted. maybe it was just you, but oscar seemed more sarcastic this weekend. you wondered what got him in the mood—maybe lando forcing him to stop eating salmon during debriefs. “anyways, formation lap is about to start, but just remember to keep your cool.”

“i always do,” you grinned, knowing it was a complete lie. oscar, of course, knew it too.

“right, silly me,” he deadpanned, patting your helmet once before leaving with the rest of your pit crew. 

now it was just you and nineteen other drivers, itching to start.

the formation lap went by quickly, your mind dangerously wandering down the road of all the possible outcomes. the scenarios blurred by, your grip on the steering wheel tightening. the radio crackled, and “all good?” came from the other side.

“‘m fine,” you said, pulling yourself out of that headspace and taking a steadying breath. focus. speed, i am speed, your brain continued, making you smile.

it was just you and lando, awaiting the start on the front row. you could feel the anticipation, the collective breath held by fans. the lights went on, your foot anxiously waiting, and then it was lights out. away you went.

your foot went down on the pedal, and you knew you’d gotten the better start. you got the inside line down the straight, managing to pick your way past lando in the corner to snag the lead of the race, braking late enough to make the move stick.

holy shit.

you were in first after turn one. in your periphery, you saw the red bull of max verstappen run wide while moving ahead of lando.

“nice one,” oscar said after the first lap, smile evident in his voice. “alright, good job, drs enabled soon.”

you replied with a “copy,” but were more focused on increasing the gap. you did not want max verstappen closing in on you with drs.

glancing in your mirrors as you pulled further ahead, you saw max giving lando the place back, more assured that mclaren was going to have it’s 1-2.

as the laps went by, you were almost relaxed, like it was just a nice summer drive. if only. you were watching after your tyres, oscar occasionally giving you bits of advice.

“cars behind will soon build pit windows to stroll in p7. this would be a good opportunity to pull away if you can,” oscar suggested.

“copy, how far of a gap?” you asked, making your turns more clinical, less lax from how you were previously driving.

“i’ll let you know,” he assured you. “for now, we just need you to pull ahead.”

“gotcha.”  and with that, you were flying. spiritually. metaphorically. whatever.

after a while, it was cruising again before oscar asked, “are you happy with the front wing?”

“er, yeah, ‘s good,” you responded, anticipating a pit stop based on his question. “maybe down half if you’re getting nitpicky.”

as predicted, oscar told you to box and you did, peeling into the pits. you got on some new hards in a tidy stop and were sent back on your way. now you were in the top five, managing your tyres while praying to the motorsport gods that the strategy wasn’t fucked.

luckily, you watched as the cars in front of you pitted as the laps went on, confidence slowly seeping back into your veins. as you watched the ferrari ahead dive into the pits, you took in a breath, knowing you were back in the lead.

“leclerc has pitted, so you now have clear air. tyre management looks similar across cars. you're doing a really good job,” oscar reported. you blinked under your helmet. what was in the hungarian air because oscar was clearly less stoic this weekend?

“thanks, osc,” you replied, comfortable enough with the race to joke around. “you sure i’m not giving you grey hairs?”

you heard a snort before oscar chuckled, “well, can’t say that you aren’t, but don’t let me hold you back.” under your helmet, you let out a laugh, though you hadn’t pressed the radio button.

the laps went on when you saw lando peel into the pits. “what’s happening? do i need to box?” you asked. oscar hadn’t said anything about the next round of pitting, which had made you assume everything was fine.

“lando boxed to cover hamilton. we need best pace now. don't worry about lando,” oscar replied, yet even as he said it, his voice was tight. you called bullshit.

“fuck, don’t tell me-” that lando’s undercutting me. the words were on your tongue, though you didn’t dare to voice them, mindful that radios could be broadcast.

“yes,” oscar said tersely, the way he tended to talk when he was figuring out an issue. closing your radio, you swore, bewildered as to why the fuck they were undercutting lando.

“oscar, what’s the gap to hamilton?” you questioned, voice tight. the last time he had updated you, it was thirty seconds, which was more than enough.

“over half a minute.” so what the fuck were mclaren playing at?

“any reason why we didn’t pit?” you were close to snapping, thinly veiling the accusation as an innocent question.

“i’ll check,” oscar sighed, sounding as defeated as you. “box this lap.”

“the fuck?” you scoffed, unable to restrain your temper. “at least give me a chance to undo the undercut.”

“i’m sorry, but we need to box,” oscar told you, a wince evident in his voice. you wanted to scream in frustration, but did as instructed and went into the pits to put on some mediums.

as you headed out onto the track, lo and behold, you were behind lando. “fucking hell,” you cursed, jabbing the radio button with your thumb so they could hear you. “how far am i from hamilton?”

“er, three point seven seconds.” what the actual fuck. “verstappen pitting now.”

you gritted your teeth, any thoughts of tyre preservation thrown out the window. this was not going to be the way you lost a race win. mind focused, you set off on lapping faster, braking later, and controlling your steering.

“okay, so lando’s going to swap positions when we get up, but for now, we don’t want him losing a lot of race time,” oscar informed you.

“mate, he’s trying to set flying laps, if you hadn’t noticed,” you retorted. “how do you want me to catch up without destroying my tyres? i dunno how he’s going to nurse his tyres later.”

“will is, uh, talking to him.” oscar tried to assure you, but with no sign of slowing in lando’s pace, it did nothing.

as the laps dwindled to the last nine, you grew increasingly irritated. “he’s not swapping, is he?” you questioned.

“will’s…on it,” oscar winced. “maximum focus, we need best pace.” you almost rolled your eyes at that; you were looking after your tyres.

“so no tyre management?” you confirmed.

“nope, last few laps,” he stated.

and that was all you needed to hear. you could feel the gap shrinking, lando’s car growing bigger and bigger in your view. the fuck was everyone thinking, acting as if you hadn’t taken the lead of the race into turn one and led it the whole time. fuck them.

soon, you were on the rear wing of lando when oscar let you know, “three laps to go, lando’s letting you through.” finally. though, in full honesty, you weren’t mad at lando. sure, you felt that it was your win, but mclaren were the ones who fucked up the strategy when they had the time to do it the other way. no, lando saw an opportunity and took it; to be honest, you couldn’t say you wouldn’t do the same if you were him.

and you obviously weren’t blaming oscar. you trusted him to fight for you, as evident from his radio messages. there was no doubt in your mind– he was just the messenger.

you were back into p1, though it didn’t send the same shivers down your spine as it had back on lap one. oscar occasionally updated you on the last two laps, but it was all background noise.

between your frustration and confusion, elation rose in your chest. elation for your first race win. you were actually going to win this thing.

as the last lap wound down, your heart drummed wildly as you rounded the last corner, a smile working its way onto your face. you crossed the chequered flag, letting out a shocked breath.

holy shit.

you just won your first f1 race. you did it. you won. but that adrenaline very quickly faded as you recounted the headache of a race that led to it.

“p1, p1,” oscar reported, and you swore you could hear pride in his voice, though you couldn’t say that you felt like celebrating.

“yeah, thanks to everyone here and back at the factory. nice one-two for the team, despite the hurdles,” you responded, unable to resist adding that little jab in there. “first win in the books, thank you.”

in parc ferme, you took your time getting out, not to rein in your excitement but rather your anger; this was not like lando in miami. you obviously couldn’t pull a danny ric suzuka 2018 despite wanting to. per tradition, you got up on your car and pumped a fist before hopping off and walking over to the team. yeah, this definitely was not like miami.

passing by team members, you stopped when you reached oscar. your visor was up so you could see the apology in his gaze as you let him see your frustration. “thanks, osc,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder briefly, letting him pull you in for a hug, and patting him on the back. in exchange, he let you process, recharge your batteries, and reset your headspace for a moment

“hey, mega job out there,” he said quietly beside your helmet. you could hear the apology in his voice, the ‘i’m sorry you had to go through that,’ and you squeezed his shoulder for a split second.

nodding, you went back and took off your helmet while making yourself look presentable, watching as lewis was being interviewed by nico rosberg. ironic, especially considering today’s events.

lando went up, and you internally winced as you heard the disappointment in his voice. you and lando got along well, so you felt for him, your heart feeling a little cagey.

finally, you were up and handed a mic, doing your best to smile at nico. “congrats,” the german said. “first formula one win on a sunday. how awesome does that feel?”

and with that, you were truly grinning. “very, very awesome,” you beamed. “this is what we all dream of as kids, and to be able to get a win is really special. obviously the end was, uh, a bit complicated, but i managed to get a good start and from there we were able to get the win. of course, i have to give props to my team for giving me a car to drive, lando for helping me grow as a driver, and oscar for being the voice of reason.”

“and how impressed are you with the car that mclaren has given you at this moment?” nico continued. “i mean, it just looks phenomenal out there.”

“pretty damn impressed,” you chuckled, the sound loaded with emotion. “for starter, if you looked at us last year in bahrain to now, with a one-two here in hungary, it’s been a hell of a ride with ups and downs.”

“speaking of the one-two, it seemed like the team orders situation was a bit out of control. how worried were you that lando might not actually let you pass?” nico pressed. jesus christ, what a question. you had to give it to him, the man knew how to stir up shit. part of you wanted to throw it back at nico, ask him about his experiences with team orders with lewis, but it was a fleeting thought.

“yeah, it was a bit hairy, but everything got resolved,” you answered, choosing your words carefully. you knew it was a thin line that you were walking. one small misstep and headlines would be plastered all over the internet. “i would’ve felt the same as lando, y’know, but it worked out in the end.”

nico nodded, eyes darting to cast a brief judgmental glance at the team before smiling at you. he was on your side, thank god. “well, congrats on the maiden win,” he said.

“thank you,” you replied, smiling. walking back over to the team, you took a sip of water and asked oscar, “you’d tell me if i fucked up, right?”

oscar scrunched his nose slightly, the microexpression new to you. “you’re going to need to specify,” he deadpanned, leaning on the metal barrier. “there’s a lot you could be referring to.”

“oi, shut up,” you protested, half-heartedly hitting his arm. “but for real, you’d let me know if i said the wrong thing, right, osc?” the question kind of manifested itself; you just needed someone to tell you that you hadn’t messed up the team dynamic, that you hadn’t royally screwed up and fed into the media’s crap by supplying clickbait headlines.

oscar gave you a confused look, as to why you were asking if he would randomly assume the job of your pr manager as extra work, a question that you didn’t even know the answer to yourself. he shrugged. “yeah, of course.”

“you’re lying,” you laughed, still on the high of winning. idly, you adjusted your hat, needing something to do now that you weren’t driving a formula one car.

“no, it’s just, i reckon it would reflect poorly on me somehow,” oscar chuckled, and seriously, what the hell was happening? because your race engineer was joking and laughing all weekend when he would normally have his chill and neutral demeanor on.

“typical,” you snorted, rolling your eyes. “hey, aren’t you coming on the podium?”

the corner of oscar’s mouth twitched, as if itching to flatten into a straight line. “i, uh think andrea is going up since it’s a one-two.”

your brain seemed empty as you searched for a response, settling on a classy and sophisticated “oh.” then you continued, “i guess that’s fine. but i think you should be up there in my unbiased opinion.”

oscar let out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners, and had he ever laughed this hard at something you’ve said? if you had looked at him now, you wouldn’t even be able to tell that he was a quiet, collected person you’ve known for a season and a half. giving oscar a thumbs up, you went down to the cooldown room and instantly regretted doing so.

your eyes landed immediately on lando’s cap on the ground and the slight wince lewis had, presumably from his own trauma. well, shit.

you pressed your lips together, shuffling to your seat next to lewis. the race highlights started to play, and you watched attentively as a way to escape the frosty tension. lewis seemed to pick up on the lack of words between you and your teammate, starting to comment on the race. you jumped in, grateful for the distraction as you and lando added little pieces of commentary. granted, it was still awkward, but between wincing as max went over lewis’ tyre and watching a ferrari and a red bull duke it out, it was better. thank goodness for lewis hamilton.

as you headed to the podium, lewis seemed to want nothing to do with his old hauntings and booked it out of the cooldown room. that left you and lando walking in line with each other. casting a quick glance at him, you saw that he was looking back at you as well. “so…” you dragged out, unsure what your teammate would say.

“y’know i’m not mad at you, right?” lando asked, dragging a hand through his unkempt curls and down his face. “just pissed that it was so messy when it didn’t have to be.” your older teammate let out a sigh, eyes cast upwards. 

honestly, same.

“it’s how i feel too,” you responded, mouth pinched into a line. looking at him, an apology was on the tip of your tongue, but at the same time, you didn’t say anything. it wasn’t your place to apologize, you had earned that win. if anything, mclaren should be apologizing. “you going to the party tonight?”

“i suppose i will,” lando shrugged, fixing his race suit. “is the team going?”

you nodded. “pretty sure. i mean, even oscar’s going tonight, so full house.” your teammate paused, tilting his head in confusion.

“wait, what do you mean ‘oscar is going'? you know he never goes out.” lando raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out what kind of sorcery you had used.

“it was a bet,” you explained, waving a hand. “he’d never go on his own.” arriving at the podium, you stopped and waited while lewis went out, glancing out while lando blinked, taking in your words.

“sorry, what?  he agreed to a bet?” lando questioned, head tilting. “as in oscar piastri, your race engineer, oscar?”

“yeah?” you replied, eyebrows furrowing. before lando could continue asking you questions, he had to go up on the podium. 

what was the big deal? sure, you knew oscar was a bit of a reserved guy, but surely lando didn’t have to be that theatrical. it was a 1-2 for the team—of course he was going out. and plus, he was your engineer, which meant your win was a cause for celebration for him as well. yeah, that’s what you kept repeating to yourself. it’s not like he was a robot, and a bet was a bet. lando was just being dramatic, you concluded.

regardless, you didn’t have any more time to ponder as you went up to the podium. walking out, the sun hit your eyes a little too strongly, and it was weird seeing your face on the big screen with first place under it. but the cheers of the crowd, the sea of fans, and then standing atop the top step? it was glorious and better than you ever could’ve dreamed up.

when you were little, you used to love going on the swing rides, claiming it felt like flying. you were wrong. this, the feeling of standing on top in victory and having the crowd cheer your name, was soaring; you were soaring. spiritually. metaphorically. whatever.

when the beautiful porcelain trophy was handed to you, you had to restrain yourself from tossing it in the air. you did not want a repeat of last year, and the result of max’s broken trophy. the trophy itself was beautiful, white with rich green swirls that you knew were hand-painted on.

then, your anthem played, your head held high. it was relief, ecstasy. you had done it, you were here. glancing down, your eyes met oscar’s, who gave you a smile and a thumbs up, a swoop of hair falling over his forehead. he should be up here. yeah, it did make sense for andrea to come with you and lando since it was a 1-2, but also, it was your first race win. oscar deserved to be here with you.

before you knew it, it was time for champagne, with lewis on your left and lando on your right. you shook the bottle, taking it all in as you were drenched. andrea joined in, much to your amusement. the confetti fell—red, white, and green rain as you soaked it all in.

but if oscar were here, he’d probably awkwardly stand to the side until you went over and started drenching him. he’d chuckle and probably surprise you by dumping the champagne on your head, citing how it was a rite of passage. oscar would politely clink his bottle with yours, and you’d grin at him, and you didn’t know where your brain was going with this, but—

you wished oscar were here. you wanted oscar to be here with you, to share this moment with him.

after the picture, you hopped off the podium and back to the pits, eager to be back with the team. as you returned, champagne bottle in hand, the garage erupted into cheers; mechanics, engineers, marketing—they were all huddling around you to extend their personal congratulations. 

you didn’t care for them right now. making your way to the front, your eyes met warm chocolate. as oscar saw you, his eyes widened a fraction for a brief second, the way he did when he heard something particularly interesting or surprising. “osc!” you grinned, shaking the remnants of what champagne you had left, some fizz spraying onto oscar’s shirt. he just stood there, a fond look of incredulity on his face as he didn’t move. shaking his head, your race engineer leaned forward to let the champagne drip onto the ground, chuckling.

“you couldn’t have waited until after team photos?” he asked with a sigh, eyes still crinkled at the corners from smiling.

“you know me,” you snickered, patting him a tad too hard on the back.

“unfortunately, i do.” oscar rolled his eyes as you shuffled over to where the rest of the team was getting ready to take the picture. grinning wide, you slung an arm around oscar and your number one mechanic as you held up a finger, careful not to poke your engineer.

once the picture was done, you jumped, feeling cold liquid seep down your spine. twisting around, you saw oscar dumping a bottle of champagne, a shit-eating grin on his face. you gave him a choice finger, dodging out of his reach. safe, you thought. wrong. your race engineer shook the bottle once, twice, and pointed it right at you.

you think you yelped as you scrambled off, dodging past papaya personnel, laughing with oscar on your heels. as you kept going down the pit lane, you stopped when ferrari team members were in the way, turning around and being met with a face of champagne. “wow, lovely. thanks, osc,” you said sarcastically, wiping your face as you two headed back to mclaren.

“had to get you back,” oscar shrugged, a faint smug grin on his face. “and i told you that you had this in the bag.”

“yeah, but you lost the bet,” you snorted as you arrived back at your garage. “you have to come out with us tonight.”

“pretty sure i was going the be forced either way.” oscar simply blinked with a nonchalance that you were still trying to understand. “i mean, it is a one-two.”

“okay, i get it,” you scoffed, waving him off with faux annoyance. “you’re a witch and you saw the outcome in your crystal ball, gotcha. we ought to pull a salem witch trial.”

you heard a laugh, turning around to see oscar folded over, shoulders quaking. you’d never heard this, a true, gleeful laugh. but it made you smile, made you feel like you were in on a secret where oscar laughed at your very extremely funny jokes.

“mate, it wasn’t that funny,” you protested, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

that only made oscar snicker, turning around as will called for him. “to each their own,” he responded. taking a step towards will, he hesitated, turning back to make sure you hadn’t left. his eyes were softer, chocolate syrup rather than chestnut with a gleam of amusement. “see you later tonight?”

“yeah,” you nodded, unsure why your voice dropped in volume as well, ignoring all of the mclaren personnel moving around you.

the venue was packed; soft music floated over the hum of chatter, and champagne flutes were in most people’s hands as they talked to each other. as you arrived, team members raised their glasses to you with the occasional cheering while you smiled and thanked them awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. after all, it was your first time doing all this on such a large scale.

you had already spent an hour deliberating on your outfit before settling with orange because, c’mon, it was a mclaren party after all. you flitted around absentmindedly, stopping for a quick chat with andrea, zak, and lando. but as ten minutes passed, oscar was still nowhere to be seen. (well, that’s what you thought since you definitely weren’t checking.)

then, the tap of cool fingers on your shoulder made you almost jump, whirling around to see who it was. warm chocolate eyes met yours, instantly giving you an answer. “you’re late,” you teased, raising an eyebrow at his simple fit of a white button down and some khaki shorts.

oscar let out a strangled chuckle, fingers running through his swooped hair as he leaned in to hear you better over the noise. “yeah, didn’t know what to wear and had last-minute second thoughts.” he pursed his lips and did that scrunkle thing with his face when he was uncertain. you mentally paused for a second, taking in oscar’s appearance. sure, he looked polished and pristine from the outside, but you weren’t just anybody. he was your engineer, you were his driver.

you noticed how he shoved his hands in his pockets, hesitant. you noticed how his eyes would occasionally drift before settling back on you. you noticed how he was rocking on the balls of his feet, something he only did as he was watching telemetry data during crucial testing or tense moments when you were driving.

you noticed oscar piastri. and now you couldn’t stop noticing him. you remembered how he had squeezed your shoulder when you won the sprint in qatar, a smile on his face. you thought back to how gently he spoke when you were on the verge of tears after a disappointing qualifying session in your rookie season, one hand steadying your back. but most of all, how he was always there for you in your corner, with his soft eyes and princely swooped hair.

holy fuck. this—this was dangerous. you were in love with your race engineer. it was a bad idea, you knew that. it would feed headlines for the rest of the season, distract you and the team, and end up with oscar losing his job, plus his career. you would love him, and then eventually, mclaren would take him away. you knew that.

“you want some champagne?” you offered, turning towards the bar. oscar quickly shook his head, a curl falling over his forehead, making your heart pang.

“nah, i prefer sprite,” oscar shrugged. you nodded, heading over to the bar and asking for a sprite. you were the race winner; there was no way the bartender could’ve said no.

the can was still cold, metal chilling and condensation beading up and dripping down your hand. maybe it was your imagination, it likely was, but as you handed oscar the drink, it turned red in your vision. crimson trickled down your wrist as veins and arteries stuck out. you could feel the gentle pulse, thrumming in your hand.

carefully, you held your bleeding heart out to oscar, hoping he’d take care of it now that you had given it to him. with a precise yet gentle movement, he took it with two hands, as if you had given him a trophy rather than a can of sprite. or was it your heart? you couldn’t tell at this point.

and then you forced yourself to snap out of it. oh god, you were hallucinating. giving oscar a quick nod, you turned and headed for the little outdoor area where less people were. this was too risky, too reckless. and sure, sometimes you drove like it, but this was too uncalculated, even for you.

exhaling, you leaned against the wall, a hand on your head in an attempt to steady your thoughts. not a moment, oscar came into your peripheral, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “hey, are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer to try and see what was wrong. “did you have too much to drink?”

you shook your head, words still struggling to form from the weight of it all. and also because oscar was dangerously close to you. but you chose not to think too much about that. “i haven’t had any alcohol,” you managed to get out. you stood up properly and promptly decided to sit back down on a bench, basking in the cool evening air and the faint moon, a hole of light in the star-scattered sky. after a slow breath, you had calmed down and collected your thoughts, turning to face oscar, who had wordlessly sat down next to you. “i didn’t drink any alcohol because i want to remember every moment from tonight, not forget it all in a hangover.”

your stomach underwent metamorphosis, butterflies bursting to life as oscar dragged his gaze from the full moon to you, soft lighting hitting his face perfectly. “i think i would do the same,” he nodded, something deeper than understanding in his eyes, something softer. blinking, you turned back to the sky, hoping that if you just avoided the issue, everything would be fine.

“i wouldn’t have won without you.” the words left your mouth without prelude, and you kept your eyes trained forward. “so thank you. i don’t thank you enough.” you could feel oscar looking at you, his calm gaze burning your skin.

“i don’t think that’s true,” he responded after a beat of silence as if gathering his thoughts like he did with his post-it notes after a debrief. “i think you would’ve won anyway. you’re a mega driver and a fighter too.”

that got a smile out of you, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards even as you tried to stay cool. “still, i don’t think many other race engineers have the courage to go and ask the team about team orders on my behalf,” you protested, determined not to let oscar sell himself short. “and you always know where i can find more time, and you say the right thing. osc, i mean it, i wouldn’t have won without you.”

this time, you glanced over at him, watching as the tips of his ears flush pink as a bashful smile filled his face. “thanks,” he murmured. “glad i ended up working with you.”

oh your heart. he couldn’t just say things like that because then it would cause you to say irrational things. your cheeks flushed as you fidgeted with your hands, heart setting a flying lap. silence fell over you two before you said, “y’know, i wish you were on the podium with me today. would’ve made it perfect.”

a flicker of surprise crossed oscar’s face, a fond smile forming. “yeah?” he asked, voice soft. “still got to see you on the top step. i’m so proud of you.” his hand went to squeeze your shoulder, the gesture making your head spin.

“are you going to leave mclaren?” you blurted. your brain had just said what came to mind, what you wanted to know, one of the fears nagging at your brain. with the win, you had started to notice how easy things were with oscar, how you enjoyed his presence, and if he were just to leave, you didn’t know if you could handle that. you turned away from oscar, mortally embarrassed that you apparently had no brain-to-mouth filter.

oscar opened his mouth and closed it, caught wildly off-guard, eyebrows furrowing in a way that really shouldn’t make your heart pang. “what? why would i be leaving mclaren?” your engineer asked, slightly panicked and confusion evident with the way he tilted his head, trying to deduce why you would say that with his engineering ways.

you shook your head, still not meeting his eyes. “never mind, stupid question.” your voice was clipped, nails picking at the hem of your dress. now, the silence engulfed the conversation, a black hole that you wished would take you with it.

“hey, it wasn’t stupid, something’s wrong,” oscar frowned, shifting forward to meet your gaze. “you know i’m here for you.” his hand came to gently pat your back, fingers warm through the fabric of your dress. if you weren’t here messing things up, you’d think it was romantic, even.

“i don’t want you to leave, osc. like ever,” you said, voice quiet to the point where it was barely audible. “i don’t want any other race engineer.” the implication hung heavy with your words, the stars blinking at you as you stared at them. turning back, you watched oscar’s eyes widen a fraction as realization settled in them. too late, now you had gone and messed things up permanently. but, you supposed there wasn’t a way to make things worse. “i want you to keep using that stupid mclaren corporate pen to debrief. i want you to keep telling me that i’m doing okay after rough sessions. i want to keep bugging you to come out to clubs during track walks. i want you to keep believing in me, osc. i couldn’t stop thinking about you on the podium; i always can’t stop thinking about you. i really like you but i know you wouldn’t want to fuck up your career and i respect that. but you’re the reason i’m here, and i can’t stop thinking about you.”

you were rambling, the kind you did when you got panicky and didn’t know what to do. oscar blinked once. twice. he was waiting, and it left you wondering if you needed to clarify. and then he moved, hand cupping your cheek as he looked at you, brown eyes scanning your face, lips dangerously close to your own. “i thought i was going crazy,” he admitted softly. “i’d admired you while telling myself that all you needed me to do was analyze the data. but you’re so amazing and you inspire me every day. i don’t care what the team says, i’ve waited too long for this.” he licked his lips, an unfiltered longing on his face as his gaze dropped down your face. “can i kiss you now?”

one second you were nodding your head, the next, oscar’s lips were against yours, reaction time almost rivaling yours. butterflies instantly threatened to break out of your stomach as his lips were warm and soft, one of his hands finding a home on your waist to tug you closer, as if he was afraid that you would drift away. your hand finally wove into the hair you had admired for some time, one wrapped around oscar’s neck to pull him down to you.

you pulled back, catching your breath, as oscar leaned forward and pecked your lips one, two, three times, making your knees weak despite sitting. and it all sunk in—oscar had kissed you. that caused you to break into a smile, mouth curving upward on its own volition. it felt surreal, like you were in a lucid dream. but then oscar reached for your hand, squeezing it as his fingers intertwined with yours to give you something to ground yourself.

“so,” oscar started, eyes crinkling as he gave you a soft smile. “if that happens every time you win, you should really try to win the championship.” you laughed, hitting his chest playfully.

“oh, shut up,” you snorted, leaning into his side. instinctively, oscar’s arm came to wrap around shoulder, keeping you close. you could tell how relaxed he was, a stark difference to how he was months ago. “you don’t know how much i’ve been wanting to do that.”

oscar’s eyes flitted down to you, a smile so fond, and sickeningly sweet on his face that made you melt. “i’m flattered,” he chuckled, reaching forward and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a gesture that made your heart flutter at how gentle he was.

your gaze turned back to the stars, beautiful though they had nothing on oscar. letting out a contented sigh, you turned back to find oscar observing you with a shy grin, fingers still tangled with yours. leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his in a lazy kiss because you had time. even though you’d have to face the team again, if you didn’t know what was going to happen, you kissed him gently under the stars—you had all night.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Eighteen

Series Masterlist

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The factory isn’t quiet, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s slipping into late afternoon and the sun’s already disappeared, casting long shadows across the mezzanine and throwing the aluminum banisters into soft relief. Most of the lights on the engineering floor are set to low power, but the glow of monitors still pulses behind frosted glass walls- slim bands of white-blue cutting through the dim like runway lights.

You walk slowly, tin tucked under one arm, the lid clinking gently against the edge with every step. There are only a few people still in, mostly aero guys- half-tired, half-hyper- working out final tweaks on next year’s car. The RB19 diagrams have been pinned up to the forefront of the workshop like some sacred relic. Everyone's itching for January. When the calendar flips, wind tunnel time restarts from period 6 to period 1, and this becomes a body. A beast.

You pass by Alessandro’s desk and pause.

He’s still there, hunched over a rendering, thumb pressed into the edge of his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping his skull upright. He doesn’t look up at first- just keeps scrolling, scrolling, the muscles in his jaw twitching subtly.

You knock lightly on the frame of the partition with your knuckle. “You’ll go cross-eyed.”

He glances up, startled- then softens. “You’re still here?”

You just shrug and lift the tin slightly. “I live here- what’s your excuse?”

That earns a faint smirk. “Trapped by love,” he mutters, gesturing lazily toward the screen. “Or masochism. Jury’s out.”

You step into the space and perch on the edge of his desk, knees barely brushing the underside of a pile of CAD printouts. You set the tin down between you and flick the latch open with your thumb.

The smell hits instantly- warm vanilla, browned butter, something like toasted sugar. Familiar. Comforting.

Alessandro tilts his head. “What’s this?”

“Cookies,” you say simply, nudging the tin his way. “Holiday tradition. Heart failure. Family recipe.”

He raises a skeptical brow but selects one anyway, carefully avoiding the ones with slightly cracked edges like it matters. He takes a bite. Chews once. Stops. And then- “Holy shit,” he says around a mouthful, sitting back like the chair suddenly reclined. “You made these? In our kitchen?” You nod. “They’re- ” He holds the half-eaten cookie up like it’s evidence. “They’re perfect.”

You grin. “My talents are many.” 

He chuckles- low and genuine- and shifts his chair slightly to the side, angling toward you like this is just... normal. Like this is what people do on Christmas Eve. Talk. Share sugar. Pretend the world doesn’t feel quite so hollow without family in it.

Alessandro leans back in his chair, still chewing the last bite of cookie like it might buy him time to phrase the question gently. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, then eyes you sideways- not unkind, just curious.

“So,” he says, voice low, easy, “you’re really not doing anything tonight?”

You shrug, careful with the motion. “Not tonight, no.”

You mean it to sound casual. Light. Like it doesn’t matter. Like this- perched on the corner of a desk, surrounded by aero renderings and wiring diagrams, wearing two-day-old mascara and passing out cookies like a Girl Scout- is exactly what you had planned all along.

And maybe it is. In a way.

“But,” you continue, tapping the edge of the cookie tin with one nail, “Gavin’s picking me up tomorrow. Christmas dinner with his family.”

Alessandro’s expression flickers- surprise, then something warmer. “No shit?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m going to help pack up their place afterward, too.”

He frowns. “Pack up?”

Oh. He hadn’t heard yet. “They’re moving,” you say, smile tugging at your lips now, this time real. “Got the job. Officially. My race engineer next season.”

Alessandro lets out a low whistle, mouth parting. “Damn.” He shakes his head, impressed. “Good for him.”

“Good for me,” you correct. “I get to drag someone I actually like with me to Faenza.”

That part’s true, and easy to say. You are over the moon. Having Gavin- brilliant, intuitive, work-himself-to-the-bone Gavin- by your side next year is the first thing that’s made this whole F1 seat feel remotely survivable. He’s the one who came sprinting across the paddock at Zaandvoort like his life depended on it to make sure you got a second shot in the car last season. It’s not just comforting. It’s foundational. Like maybe you won’t have to claw your way through every corner of the paddock alone anymore.

But even now, even saying it, something flickers under your ribs.  “I’m really lucky,” you add. Quietly. Like you’re trying to remind yourself.

And you are. You know that. You have a contract. You have plans for Christmas. Either is more than a lot of people get. Being wanted, welcomed, at someone’s table, even if you’ve never been there before.

It’s not nothing.

But it’s not home.

And now, with Alessandro looking at you like he’s not buying the cool-girl act you’ve been wearing all day, something small unravels. Just a little. He laughs under his breath, then quiets. “Still. Kind of a bummer, isn’t it? Spending Christmas Eve here?”

You pause. Look down at your hand, where your thumb is still idly rubbing at the side of the tupperware.  Then you shrug again, like it’s nothing. “It’s fine. I like it here.” And you do. Mostly.

You like the quiet. The familiar hum of the engineering bay. The ghost of adrenaline soaked into every hallway and blueprint. You like the feeling of proximity to something important. You even like the way the factory floor smells like machine oil and ozone from the welder and burnt rubber.

But underneath that- underneath the thin shell of practical gratitude and easy deflection- is the ache.

The kind that sits behind your ribs and presses in when the day winds down and there’s nothing left to distract you. When you’re not watching sector deltas or coordinating logistics or elbow-deep in data. When you remember what this night usually is.

And now?

Now there’s a cookie tin. A paper napkin. And Alessandro, kind and warm and here- but not family. Not staying. You press your palms against the edge of the desk and tilt your head, offering him an easy smile. “Tomorrow’ll be good. I’m excited.” 

And you are. Just not for tonight. You’re not going to cry about it.

It’s just Christmas, afterall.

Alessandro finishes the last bite of his cookie with a satisfied hum, then glances at the time. Something about the look makes your stomach drop a little, like you already know what he’s going to say.

He closes his laptop with a soft snap, tucks it away into his bag, and begins the quiet ritual of shutting down for the night. His coat goes on. His scarf. The leftover coffee in his mug is dumped unceremoniously into the trash can. You stay perched on the edge of his desk, still loosely holding the cookie tin, still pretending- successfully or not- that this doesn’t feel like something ending.

He pauses once everything’s packed and looks at you with that slight tilt of his head, the way these geeky types sometimes do when they’re not quite sure how to be kind without making it awkward.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, not patronizing.

You offer him your best smile- it’s not quite real but it’s good enough to fool people who don’t know you very well. “Yeah. ‘Course. Tell your wife I said merry Christmas.”

He raises a hand in a lazy wave as he heads toward the side door. “Wish me luck with the monster-in-laws.”

And then he’s gone.

Just… gone.

The door clicks closed and the space feels louder in the absence of his presence. You shift your weight, still sitting on the desk like maybe if you just don’t move, you won’t have to feel the silence creeping in.

Eventually, you slide off and make your way back into the corridor. The lighting is softer now- half the overheads switched off, casting everything in a faint, dusky amber. You find one of the composite techs by the copy machine- Kai, maybe? You think that’s his name. You’ve seen him around the floor, always head down, always polite. You offer him a cookie wordlessly, and he blinks at you, surprised, before murmuring a thank you and retreating to whatever last task he’s wrapping up. No conversation. No warmth. Just transactional.

One more person gone a few minutes later.

In the fabrication area, someone’s still fiddling with a mounting bracket. You don’t recognize his name, but you recognize the stress in his shoulders. You drop two cookies on the corner of his worktable as you pass and keep walking before he can say thank you.

You’re halfway back to the lobby before you realize you’re walking slower than before. Like every step closer to being alone is something heavy dragging behind you. A weight in your heart, not your body.

The factory is thinning. You hear it in the way your sneakers echo more now. Feel it in the way every automatic door you pass slides open with a sound that seems louder than it should. No phones, no chatter, no coffee machines to take the edge off the silence.

It’s Christmas Eve, and all around you, the walls feel like they’re expanding- one more person leaving, one more laugh fading, one more emotional mile placed between you and a house full of people yelling over each other to pass the gravy.

You imagine the noise. The chaos. The messy kitchen with five different casseroles warming. Someone defending the cookie tray from kids and husbands up to no good. The lights too low. The music too high. The fireplace screaming, the stove overworked, and the windows fogged.

Your mom’s garish wrapping paper. Your brother’s Christmas Coffee that will get you fucked up in a hurry. The smell of cloves and cinnamon and a brisket smoked for a half-day. Someone yelling from the porch that the dogs are in the garbage. Your dad yelling that it definitely isn’t his dog (it is, God bless you, Chili.) A kitchen too full. A living room too loud. A chair saved for you, even when you were halfway across the country.

Maybe they saved you one tonight. The thought kills you.

Upstairs, the dorm hallway is empty- just the low hum of the lights and the leftover smell from your cookies wafting from the communal kitchen. You shoulder your dorm door open with more force than needed, half out of habit, half out of wanting something to resist. Something tangible to shove this feeling into.

Twenty-two Chrismas Eve’s you’ve lived through- all loud, some with family arguments that got a little too personal, one in Florida, some you were too young to remember. But you’re certain you’ve never wanted one to be over so badly. One where you crawl into bed at -you check the time on your phone- 5:13 P.M. and pull the covers over your head and pray you sleep twelve hours through. 

But there’s this little part of you- this nagging, stubborn part- that begs you to see it the whole way through. To do Christmas, even if it’s not doing you. Fuck this. You’re drinking. At the very least it’ll get you to sleep faster. You kick off your sneakers and move straight for the bed, crouching low to dig out the half-case of Cab Sauvs from home. Your mom had shipped them out the week after Thanksgiving, and they had only arrived last week.

Six bottles. A folded note still tucked inside the flaps, her handwriting looping like a ribbon:

“Figured you might want a little something to make it feel like home. We miss you. Love you, Sweetpea.” – Mom & Dad

You take them out one by one, lining them up along the narrow desk in a little private ritual.

14 Hands. A classic. Everyone in the state drinks it- restaurants, weddings, PTA fundraisers. A good workhorse bottle. Then Chateau St. Michelle - solid, if a bit over-represented. Your mom probably snagged both at Costco for 10 bucks a pop. Good filler bottles. Good “drinking by myself, but it’s not a special occasion” bottles. Nice.

Then a Prosser one, a boutique label you’ve never seen with a hand-drawn label of a painted hillside. You hold it for a moment longer. She must’ve asked someone at the shop for a recommendation. Or guessed. Either way, it’s hopeful.

Next, the hometown wine. Not the best, not by far. But it’s close to the house. You’ve driven past it a hundred times on your way to the feed store or the river. It smells like 21st birthdays and tastes like sneaking a bottle from the house for a 4th of July bonfire. Objectively, terrible. Emotionally, like nostalgia. God, was she trying to make you cry? You move on from it before you can let anything serious take the shape of homesickness. 

And then- the Walla Walla wines. The good shit. Just two. One of them your favorite: a Dunham- deep, heavy, rich with pepper and cedar and something you can never quite name but always know. Your mom never forgets it. It’s the “if she’s having a bad day, open this” bottle. The “she’s on the podium, open this” bottle. The one she keeps on hand for you like some people keep Tylenol.

The last one is another gamble- something she thought you’d like. You probably will. You always do. Her success rate with you is almost alarmingly high.

You arrange them again in order of importance: not by quality, but by comfort. St Michelle on one end, the Dunham on the other. You let yourself sit back on your heels and stare at the row for a long moment. There’s no label that fixes the tight knot behind your breastbone. No vintage that unravels the part of you that wants to be home so badly it hurts. But it helps. A little. Enough.

You don’t let yourself linger in the silence too long. You follow the plan.

The plan you made last week, when it became obvious that no miracle was coming. No last-minute sponsor ticket, no discounted standby flight, no flash of divine intervention that would land you in your mother’s too-warm kitchen, being bullied into a third helping of sweet potato casserole.

You reach for your phone and call the pizza place down the road. It’s a little joint with a crispy crust you like, and they’re still open another three hours. You order a plain cheese- because if it’s going to be a sad Christmas, it might as well be consistent.

And then, you change. If nobody’s going to be around, you might as well dress for it.

You slide another bin out from under the bed, one hand already pulling your ponytail loose as you kneel down. Inside is your usual mess of comfort clothes. You dig through layers of leggings and old Dale Coyne joggers that you’d love to burn if they hadn’t splurged on Nike Pros- pushing past anything too thin or too new. You want something sturdy, but broken in. Soft. Comforting.

Your hand lands on a familiar gray fabric, and you freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough to decide they’re perfect.

You tug the sweatpants free from the bottom of the pile. They’re oversized, stupidly soft, and the lettering down the leg is cracked in the way only a thousand wash cycles can manage- Puerta Performance. You step into them without ceremony, pull them up over your hips. They’re long in the legs and slouch low at your waist, like they were made for someone nearly a foot taller who needed room for balls. They were. 

The fact that they’re not technically yours- that they used to belong to your first boyfriend, Dominic- isn’t something you dwell on. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. You’re still on good terms. Still text. Still sent as many Indy tickets as you could everytime the circus came to town. You don’t think about it too hard. They’ve been your go-to forever. Lived in every closet you’ve had since before Indy, before Japan, before Florida.

The first time you wore them was just after the worst night of your life. Pulled out of a drawer, carefully slid up each leg in a part of his family’s motorhome you had never been allowed to see, a quiet ‘lo siento’ whispered every time you flinched. Wrapped up like giving you the thickest pair of sweats he owned might fix it, somehow. Like clean fabric might make you forget the feeling of someone else’s blood on your firesuit. Might make you forget about cigarettes and police reports and county jails. Might keep you soft. 

It didn’t.

But you didn’t give them back, and he never asked. Not when you wore them on the plane to Florida. Not when you shared pits and podiums and pizza binges. Not when you lived four steps away and shared the same laundry room. Not when you rolled them into the bottom of your bag for Japan and even if it hadn’t been said- he wasn’t going to see them again. He knew it. You knew it. But you were nineteen and a coward.

And racing doesn’t wait for you to grow up and be brave.

You grab a tank top from the back of your chair and pull it on, soft cotton clinging to your skin. Shrug on a zip-up a sponsor gave you that surely costs more than anything you’ve bought for yourself in awhile. 

Welp.

It’s Christmas Eve. You’re dressed like a college student home for break, and the pizza place is still open for another few hours. That’s enough. It has to be, because it’s the best you’ve got. So you pocket your phone, your badge, and pick a bottle of wine.

The one from Prosser.

The Costco bottles don’t feel weighty enough. No doubt drinking a gas-station wine on the floor of your dorm would sum up your misery nicely, but it also feels like wallowing- like you’re trying to be miserable- and you don’t have the energy to be performative about it. You’re not wasting your favorite bottle, either. And the neighbor’s wine- the one from home, the one that tastes like dusk on the back porch and hobby races and post-branding bonfires- might make you cry.

Prosser it is.

The bottle dangles between your fingers, heavy, weighty, right as you descend the stairs and rummage through the break room for a corkscrew. There should be one in here. Surely. The factory hosts enough hushed dinners and churns out enough functioning alcoholics that surely- empty drawer. Empty drawer. Drawer of pens. Spoons. Forks. Random cables and wire nuts (?). Empty drawer. Carving knives. 

You sigh. There’s probably one in storage upstairs, where they keep the linens and cups and knives and all the shiny shit they put out when a sponsor is here, but you’re not doing a lap around the factory. Fuck that. 

You open the cable drawer and root around for the loose screw you spotted in your survey.  No screwdriver. But you've got good grip strength and ran out of fucks to give about a week and half ago. You brace the bottle between your knees and twist it in. One turn. Two. You grind your palm against the screw until the threads disappear and the cork bulges slightly under the strain. Then, carefully- deliberately- you press the heel of your hand down, popping the cork inward with a quiet thup and watch it disappear straight into the red under the added weight of the screw.

That’ll do nicely.

You lift the bottle before you even make it back into the lobby, tilt it, and take a sip straight from the neck. Just a taste.

The wine hits your tongue full-bodied, dark, and velvety. Rich with tannin. A little dry, but not sharp. There’s something peppery at the back- almost smoky- and a soft heat that lingers just long enough to make you want more. Fuck, that’s good. Your mom did good work. Of course she did.

You exhale through your nose, swallow once more for good measure, then set the bottle down on Nicole’s place at the front desk. You hover a moment, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Considering. The wine is good. Too good. Dangerous, even. It’s the kind that invites you to slide down the neck of the bottle without ever looking back- rich enough to pretend it’s dinner.

You take another sip.

Just one more.

You make a soft, involuntary noise- half sigh, half moan- and let the bottle tip back onto the counter with a gentle clink. Your mouth feels warm. Your chest, a little warmer. And for a second, you honestly consider it.

Fuck dinner.

The place is empty. The lighting’s dim. You could curl up in a pleather armchair, work your way through half the bottle, and let the quiet hum of the security system lull you into pretending this lobby is a living room. Pretend you’re not alone. That it’s not Christmas Eve. That the warmth in your stomach is joy, not just cabernet.

You are one- one- minor lapse in executive function away from sitting cross-legged in this sad little lobby, sipping on an empty stomach like a divorced woman on the worst Hallmark set ever built. And honestly? That doesn't sound awful.

You reach for the bottle again. Pause.

“No,” you mutter aloud, like you need to hear it to make it real. “Food first. Be a grown-up.”

You’re not sure whose voice you’re trying to channel, exactly. Maybe your mom. Maybe Gavin. Maybe your own better judgment, wherever she is these days. You drag your hand down your face, give yourself a little shake, and force a deep breath.

“It’ll be even better if I let it breathe,” you reason, already edging toward the door. “Tannin, air, science. All that shit. And I can drink more if I eat first.”

You tug your zip-up tighter, tuck your chin against the collar, and try to make yourself laugh at how pathetic this is. Your big Christmas Eve plan: wine, pizza, and… you open the drawer in the middle of the desk, suddenly remembering- oh, yeah. Coloring sheets. Wine, pizza, and coloring sheets stolen from the reception desk. Hell yeah. Real grown-up hours.

You pull out a stack of them, set them next to your bottle, and make a little stop motion with your hand like ‘stay’ as you back away. Like it all might just grow legs and leave you for Christmas Eve dinner like everyone else did tonight.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you tell it. Then you spin on your heel, hands shoved into your jacket pockets, and head for the door before you change your mind. The automatic doors part with a mechanical hiss, and you step out into the damp, too-warm December night.

Your shoes slap against the wet sidewalk as you cut through the parking lot, hands buried in your jacket pockets, head ducked low like you’re bracing for wind that never comes.

It’s only a five-minute walk, one you’ve done before, but tonight it feels quieter. More hollow. The only sound is the low hum of streetlights and your own footsteps, the distant thrum of tires passing over wet asphalt somewhere beyond the fence.

The pizza shop glows ahead- neon sign flickering a little above the front window, half-lit garlands limp against the glass. The bell over the door jingles when you step inside, startling you just a bit with how loud it sounds in the dead air.

Ghost town.

There are only two people here: a guy in the back by the oven, moving like he’s got music in his ears, and the kid up front- barely more than a teenager, all limbs and nerves, standing behind the counter like he just got hit by a freight train. His eyes go wide the second he sees you, mouth parting just enough to forget what it was doing before.

You clock it immediately. That locked-in, eyes-wide look. The nervous dart to your face, then away again, like he’s seen a ghost- or worse, recognized someone famous. Your stomach drops. 

Fuck. Fuck, no. Not tonight.

But the onlny way out is through, so you pull your wallet from your pocket, step up to the counter. "Can I get a small cheese?"

There’s a beat of silence. Then- “Uh. Yeah. Yep. Of course. Totally.” He types one letter at a time, like you’re going to combust if he presses too fast. His eyes flick to your face, then to your collarbones, then- oh. Yeah.

It hits you mid-breath. Not recognition. He just thinks you’re hot.

You glance down and suddenly see it through his eyes. The tank top clinging like skin. The zipper of your jacket parted just enough to frame your bare collarbones. The waistband of your sweats slouching too low, the hem of your tank just high enough to flash your belly button if you shift wrong.

Jesus. He’s not a fan. He’s a teenage boy with a brain hardwired for boners. And somehow, hilariously, you’re not even annoyed. Not really. You fold your arms across your middle, lean your hip into the counter, and smile just enough to be polite. His ears go pink.

Bless his heart. Poor baby.

You slide your card across the counter. “Takeaway, please.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, right,” he says, like he forgot you ordered anything at all. “The cheese.”

You raise an eyebrow as he slides the receipt toward you, still avoiding eye contact.

You sit, drop onto the hard bench by the window, stretching your legs out with a casual sprawl. The kind that says yes, I know you're looking. He lingers by the counter, pretending to check something on the till. Then straightens up, clears his throat like he’s winding up for a high dive. “So... you’re, um. American, yeah?” You glance up. He flushes immediately. Face and neck. Like you just caught him naked. “I just- the accent and all that-”

“Yeah,” you say. You could help him out a little. Throw him a bone, a detail. A story. But why, when he’s doing such a good job of chewing on his own foot already? 

“Oh. Cool. That’s- cool.”

You let the silence stretch long enough that he fidgets, then fold your arms loosely over your stomach. Honestly, it’s sweet. He’s trying. Not in a creepy way. Just in that innocent, starry-eyed, holy-shit kind of way. It’s been a while since someone spoke to you without knowing who you are. Without a camera in their hand. Without an angle.

He shifts from foot to foot. “You here on holiday, or- ?”

“I live here,” you say, gently. “Work brought me over.”

“Oh. Right. That’s cool.” He pauses, bites the inside of his cheek. “Do you like it?”

You hum. “Sometimes.”

Another beat. He glances toward the back- his coworker still hasn’t come out. He wets his lips. "It’s just that- uh, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but… just didn’t expect someone like you to walk in tonight.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Someone like me?”

He makes a strangled sound. “No- I mean- I just meant- uh, you look really- ” He aborts the sentence entirely.

You smile. Warm. Kind. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

He exhales, visibly relieved. “Right. Cool.” You go back to staring out the window, hiding your grin behind a hand. Poor kid. 

The oven guy finally notices the hold-up at the counter and ambles up, one earbud still in, balancing your pizza box on his palm like it’s piping hot treasure. He doesn’t even look at the kid- just thrusts the box forward and deadpans, “Cheese to go.” The kid takes it with all the coordination of someone handed a live grenade.

And then the older guy’s eyes land on you. There’s a pause. A flick of recognition, maybe. His brow furrows, and he pops the earbud out like he’s going to ask- Are you- ?

But you’re faster. Not hurried, just precise. “Thanks. Happy Christmas,” you say smoothly, plucking the box from the teenager with a sly little grin- one that tugs at the corner of your mouth like you’re in on the best kind of secret.

The man’s mouth opens, a syllable dangling on the edge. You’re already pushing the door open. The bell above jingles again.

Gone.

You’re halfway down the block before you let the smile unfurl into something wider, nearly a laugh as the warmth of it creeps into your shoulders, makes you walk a little taller. There’s a buzz in your veins that has nothing to do with wine or sugar. It’s the kind of hit you’ve always chased, even off-track- leaving people stunned. Scrambling. Remembering.

You don’t necessarily love people knowing who you are all the time. It’s happening more and more. You do, however, love being unforgettable. And they don’t need to know your name for that kid to go back to class after the holidays and brag about the hot older girl that came in on Christmas Eve and totally, trust me bro, definitely, was flirting with him. They don’t need to know your name to be the “Hey, remember that one girl?”

You press your hand flat against the warm cardboard, your dinner tucked under your arm, and grin like you’ve just stolen something. You’re still alone. But you’ve got a pizza, a bottle of wine, and a little giggle out of tonight. That’s one more thing than you planned on getting, and at least your mom won’t kick your ass for drinking before dinner. 

__________________________________________________________________

You’re halfway through your pizza, the crust gone soft in its own warmth, the grease shining faintly. Your wine glass sits nearby- half full now, smudged at the rim, little legs of cabernet curling down the sides like the memory of movement. The Prosser bottle rests where you left it, screw still sunk inside, cork bobbing like a ghost ship on deep red seas.

And you? Well, you made a plan. You’re sticking to it. You’re coloring.

Spa-Francorchamps, lines clean and sharp across printer paper, spread flat in front of you. You’ve got your elbows on the table, one foot tucked beneath you, the other bouncing gently to the quiet rhythm in your head. A green crayon- because apparently that’s what you decided La Source should be- is pinched lightly between your fingers. Absentminded. Almost dreamy.

You don’t really know why you picked Spa. Maybe because it was the first time it felt real. Not just racing- Formula 1. Your name on the time board, not as a curiosity or a backup, but as a driver. Maybe that’s why.

Or maybe you just liked the way the lines curved. Spa always felt like a track someone painted by hand. A little mythical. A little special, even back when you were running it on an Xbox wheel on Forza.

You exhale slow, the kind of breath that rolls out in waves when your chest has been too tight for too long. Days, at least, you think. Maybe weeks, maybe years, but what does it matter. You’re a little warm with wine. You’d shed the jacket a while ago- got too warm, too relaxed to care about anything but comfort.

It’s okay. It’s not home. Not the Christmas Eve you grew up on- no mess of cousins, no arguments over who gets the biggest piece of dark meat, no dogs begging for scraps. The lights in the factory lobby are soft, glowing just enough to keep the dark at bay, and outside the windows it’s still too warm, still too cloudy. No snow. No magic.

But there’s something here. Full belly. Soft buzz. Familiar colors filling familiar corners of a track you once tamed. Will get to tame again. You’re not happy. But you are okay. You tell it to yourself everytime you start losing focus on your sheet- start getting sad. This is okay. I’m okay.

The television on the far wall glows quietly, casting flashes of old race footage across the lobby tiles. It’s a rerun- Sebastian Vettel, 2012, Brazil. One of your favorites. You’d pulled it up an hour ago, more for company than focus. You haven’t been watching closely. The glass in your hand is far more interesting, its wine dark and full-bodied, swirling slightly each time you lift it. But even half-listening, you know exactly where he is in the race. The crash. The comeback. The wet track and that championship point hanging by a thread.

It’s not an underdog story, not really. He was always going to win. But it’s still a good story. Great driving. A little desperate, a little reckless, a little real. You like that. Under the feed, the place hums with a soft, sleepy quiet- the kind that only settles over spaces meant for chaos, now still. A little comforting. A little unnerving, like an empty school.  Which is why, in retrospect- despite all of your wallowing and wishing for someone to talk to- your reaction to the sound of the side door opening is panic.

Crayon-clenching, stomach-dropping panic. Because who the fuck is clocking into work at 8:48 P.M. on Christmas Eve? The sound itself isn’t loud or startling- just the gentle hiss of hydraulics and a soft metallic click as the latch catches- but it might as well be a fucking gunshot for the way it spikes your pulse.

You hold your breath. Your mind starts cataloging possibilities. Engineer? Cleaning staff? Maybe someone forgot a phone, a wallet, something dumb and harmless. You want it to be that. You need it to be that. But there’s a steady pace to the walk- unhurried, deliberate- and that feels… wrong. Like whoever it is isn’t in a hurry. Or confused. Or looking. Like they know where they’re going, and it’s not to the lab or the offices or the factory floor.

They’re coming here. 

Shit.

Your body stays still- but something deep in your chest begins to thrash. Your wine glass is half-full and far from reach. The pizza box is open. The TV is still playing. There’s no chance in hell this place looks empty now. You’ve left a breadcrumb trail of you across every surface- the crayons, the jacket slung over the chair, the bottle open beside your glass. It’s clear someone’s here. Someone walking in wouldn’t even have to look twice. They’d know.

You set your crayon down. Gently. Quietly. Stand. Not fast. Not loud. But steady. Deliberate. The kind of movement that says you will not be caught sitting down if this goes sideways. The muscles in your thighs brace like you're waiting for lights out, your spine tense, jaw locked. You angle your body halfway toward the hallway, halfway toward the front doors. Measuring. Calculating.

The lobby feels different now- smaller, tighter. All the soft comforts from a few minutes ago now sharpened into weak points. You clock the exits, your options. The stairs up to your room are a no-go. Nowhere to go from there. A trap. The other hallway is a blind corner. You don’t like blind corners. The main doors are just behind you- locked from the outside, but open from inside- your best plan if you need it. You’ve been running sprints like a madman for two months. You like your odds in a race more than a fight. 

Because you’re alone. And not in the “I miss my family and it’s Christmas,” way that had you feeling sorry for yourself two breaths ago. You’re alone in the way a girl is when it’s dark and quiet and shadows are moving and sounds are growing too long and there is nobody to hear you. 

And not just alone. Not just a girl by herself. You’re a girl by herself with a press badge, a Wikipedia page, and a face that’s been plastered across TikTok and tabloid thumbnails since Spa. Your stomach twists. Not with fear, not exactly. Just that primal unease. That tiny ripple in your gut that whispers you might not be safe. Not yet. Not until you know.

The footsteps pause. Start again. Louder now. Closer. You flick your eyes toward the hallway entrance just as a shadow rounds the corner- broad, familiar.

Fuck. Of course.You don’t ask why. You don’t ask how. Of fucking course. You’d recognize that bastard’s walk anywhere. But even still- just before he comes into full view- your heart’s still kicking against your ribs like maybe, maybe, this is someone else. Maybe this is a stranger. A threat. A reason to run. Because that might’ve been easier than what you’re about to deal with.

It would’ve been easier than Max.

And then he’s there.

And then he stops.

And then he stares.

And then he opens his stupid fucking mouth. He pauses when he sees you, his sharp blue eyes scanning the scene. His lips twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. “This is just sad,” he says, breaking the silence. You roll your eyes hard enough to see the back of your skull, unclench your fists, and flop back down in your chair. Pick your crayon up. Starting grinding it into the curve of Eau Rouge hard enough you feel it in your forearm.

But he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something worth his time. You glance up at him, unimpressed, and then back at your coloring page. “‘M not judging your Christmas. Don’t judge mine.”

Max shrugs, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, stepping farther into the room. “What, family wouldn’t take you back?”

Your head snaps up this time, eyes narrowing at him. Oh, fuck you, buddy. You sit straighter now, crayon still in hand but forgotten, the words hitting bone. “Can you not be an asshole for five seconds?” you snap, your voice biting. “As my Christmas present?”

You just… stare at him. Not blinking. Not breathing, really. Just still- elbows on the table, fingers wrapped around the crayon like you’re deciding whether to snap it in half. Fuck off is carved into every inch of your posture. You’re not scared of him. Never have been. But you are waiting for the punchline. For the dig. For the sick little twist of the knife he always finds a way to deliver.

Because this is what he does. He finds your bruises and presses- methodically, joyfully, like he’s testing for weakness. So you sit there and dare him. Go on. Say it. Say whatever shitty thing you came all the way here to say.

You’re convinced he’s here for that reason alone.

No way this is a coincidence. He detoured here. You don’t know what brought him to this town, to this country, tonight. Some liquor-soaked dinner with a friend or a date or your boss. You don’t care. You wouldn’t put it past him to fly here specifically to fuck with you. To blow tens of thousands of dollars on runway fees and expend a small country’s carbon emissions to see if he can make you cry on Christmas. 

And he must know he’s got you dead to rights. Alone, sad, half-drunk, coloring like a six-year-old while the rest of the world wraps gifts and pulls casseroles from ovens. He has every tool he needs to tear you apart.

But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t dig. He just stands there.

Still. Quiet. Less smirking now. Less postured. Not softer, exactly- but off. Like a dog that forgot how to bark. You narrow your eyes. He’s never backed off before. Not once. Which means it’s not kindness. It’s not mercy. It’s… something else.There’s something about his face, his stance, that doesn’t track. He’s dressed like he’s been out- jacket zipped up, hair windblown, keys still in one hand- but he looks… untethered. Like knowing your dog is sick because it quit chewing on the rug.

You can’t place it, but you feel it. It buzzes against your skin like static. Makes your shoulders itch. He looks like someone who wants to fuck with you- for fun, for sport, for whatever twisted reason this asshole does anything- but can’t quite bring himself to commit.

His head tips a fraction, mouth parted like he almost has something ready- some snide little insult queued up and waiting- but it dies before it makes it to air.

That’s what’s getting you. Not the fact that he’s here, not even what he said. But the stillness. The hesitation. The flicker of restraint from the one person who never holds back with you. And not because he suddenly grew a conscience- don’t be stupid- but because something’s off.

Why the fuck are you here, Max?

He shifts his weight slightly, shoulders still hunched like he’s not sure if he’s staying. Then, finally, he speaks. “Depends,” he says, voice low and flat. “What did you get me?” It’s not biting. Not sharp. Not kind, either. Just… tired. Dry. A flicker of something almost like humor, buried beneath all that brooding.

You squint up at him, a little disoriented from waiting for the strike that still hasn’t quite come. For him to call you sad or pathetic or make fun of you drinking by yourself at work on Christmas. Instead you got… a joke, maybe? Something you’re not sure how to respond to without the mediation of Danny’s presence and the social lubricant of four drinks.

It comes out before you really mean it to. “What do you want?” It’s not soft, but not jagged, either. Not aggressive. Your tone matches his in that strange middle ground between I don’t like you and you haven’t pissed me off (yet). A little genuine curiosity, because you have no idea what someone like him would ask for from someone like you, even as a joke. 

Max doesn’t answer, not out loud. Just stands there for another beat, head tilted slightly. His eyes flick toward the wine glass sitting next to your crayons, still half-full. He tips his chin in its direction- barely a nod. A silent ask, like it costs too much pride to say the words.

You blink at him. Seriously? But you’re still too off-balance to fight about something as petty as a half glass of cab. You don’t say anything, don’t move your arm, just give the subtlest flick of your fingers in his direction. A silent go ahead.

He takes it.

Fingers wrap around the glass, and for a moment he just frowns into it like he’s trying to remember how this works. Then he sips. Leans his hip against the edge of the table, the glass still in hand, posture loose but guarded. He doesn’t make a comment about the wine. Doesn’t praise it or sneer at it or ask where it’s from. Just drinks it. And for one, strange moment, it registers that this is the most normal he’s ever looked near you.

You go back to your coloring. Or try to. The crayon scrapes across the page, dragging red wax into the curves, about halfway done, now. You can feel him beside you without looking. A heat source. A glitch in your field of vision. The weight of his silence presses into your thoughts harder than any insult would have.

He’s not saying anything.

Not breathing too loud. Not hovering. Not staring at you, at least not that you can tell. But he’s there, and it throws off the whole balance of the room. You shift slightly in your chair, cross one leg under the other, then switch back again, like rearranging yourself might change the physics of the moment. Trying to pretend he isn’t messing with your nervous system just by existing that close to your shoulder.

You adjust your grip. Try again.

Still there.

You can feel him, the way you’d feel someone standing behind you in an empty stairwell- just close enough to make every hair on your body pay attention. Just close enough to ruin the quiet.

“Sit down,” you mutter, finally. Your eyes stay fixed on the page, but the edge in your voice sharpens slightly. “You standing there is weird as fuck.”

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, without a word, he drags the nearest chair out and drops into it, spine still stiff, still in that fight-or-flight posture like he’s not convinced he won’t bolt at any second. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. Neither of you speak.

And it’s okay like that, for a minute. Still a little odd. The quiet stretches a little too long. Your eyes flick to the wine bottle- closer to him now than to you. Your glass, too. Still in his hand.

You want another sip. You hesitate. You could ask. Or not. Go get another glass form the kitchen. Could leave it alone, pretend you don’t care, let the silence keep you guarded. But your mouth is dry, and the heat in your chest has begun to taper off. The wine had helped. Asking implies he can tell you no. Getting up feels like…defeat. Acceptance, that he’s here, in this space too, not just borrowing it.

You sigh, just a little, and stick your hand out without looking. Not a word. Not a dramatic gesture. Just palm-up, fingers loose, expectant.

He understands.

The stem clicks lightly between your fingers as he passes it over, no hesitation, no snark. You pause your coloring- no sense risking red wine on Eau Rouge- and bring the glass to your lips. One sip. Then another. It’s even better now. Breathing has softened the tannins, brought out the heat, the pepper. A little richer, rounder. You hum quietly through your nose, pleased, and pass it back to him without ceremony.

No eye contact. No acknowledgment. Just a transaction.

Your fingers graze his as you release it. Neither of you flinch. You pick your crayon back up.

But then your mind starts drifting- too much space between the words in your head, too much wine swirling around the little christmas-themed aches in your chest- so you flip through your stack of printed tracks, trying to re-anchor yourself. Find your next project. 

Zandvoort catches your eye. You pause. Twisting and narrow and brutal, like a rollercoaster track trying to bite you back. You don’t speak- just slide it across the table, casual, like you’re handing someone a menu.

Here. Maybe it’ll be less weird if he has something to do.

You go back to your own sheet.

For a while, he doesn’t move. He just sips from the glass. Refills it. Sips again. Every so often, you can feel him glance sideways, but he says nothing. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s… holding. Eventually, he lets out the smallest huff of disbelief under his breath. Not quite a laugh. More like an incredulous exhale. The kind that says I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this without needing to say it aloud.

And then- finally- he leans forward and grabs a crayon. Not a blue or a red or an orange. A green one. Not what you would have expected him to go for. It’s odd, realizing you had an expectation of what his crayon preference might be. A thought you hadn’t realized you ever held until you see him contradicting your assumption in real time. 

He starts shading in the banking at Turn 3 with the careful irritation of someone trying very hard not to feel dumb. You glance sideways. Just a peek. Casual. Or at least, you hope it looks that way.

Max is hunched forward slightly, brow furrowed in concentration as he drags a streak of green along one of the banked curves. His hand moves with that same ridiculous precision he brings to the sim lab. As if coloring were a job. As if the lines matter. As if anyone, anywhere, will ever see it.

And then it hits you. He’s Max fucking Verstappen.

World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Face on posters in bedrooms. Invited to galas and paddock clubs and palaces, probably. A guy with more options than most people have in a lifetime.

And he’s here. With you. In the factory lobby. On Christmas Eve. Coloring.

You blink once, slowly, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way the tendon near his temple tics faintly. He’s not smug. Not mocking. Not baiting you for a reaction. He’s just… here. Quiet. Tense. A little hunched. Like he can’t quite relax, but can’t quite leave either.

And suddenly, you realize. You thought he was here to be an asshole. He’s not. If he was, he’d have already done it. He’d have made a spectacle of it. He had all the right ammunition. Would’ve raked your night over the coals and seasoned it with whatever creative cruelty he had left in his back pocket.

But he hasn’t. He’s here. Drinking your wine. Not talking. Not smirking. Not being nice, exactly. But not being Max. And that’s what really makes it click. Because Max Verstappen doesn’t sit next to people he loathes and behave. Max Verstappen doesn’t enter a truce without reason. And if he’s not here to win something or prove something…

Then he must be here because this is the best he’s got.

You were so consumed with your own self-pity- your own quiet ache of missing cornbread and brisket and four kinds of potatoes- that it never occurred to you how pathetic this must be for him. To walk through a side door and settle into this very specific quiet. To tolerate you, of all people. 

That whether he ended up here by accident or design, this- this- was the best idea he had for Christmas Eve. That maybe the reason he hasn’t picked a fight is because he can’t quite stomach the energy it takes to be cruel. Not tonight.

And the more you think about it, the worse it gets.

Because it would take a crisis- a full collapse- for Max to willingly enter a truce with you. To share a wine glass and color quietly beside you without barbs or blame. And, if you’re honest, it took the same to get you here too.

Oh, God.

You’re both sad.

Oh, God.

You don’t know what to do with the realization. The quiet, slow-spreading understanding that he’s not just here- he’s here, with no agenda and nowhere better to be. That he might be lonelier than you are.

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. Of course he has emotions. Of course he gets sad. He’s a person. With a brain and a heart and whatever arrangement of nerves make up the part of you that aches when the holidays feel too soft for how fucking hard your life is.

You know this. Logically.

But logic has never stood a chance against the Max Verstappen you’ve been at war with. The Max Verstappen you’ve had to armor up against for months now. You’ve spent so long flattening him into something sharp and unpleasant- an annoyance, a jackass, a wall- that it’s unnerving to see him as anything else. To have your field of vision adjust, ever so slightly, until the picture doesn’t quite match what it used to.

You shift in your seat, uncomfortable.

Because now the air is heavier. Not tense, not hostile, but full. Full of something you don’t know how to name. Not sympathy. Not friendship. But something. Something you don’t want to hold, but can’t quite set down. Emotional discomfort prickles across your arms like static.

God.

Should you say something?

You hate this part. The should I say something part. The emotional fog of maybe he’s sad and maybe I should care- but if you care, what does that make this? What does that make you?

You hate how quiet it is. How intimate this feels for two people who don’t even like each other. You hate that the part of your brain responsible for small talk is suddenly clanging like a fire alarm.

It’s probably just you, just your stupid need to make things smooth, and comfortable, and bearable for the world around you- the part that makes you so good at marketing and so natural with difficult sponsors- but you swear the air is starting to feel humid with unsaid things. Dense with meaning you don’t want to sift through. Your fingers shift on the crayon. Too tight. Too aware. You let out a slow breath through your nose and glance sideways again.

He’s leaning forward now, elbow braced on the table, one knee bouncing faintly beneath it. His head is slightly tilted, entirely locked into his picture. He hasn’t looked at you since you handed him the page. Hasn’t spoken since that dry, brittle joke. He’s not even trying to perform. Not for you. Not for anyone. Just coloring. Quiet.

And it’s so much worse than if he’d come in guns blazing.

Your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth. You swallow. Hard. Then- reluctantly- you ask, “...Did you go to Christian’s?” It slips out too casually. Too flat. It’s not warm. Not really kind. But it’s something.

Max freezes. Not dramatically- just a subtle pause. The faint bounce of his knee stills. The crayon stills. Even his breathing, maybe. He looks at you with the vaguest expression of suspicion, like you just spoke to a ghost and he’s not sure he saw it too.

You regret it immediately.

Why the fuck did you say anything? You’ve cracked the silence open like an egg on concrete- messy, irreversible- and now he’s going to shut down or lash out or- 

“Yes,” he says. Simple. Crisp. He drops his gaze back to the page, and for a second, you think that’s the end of it. Just a meaningless affirmative. Nothing else offered. But then-  

“I stopped to say hello. On my way to…” His voice trails off, but the sentence stays hanging in the air. Unfinished.

On his way to what? Where? Why doesn’t he want to go? You could ask. You're not going to.

Because it’s weird enough already. Because his version of Christmas includes dropping by Christian Horner’s house on the way to some unknown destination, and the idea that he can just stop in on his team principal on the way to Belgium- or Monaco, or wherever he’s dodging from- is such a bizarre, untouchable kind of strange that it makes your brain fog over. That’s not your world. Not your life.

And for a moment, it seems like that really is it- that your one attempt at human interaction has evaporated like breath on cold glass. Until Max- awkwardly, like it physically costs him something- clears his throat.

“Does your family…” He stops. Tries again. “Do they do anything?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting a return volley. You glance at him, but he’s still not looking your way- just dragging his crayon along the inside edge of a turn like it’s the most natural thing in the world to sit in an F1 factory on Christmas Eve and ask you personal questions with no inflection in his voice whatsoever.

You shrug. “Yeah.” You reach for the wine glass- and wrap your fingers around the stem like you need the excuse. Take a long sip. Then another. “They do the whole thing,” you add after a beat, voice casual enough to pass.

You stop there.

There’s more, obviously-  the way your dad plays the piano while everyone eats dessert on the couch, the seventeen half-eaten dishes, the smell of cinnamon and fried food and hairspray- but talking about it out loud feels like scraping skin over gravel. So you don’t. You just take another sip and let the ache settle quiet behind your ribs.

You sit back in your chair and roll the stem of the glass between your fingers. “What about you?” you ask, then immediately regret it. Because what about him?

Like the crayon, you realize you don’t know. Not really. You’ve never pictured him as a child in pajamas or holding a plate of food or doing anything human at all, really- just teeth bared in a helmet, champagne in hand. You can’t imagine Max Verstappen opening presents.

But you’ve asked now, even if you wished you hadn’t. And he wishes you hadn’t asked either. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even hesitate before pointedly not answering. His jaw flexes once, sharp and silent, and he shifts in his chair like the question itched him beneath the skin. Then he flicks his fingers toward the glass in your hand- a silent, impatient little gesture. Give it.

Wine. Okay. You can do that. 

You give it without a word, watching as he lifts it from your grasp, barely glancing down. He tips the glass up to his mouth like it might save him from the question still hanging in the air. Then he frowns. Swirls the glass. Tilts it again. Nothing.

He sets it down with a dull clink and looks at the bottle. “Vur sad little Christmas,” he mutters, his accent thicker now, vowels spreading like melting butter, “is out of fuel.”

You blink. That wasn’t quite English. Not really. Your lips twitch, involuntarily. His tone is dry, a touch sardonic- but soft at the edges. Something about the way he says it, the way the words drag a little at the end, immediately trips your radar.

Because it’s not fuel. Not the way he says it. It’s fuhl. And Christmas comes out almost like Krihsmess. The vowels stretch. The consonants roll in that particular, sleepy way that belongs to cloudy, brick-stacked cities and tired boys from the flat bits of Europe.

Your lips twitch. You bite the inside of your cheek. Because fuck, he’s getting drunk. The wine, and whatever else he had before he got here, is doing its job.

It’s not obvious if you’re not looking for it. His face is still all sharp control. But his voice? That’s telling on him. Whispering things he would never willingly give away. Every word out of his mouth is sliding, lazy around the edges, slipping back into a dialect you know he tries hard not to let surface. You’ve heard it before, buried beneath interviews, in old Red Bull media days when you tracked his career like a sport in itself. But never like this.

You press your knuckles to your mouth, fighting the smile that wants to bloom there. Not because it’s funny. But because you know this. That quiet betrayal. That precise moment when the warmth hits and you stop sounding like the version of yourself you were trained to be- and start sounding like the people who raised you. Like the streets you came from. Like the walls you grew up inside.

You know that moment intimately. You’ve lived it.

He catches the corner of your reaction and narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Nothin’,” you say quickly, voice a little too high.

Max’s eyes narrow like he’s squinting into sun glare. Defensive. Immediate. Suspicious in that prickly, unyielding way he gets when he thinks he’s being made fun of. Which- fair.  “What?” he demands again, clipped.

“Nothin’,” you say, too fast. You press your lips together tighter. Fight the upward tug of your mouth with everything you’ve got. But your cheeks are already warm, your eyes glittering with the effort of keeping it down.

He tilts his head. “You’re laughing at me.”

You shake your head. Absolutely lying. He knows it. You know he knows it. Max stares, eyes narrow and sharp and blue, and then glances down at the wine glass in his hand like maybe he can blame this on the alcohol and walk away before he has to deal with whatever the hell this is.

You huff out a breath and say it, fast and low. “Your accent.” His face doesn’t change. Doesn’t twitch. But something flickers behind his eyes. You wince, immediately raising your hands in surrender. “Not in a mean way,” you rush to add. “It’s just- god, it’s thick all of a sudden. Like, lowlands-thick. Like… if Coulthard was Dutch. ”

Max’s eyes narrow so hard you swear you can hear it. “You’re one to talk,” he fires back, tone laced in dry amusement. “You sound like a fucking cowboy.”

Your mouth drops open.

“I do not- ” you start to argue. Stop. Replay it in your head. That last word. Not. Long and flat and dragging through the dirt like you’re from East Texas. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god.” Max doesn’t laugh- not fully. But his lips twitch. His shoulders loosen. He tips his head slightly, as if he’s finally caught you with your own pants down. You shake your head, half-horrified. “I sound like my mom.”

He smirks. “It’s bad.” You groan and drop your forehead to the table. And that’s when it happens. The laugh. Small. Dry. Incredulous.

Max fucking Verstappen laughs.

It’s barely more than a huff of breath, a sound pushed through his nose, but you feel it like a power outage- every light inside you flickering with surprise. Because it’s not cruel. Not smug. Not weaponized like usual. It’s quiet and human and stunned by itself, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

You peek up at him from under your arm.

He looks equally appalled.

“I need more wine,” you announce, abrupt. You snatch the empty bottle and your glass with one hand, gathering up your crayon and coloring sheets with the other. Your movements are a little too fast, a little too loud, like maybe if you just start talking and rustling and walking quickly enough, you can outrun the awful knowledge that you just shared an honest-to-god laugh with Max fucking Verstappen.

It’s not phrased like an invitation. Not even close.

“Got more upstairs,” you mumble. Just a statement. Nothing more.

Maybe you meant to come right back down. Maybe you were just going to grab the bottle and sit in the hall with your shame for a few minutes before rejoining your sad little coloring table and staring at Eau Rouge until you forgot how human he sounded. That was the plan. Sort of.

And then you hear it. Footsteps. Behind you. You don’t look back. You don’t need to. That presence- that shadow moving just a beat behind your own- is unmistakable now. You hear the faint creak of the stairwell railing, feel the draft shift as he follows you up the narrow stairs, and suddenly your spine goes rigid.

Fuck.

This isn’t a bar. This isn’t a team dinner or a hotel suite where everyone’s pretending to be civil for PR. This is your room. Your tiny room. You slow, almost hesitate at the top of the stairs. There’s no grand entry. No threshold to stand behind and reconsider. Just one step and then you're in- a windowless box with a bed and a desk and a shelf and exactly two square feet of walking space between them.

Your mouth is dry.

You glance back at him for the first time since leaving the lobby, and Max- idiot- just stands there like this is normal. Like this isn’t the strangest, most intimate possible turn of events for two people who routinely threaten to strangle each other telepathically.

He doesn’t even look amused anymore. Just… there.

You look away. “It’s a mess, you don’t have to-” you mutter, instantly regretting it, like maybe if you hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t notice. Your dorm was never meant for company, certainly not Max Verstappen. The bed’s unmade- covers kicked to one side. A half-folded pile of laundry has colonized your only armchair, still topped with the towel you used earlier and forgot to hang. The bins under your bed are still askew from when you went rooting through them like an animal before you left to pick up your pizza. 

But he’s already stepped in. And now it’s real. Now he’s inside. The room is warm. The lights are low. You don’t even look at him. Just cross to the desk, crouch, and pull the cardboard wine box off the floor. Five bottles left. 

Costco bottles are out, immediately. You’re not serving Max Verstappen $10 wine, even if it’s better than the price lets on. Even if he deserves it. He probably bathes in bottles older than you on a weekly basis. Not the neighbors, either. Too nostalgic. Too loaded. And if you're honest, it's not that good- you just like the way it tastes like a memory. That just leaves the Walla Walla ones- the Dunham, your favorite- and the wildcard your mom picked. It should be fine. Great, even, if the one you just drank is anything to go by. But you don’t know for sure, and you can’t deal with the idea of Max staring down his nose at something thin or sharp or vinegary if it’s one of those bottles your mom pity-bought because she was three tasting deep and honey, they were just so nice. She’s known to do it. 

Dunham it is. You would’ve drank it first if you had felt more like celebrating and less like throwing a tantrum, less sad, less melancholy, less fucking alone- but- you’re not… alone now, are you? It’s not exactly company, but technically, yeah. You’re not alone. Dunham it is.

You pull the Dunham bottle from its slot like it’s a sacred object, cradling it in one hand while you open your desk drawer with the other. There's a smattering of office supplies in there- half-dried pens, a stapler, a wad of post-its with tire pressure notes on them- but mostly it’s tools. Not a full kit, nothing impressive. You’d had to leave all your proper gear in America, but you’ve scavenged enough since landing here. Tool reps. The mechanics. A trip to Machine Mart or two. Just enough to make things work.

You pick through the drawer until you find what you need: a fat screw, a pair of dikes, and your favorite little stubby wrench. It’s not the ideal method, but it works. Has worked. You line the screw up with practiced fingers, hold the bottle steady, and drive it into the cork with mechanical precision.

Different strategy this time. Instead of pushing the cork all the way through, you wedge the base of the bottle between your thighs, grab the screw with the dikes, and heft the wrench in your other hand- ready to tap it out, slow and controlled.

You're just winding up when Max’s voice cuts through the room. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You glance over, not breaking your hold. “Opening the wine.”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “With a wrench?”

“Unless you’re packing a corkscrew in those skinny jeans, Verstappen,” you deadpan, shifting your grip, “this is the show.”

A beat passes. Then, Max, voice flat-  “This is not a normal show.”

You grin- just a little, teeth sharp with amusement as you raise the wrench. “Watch and learn, bucko.” And you give the first gentle tap. Max, blessedly, shuts the fuck up. You brace your thighs tighter, hold the bottle steady, and give the cork three taps.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound is soft, patient. Controlled.

On the third, the cork slides free with a gentle pop- clean, unshredded, not a drop of wine spilled. You set the wrench aside like a finishing move and lift the bottle by the neck with an almost casual flourish, like there, done. Max says nothing.

But he’s watching you the way he sometimes watches a pit crew in the American circuits duct-tape a bumper back onto a stock car and send it screaming back onto the oval- like it offends every ounce of his high-tech, finely tuned, aero-obsessed sensibilities… but some deeply buried, primitive part of him respects the hell out of it anyway.

Because that was kind of impressive. Degenerate. But impressive.

He's grown up rich. Wealthy. Tucked neatly into a world where wine bottles are opened with carbon-handled keys or one of those sleek, pressurized pin systems used on the truly rare vintages. Certainly never a bottle pinched between someone’s thighs and hammered open with a wrench like it was a fucking Jiffy-Lube oil change.

You pass him the glass without ceremony, barely looking up. The pour’s generous- generous enough to signal that you might as well stay awhile. He takes it, careful not to brush your fingers, and stays exactly where he is- two steps inside the doorway, like he’s worried the floor might fall out if he moves any farther.

He’s just holding the wine, taking a sip, looking around with those same tired eyes. Like he’s not in Max Verstappen’s brain right now. Like he’s just a guy, in a sad little room, on a sad little holiday, following the only other miserable person in the building without thinking too hard about why.

You’re not sure what the etiquette is here. You don’t know what this is. The silence between you isn’t hostile anymore, but it’s not exactly warm either. Just quiet. A little awkward. Like both of you forgot how to be people for a second. The smart thing would be to head back down to the lobby. More neutral. More space. Less... this.

But this is your space, shitty as it is. Familiar, functional, lived-in in the way a hotel room never really is. You know how the light hits the floor in the morning, how the baseboard heater hums when it kicks on. You feel safe here. Even with him.

So you don’t move.

You lean forward instead, grabbing the cup of crayons and a fresh coloring sheet from the stack, then slide off the desk chair and onto the floor. You sprawl. Take up space. Let your body stretch out across half of the sad little postage stamp of your floor, your pajama-clad legs half-crossed, toes flexing in your socks.

Then, quietly, without looking up: “There’s more there. You can use the desk, if you want. Just throw the laundry on the bed.”

you hear the subtle scuff of his shoes against the tile. Hesitant. Like he’s approaching a wild animal- or a bomb with a ticking clock and unclear instructions. A moment later, the quiet shuffling of paper. He’s flipping through the coloring sheets. Reading the options. Probably judging them. Tracks. Liveries. You’re pretty sure there’s more than one of him in there, since they came from the front desk.

You don’t look up. You stay focused on your page- sweeping your crayon across the tail section of a generic Bulls livery- but your ears catch every motion behind you, sharp and alert, even if your expression doesn’t shift.

You expect the chair to make a noise. Expect him to sit like a normal human being at a desk. Like you said he could.

He doesn’t.

Instead, you hear the faintest rustle- the zipper of his softshell scraping on the laminate- and then the slow, deliberate sound of some man over the age of twenty five settling themselves to the ground.

Your eyes flick up. Barely. Just a glance sideways.

There he is. Max fucking Verstappen. Laid out on your floor. Not with you, exactly- he’s as far as he can possibly be in the cramped space without backing into your desk- but still beside you. Elbow down. Shoulders curled forward. His long legs bent awkwardly to fit the geometry of your tiny dorm room. Like he’s trying to minimize himself. Or disappear.

He places the wine glass between you with a soft tap and leans slightly to fish a crayon from the cup. Doesn’t say a word. Just starts coloring. And something in you releases, just a notch. Because now the wine glass is right there- within easy reach. You don’t have to ask every time you want another sip. You don’t have to break the fragile rhythm this has somehow become. You’re… sharing? 

You settle back onto your elbows for a moment, watching the tip of his crayon glide over the paper. He’s quiet- focused, or pretending to be- and for once, not a single part of him seems weaponized. No sharp comments, no loaded glances. Just… silence. And color. You glance at the wine glass between you, then down at your own page.

Alright.

You slide onto your stomach, legs bent at the knees and swaying idly behind you, and pick up where you left off. Just a little more red on the nose cone, then the diffuser. You don’t realize how long you’re there, how long you’ve been smoothing wax into every corner, how time has started to drip instead of tick- until you’re fully locked in.

And you are, locked in, that is. Trading red for navy for yellow in turn. The wine’s warm in your stomach, your head pleasantly fuzzy. It wraps around your brain like gauze, softening the edges of everything until it’s just you, your paper single-seater, and the sacred task of getting this shading just right. Yellow over yellow over yellow, layering to make the light bounce right where you rub wax on wax- almost like a glow.

In the background, you hear him. Max. Not breathing hard or talking or fidgeting like a child- just... not settled. His motions are restless. Color, pause. Shift. Sip. Sigh. Color again. Pause longer. Another sip.

You don’t look. You don’t engage. It’s not your problem if he’s bored. He could’ve left at any point. Still could. You didn’t invite him to your floor, didn’t ask him to drink your wine or share your crayons or sit awkwardly close enough that you can hear the shift of his clothes against your floor when he adjusts. Not your issue. Not your job.

You lean forward, reaching for the brighter of the two yellows- your final pass to really bring that beautiful nose to life- 

Swipe.

Your brain takes a full two seconds to register it.

There’s a hand on your page. Not just any hand. His hand. And it’s holding a green crayon.

Green.

GREEN.

Right across the nose cone. The nose cone. Which you had painstakingly left open. Purposefully saved for last, like a crown jewel. Which you had been actively reaching for with the exact right shade in your grip. You freeze. Stare.

There it is. A crooked, casual, green swoop right across the tip of the car like it belongs there.

“Max,” you breathe, voice sharp and flat all at once.

Max doesn’t look sorry. Not even a little. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t backpedal. Just glances sideways, one brow raised, glass tipped loosely in his other hand.

“What?” he says, too casual. “Green. Christmas.”

Your mouth falls open. Words scatter. You blink. “That’s- no- that’s not- what’s wrong with you?”

He has the audacity to smirk. “You were obsessing.”

You scoff, huffing through your nose. “I was not obsessing.” He doesn’t even dignify you with a response, just a look- delighted blue eyes saying sure you weren’t. 

God, he’s such an ass.

But- he’s not being cruel. Not mean, not biting. Just a dumb schoolboy with too much wine and no concept of boundaries, clearly thrilled by how easy it is to get a rise out of you right now. You grumble under your breath and twist your coloring sheet a few degrees away from him, throwing one elbow out wide in a clear territorial maneuver. He huffs a quiet laugh, and you can already tell he’s going to be a problem. Head down. Focus restored.

For a second, it works.

The next time his hand darts out, you’re ready. You block him with the crayon in your off hand- deflecting like you’ve trained for this your whole life. “Don’t,” you warn, eyes narrowed. You jab an elbow toward him without looking, but he evades. Then waits. Two seconds. Four. You let your guard down just a little- back to coloring in the last bits of the halo- when suddenly-

Swipe. It lands. More green- on your sidepod, for God’s sake. The sidepod. 

“Oh, you bastard!” you gasp, half-sputtering, half-laughing. Not because it’s okay- you were so close to being done- but because the audacity is just so stupid and somehow hilarious in a way that wine makes everything. You grab for the page, then his wrist, but he’s already leaning back like the smug little asshole he is, admiring his handiwork. So you snatch the crayon out of his hand- remove the tool of destruction right out of his grip.

He looks briefly scandalized. Then delighted. He blinks at you, mock offended, hand still outstretched between you like this is a diplomatic negotiation. “Give it back.”

“No.” You say it fast, fierce, like the word’s been sitting on your tongue for years and finally found its moment. “You’ve lost crayon privileges.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters, letting his hand drop, but his eyes are bright now- sharper than they’ve been all night. Not angry. Not smug. Just surprised. Entertained, even. You’ve caught him off guard, and for once, he’s not trying to hide it.

He leans back onto one hand, glass dangling loosely in the other. “You’re hoarding.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You vandalized my livery.”

He huffs through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s honest. And quieter than before. Quieter than you expected. Your thumb rolls slowly over the waxy paper wrapper of the crayon. His eyes flick down to the movement. You watch his gaze track it, then lift. You’re ready for another jab. Ready for him to press. But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. And for some reason, that’s worse.

You meet his stare like it’s a challenge. Like maybe you’re still playing. But the moment hangs- odd, suspended- until you realize something about his face. About the way the light sits against his cheek, the way his mouth tips ever so slightly to one side. How different he looks when he’s not scowling or calculating. How young he looks without the armor.

You lose the thread.

Just for a second.

Oh.

He’s- 

You blink hard and tear your eyes away, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Jesus. It’s just the wine. You shake your head like it’ll clear the thought.

He laughs- quiet, deep, from somewhere in his chest- and extends his hand again, a little more pointed this time. “Come on. Quit playing.”

You glance down at the crayon in your grip. You’re white-knuckling it now like it’s something worth defending instead of literal children’s art supplies. And for a second- just a second- you forget what the hell you’re doing, because when you look up, his eyes are on yours again, steady and unflinching. He’s close. Much closer than you realized. Those stupid cheekbones. That stupid mouth. God, he really is pretty when he’s not snarling.

You clear your throat. “Still no.”

Max’s brows lift just slightly. Not in offense. In interest. You see it flicker across his face. Something small and sparking. A game.

His gaze drops to your hand, then back up to you. He doesn’t move right away- just watches, like he’s calculating risk, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll flinch. And when you don’t, when you lean back slightly on your free hand and mirror his smug little look-  That’s it. The corners of his mouth lift. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something crooked and barely formed. “Okay,” he says softly, “your funeral.”

And then he lunges.

You yelp, scooting back across the floor with a laugh caught in your throat, crayon clutched to your chest like a trophy. He’s faster. His long reach closes the gap easily, and now you’re dodging, rolling onto your side with a clumsy twist of limbs and fabric and wine-fueled reflexes. It’s not graceful. Not even close. But it’s real. It’s ridiculous.

It’s fun.

You squeal when his fingers almost snag your wrist, twisting just out of reach. “You’re cheating!”

“You started it,” he growls, grinning full now- genuine and wild- and for a second, you’re not thinking about stolen sodas or slammed doors or podiums or fights or Christmas or any of the shit that lives between you. Just this. The stupidest game in the world.

Just him and you and a crayon and a laugh you didn’t know you still had in you.

You curl around the crayon protectively, breathing hard, wine haze buzzing behind your eyes. “You’re gonna have to take it from me.” There’s no teasing in it now. No laughter. Just the sharp, wordless thud of bodies trying to outmaneuver each other. Max is focused. You’re focused. The wine is irrelevant, the coloring pages forgotten. This isn’t about crayons anymore. It’s about the principle.

You twist again, pivot your hips, make a break for the other side of the room- but his hand catches your ankle mid-scramble, pulling you back with enough force to collapse you into a heap. You curse, breath knocked half out of you, but he’s already crawling up the floor space after you, practically feral. You twist, arms tucked in, guarding the crayon like it’s nuclear launch codes.

“Give it,” he growls, low and laughing and way too close.

“Get bent.” And that’s when he does it. Max pins your wrist. One hand, firm. The other comes for your fingers.

Oh shit.

He starts prying them open, one at a time- careful, deliberate, methodical. Your heart rate spikes. You thrash under him, try to jerk your arm back, but he’s stronger. Steadier. His grip doesn’t falter. He’s laughing now- quiet and smug and goddamn infuriating- but not stopping.

You grunt, trying to twist free, but your side’s already to the floor, and he’s braced over you, weight held up just enough not to crush you, but enough that you’re not going anywhere. You let out a frustrated sound- something halfway between a growl and a gasp- as he peels another finger loose.

Three down. Two left.

“No,” you hiss, wriggling like it’ll help, but you’re losing ground. Literally. Physically. And emotionally. Because he’s going to win. You can’t let him win. 

You squirm. Twist. Dig your heels in and push, just enough to get a sliver of leverage- not much, but enough to roll your hips hard and lurch toward him with all your weight. It’s not graceful. It’s not smart.

It is effective.

Max doesn’t see it coming. His balance breaks for half a second- just long enough for you to launch into him like a linebacker. You both go down in a blur of limbs and elbows and shocked, wordless noise.

The desk takes the hit first. A hollow bang echoes through the room, followed by the sudden explosion of coloring sheets and data printouts raining down like confetti- fluttering paper and half-loose crayons skittering across the floor in a storm of chaos. You land half on top of him, half in the wreckage, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

For a beat, neither of you move.

Just staring at each other. Eyes wide. Limbs tangled. Mouths open like did we just- ?

And then laughter.

Real, deep, gut-pulling laughter, ripped from both of you in stunned, breathless waves. Max folds first, face turned into his own shoulder like he can’t believe it, shaking. You follow suit, breath hitching, tears burning at the corners of your eyes because what the fuck was that? What the fuck are you doing?

There are crayons under your thigh. His knee is jammed between your calves. Your ribs hurt from laughing, your elbow’s probably bruised, and Max Verstappen- perpetual bastard, walking headache, F1 World Champion- is laughing with you on the floor of your too-small, too-warm dorm room like the two of you don’t know any better.

And maybe, for a minute- you don’t.

The laughter slows- first his, then yours- softening into breathless exhales and fading chuckles that taper off like static. The room quiets around you, thick with the remnants of sound. You blink up at the ceiling, still catching your breath, body curled awkwardly where you landed, limbs in soft collision with his.

And then it hits you.

Where you are. How close. How tangled.

Max’s thigh is still pressed between yours, his arm crooked under your shoulders like he forgot to move it. His shirt is pulled slightly off-center, jacket collar tugged loose where you grabbed him, exposing a line of skin at his neck. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours- too steady for someone who just laughed that hard. Too careful.

He’s quiet now. Looking at you. Really looking.

Your gaze flicks up- meets his. And- fuck. There it is.

A flicker of heat in the air between you, sharp and unmistakable. His lips part, just slightly. His brows pull together like he’s trying to process something in real time, something he didn’t expect to feel. Something he shouldn’t feel. You don’t move. Neither does he.

But god, if one of you did…

If he shifted a little closer, if you tilted your chin up just a bit- your mouths could meet. It would be easy. Stupidly easy. And you wouldn’t stop it. You don’t even think you’d be mad.

All you can think about was the way he stared at you, through you, in the rearview mirror that night after Christian took you out for beers. Your breath hitches. He hears it. He swallows.

The air turns molten.

It’s the first time you’ve felt this- this thing between you- like it might not be hatred. Like it might be something with teeth and heat and tension, a live wire strung taut between the two of you that no one was ever supposed to touch.

But here you are. Hovering. Right above it. And he’s not backing away.

And then your phone. It rattles against the floor with a brzzzz brzzzz brzzzz that might as well be a grenade. You flinch. Max blinks, startled too, the spell between you sliced clean through like it was never even there.

You roll away in a scramble- off his arm, out of the heat- grabbing for the phone like it’s a lifeline. The screen lights up: Mom 💐. FaceTime.

Jesus Christ.

You clear your throat and hit accept, already forcing a smile to your face. “Hi, Mama.”

“Merry Christmas, baby!” comes the immediate, sunshine-soaked reply, all syrup and sparkle. Your mom’s face fills the screen, warm and aglow, her curls pulled back, lipstick immaculate, an apron on over one of her good dresses. “Oh, honey, it’s so good to see your face. You get my wine?”

You sit up straighter, trying to keep the heat out of your cheeks. “I did. I’m drinking it right now, actually.”

She squints through the screen. “Wait- are you still in your room? That doesn’t look like the lobby.”

Your eyes flick to Max before you can stop yourself. He’s sitting up now, legs crossed haphazardly beneath him, hair slightly mussed. He’s not looking at you, but he’s listening. Of course he is.

“Uh,” you say, trying to keep it breezy. “Came up to get a second bottle.”

“Oh?” your mom sings, voice lilting like she already knows exactly what’s going on. “You sound a little put together for gettin’ after a whole bottle on your own,” she adds, mock-solemn. Christ, the woman doesn’t miss a thing.

You stifle a groan. “I wasn’t alone.”

“Oh?” She leans closer to the camera. “Who’s there with you?”

And then Max- fucking Max- leans just enough for his face to enter the frame, one brow raised like he’s challenging you to stop him.

Your mother’s eyes light up. “Ohhh.”

“Mama, no- ”

“Honey, don’t you Mama me. Is that Max Verstappen in your dorm room?” You make a strangled noise in your throat, but she’s already on a roll.

“Well, hi there, sugar,” she says, clearly delighted. “You are just as pretty in person as you are on TV. I mean, I see what all the fuss is about now.” She gives you a sly glance.

Max, bless him, has no idea what to do with that. “Uh… thank you?” he says, hesitant and deeply confused.

“Oh, of course. And you’re bein’ so sweet to keep her company tonight. I told her, I said, You’re not foolin’ anybody pretendin’ you don’t care about the holidays. And now look at you, all cozied up with a boy and coloring.”

“Mama,” you mutter, half-mortified, half-amused. “We’re not- he’s just- ”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says with perfect Southern innocence. “You’re the one who sounds guilty.” Max chokes on his wine. You shoot him a glare. He holds his hands up- not my fault.

Your mother beams. “Well, I just wanted to check in and say hi before it got too busy. And tell you the blackberry pie came out fine. So fine, actually, that your daddy, Kaleb, and your uncle got into it last night after I went to bed and I had to make a new one this morning. Gave ‘em a piece of my mind this morning, let me tell you.” She tuts, like even the thought of it pisses her off. 

“Get ‘em good, Mama. You tell ‘em.” You laugh softly, warmth blooming behind your ribs. You can imagine the three of them, hunched around the island with a couple forks. Feeling a little too brave off of Coors light and Pendleton and God knows what else the men in your family get to drinking when left unsupervised in a shop for too many hours. Nobody would dare to touch Marissa’s Christmas pie sober. That’s the Lord’s pie. That pie is for Baby Jesus.

“But I’m real glad you’re not alone.” She gives Max a parting smile, eyes already somewhere else in her kitchen- cataloguing what else she needs to finish before the bigger family gets there, because there’s no worker bee like a Southern woman before Christmas dinner. “Y’all behave yourselves, I’m just gonna set-” the camera angle begins to shift. Not end- just tilt, go a little off center, like the phone’s been set against a mixing bowl. “There. I have to start the potatoes, holler at me if you have anything to say.”

Max looks over at you. “Did she just…”

“...set us down? Yeah. She’s got shit to do.” Sure enough, you catch a glimpse of your mom’s kitchen- all wood and stone and old tile countertops, the smell of roasted garlic and butter you can practically taste through the screen. Marissa’s muttering faintly to herself, moving in and out of frame, stirring something in a Dutch oven. You hear her talking to someone in the background.

It makes you smile at the screen faintly, the warmth of wine and the fact that even just in this small way, you can be a part of it- when Max smirks beside you, eyes dancing. “You do sound like you’re from the same place.”

You groan again and throw yourself back onto the carpet, eyes to the ceiling, already regretting everything. But your smile still won’t quite go away. It’s not for him. It’s for her. For home, and not even Max can dull the shine of this call. “Her accent’s way stronger. ‘S just harder to tell over the phone.” 

The peace, the sweetness of hearing your mom cook, the odd conversation between you and Max- is broken by footsteps. Fast ones. A blur moves behind your mom’s frame. A blur in a carhartt hoodie and bedazzled jeans and a ball cap full of hair. Marissa clocks it too late. 

“Bailey- don’t you touch that roll!” Too slow. A hand snakes into frame and snatches one off the tray cooling beside the oven.

“BAILEY!”

Then the camera swings wildly again, and you’re face-to-face with her: your cousin, Bailey, triumphant, cheeks puffed full of stolen bread, grinning like the absolute menace she is. She ducks into a corner, the phone clutched in one flour-dusted hand.

“Well, well, well. Cousin,” she says around a mouthful of carbs, “your mama says you got a boy in your room.”

You blink. “That’s- Bailey.”

“In your room,” she repeats, scandalized, like she’s reading it out loud from the Ten Commandments. “On Christmas. Give me something juicy, I’ve got a two year old. I haven’t heard a good story in- God. So, is this a hostage situation orrr…”

You exhale a laugh despite yourself. “Grow up. It’s not like that.”

Bailey leans in, peering, turning the phone just enough to get a look at Max, who’s frozen halfway through a sip of wine. Still sitting on the floor like a very guilty golden retriever. “Who’s this?” she asks, dramatic as hell. “Introduce me to your holiday miracle.”

You roll your eyes. “This is Max.”

Bailey stares.

Then leans closer.

Then squints.

“Wait,” she says slowly, “wait a minute. Is that- ?”

Max braces himself- you can see it. You know he’s thinking: Here it comes. The gasp. The oh my god, Max Verstappen?! You’re certain he can already hear it bouncing around in his little antisocial brain, alarms blaring. You brace yourself, too. Because you know what’s about to come out of her beautiful, lovely, big-fat fucking mouth and it’s not what he thinks it’s going to be.

“Oh my god,” Bailey breathes. “Like… Diet Coke Max?”

Max blinks.

You cough, choking down your laughter. “Yes.”

Max blinks. “What?”

Bailey gasps theatrically, a hand to her heart. “Quarter Max?” You lose it. Cackle, teeth bared.

Max turns to you, slowly. “What the fuck is Quarter Max.”

You shake your head. Still laughing. “Nothing.”

Bailey is delighted. “So it is him. Oh my god.” Max’s eyes snap to you, clearly reeling, his answered questions still branding around between you- what the fuck is Quarter Max?

You nod solemnly. “Yes.” Neither of you elaborates for him.

Bailey, now vibrating with energy, flips the camera around and runs screaming down the hallway. “Y’ALL. SHE’S WITH DIET COKE MAX.” The phone tips. You’re treated to a sideways view of a doorframe, a dog bed, and the echoing hollers of other cousins demanding explanations. Some are in on it, some aren’t, all of them now want to be in on whatever the fuck y’all’s crazy cousin is screaming about.

And then your mom, poor, sweet, under-informed Marissa, off-screen- “What does that mean?!”

Max looks stunned. “You’ve been talking about me,” he says slowly, a little shell-shocked.

You lift the wine glass and sip. “Only the important things.”

He just stares at you, then glances toward the phone- where chaos still reigns- and mutters, “What the fuck is Quarter Max?”

You grin into the glass, debate whether you should dignify him with an answer. He’s in on the joke, maybe the butt of it, technically, just… needs a little more context. What harm can giving him the puzzle piece do? “The jukeboxes at home take coins called Quarters.” Max’s face is slow to process. Like he’s putting two and two together in real time. The Diet Coke incident. The jukebox standoff. The fact you had him kneeling on the floor of some locals pub begging for your spare change. Her fucking cousin(s) know. She’s been telling stories. Laughing about him. He stares at you, somewhere between betrayed and impressed. “You’ve been talking shit.”

You nod, biting your lip. “Relentlessly.” He mutters something in Dutch and leans back against the wall like he’s rethinking every choice he’s ever made.

Bailey laughs like it’s the best thing she’s heard all week, and the camera tips as she shoves the phone back toward Marissa, who yells something unintelligible about setting the table through the chaos of clattering pans and shouts from the background. There’s more laughter, more chatter- names called out, someone asking about biscuits, someone else yelling no, not that knife- until finally, with a flurry of sweet goodbyes and one last ‘gotta go, sweetheart’ from your mom, the screen goes dark.

Silence.

You’re still holding the phone. Your fingers slide across the black screen once, twice, like you’re not quite ready to let go of the feeling. The noise. The background warmth. The easy rhythm of home.

But it’s quiet now. Just you and Max and the four thin walls of your dorm room.

You blink once, then glance around like you’ve just remembered where you are. The mess is everywhere- crayons scattered, coloring pages wrinkled and overlapping. You take a breath- too shallow to steady anything- and start to move. Not because it needs to be done, really. But because it gives your hands something to do. Something safe. Something that makes you feel less like you might accidentally say I miss them out loud.

You kneel and start gathering the pages first- carefully at first, then faster, like it helps. Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches from where he’s sunk against the wall, his fingers still loosely wrapped around the glass he snatched back from you when he realized you told people about it all. The Diet Coke. The 20p, or the Quarter, or the whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Told people about him. 

You're humming something- tuneless, cut off halfway through. Your hair slips out of its tie and falls forward. A strap of your tank top slips to the side, just a bit, as you scoop crayons back into their little plastic cup, one after another. Max doesn’t help. Doesn’t offer. He just watches.

He’s thinking- trying not to, but he is.

Because you’re doing something simple. Casual. Normal. Something you probably do all the time. And all he can think about is that phone call. That kitchen. That voice calling for Bailey. The screech of laughter and rustle of bodies and the dim clang of silverware.

They sounded fun, he thinks.

It slips out.

“They sound fun,” he says aloud, too quiet to sound casual.

You glance over your shoulder at him. Just a flicker. Your throat moves when you swallow. “They are,” you say. Your voice is thin, stretched out over too many feelings and too much wine. You stack the coloring sheets together, one hand smoothing down the corners. “They’re a lot. But they’re… home.” It hangs there. The silence. The unspoken.

You have a place to be and can’t get there.

He could get to his family, no problem. He’s just… not. You don’t know why, and you’re not asking. He fills the glass again, careful not to spill. Doesn’t push you for more, which you’re grateful for. 

You’re quiet as you climb onto the bed, shifting the wrinkled comforter into something resembling order. Your laptop’s still perched on the far side of the mattress, and you drag it over, flip it open. The screen lights your face in soft blue. You curl your legs under yourself, shifting a pillow behind your back, and gesture vaguely toward him. “I was gonna put a movie on,” you say. Then, eyes on the laptop instead of him: “What do you wanna watch?”

It’s casual. Easy. But you don't ask if he wants to stay. And he doesn’t ask if he can.

You mull it over, thumb hovering over the trackpad as the little carousel of thumbnails spins slowly on screen. Max sips more wine in silence, settles onto the furthest edge of your bed, like he hasn’t quite figured out if this is an invite or a test. Maybe it’s both.

He seems like a crude humor guy. Like the type who still quotes Step Brothers without irony and probably thinks Superbad is a cinematic achievement. Which… okay, no judgment. You like that stuff too. Comfort food for the soul. Millennial gold.

For half a second, Borat flashes through your mind. You smirk. Too risky. Even for Max. You're not trying to get fired for ruining Christmas with cultural insensitivity. Not tonight.

Your eyes snag on a familiar poster. Talladega Nights. Yes.

It’s perfect. Low stakes. Just enough racing to be familiar, but far enough from Formula 1 not to feel like homework. Plus- bonus points for mocking your country, not someone else’s. (Mostly.)

You click it. The title screen boots up with that weirdly aggressive intro music, and something unspools quietly in your chest.

Your mom’s old SUV had a DVD player that ate discs like a woodchipper, and Talledega Nights got jammed in it before your ninth birthday. For the next six years, you watched it on loop every time you drove further than ten minutes from home. You must’ve watched it two hundred times on road trips. Kaleb used to mouth every line from the backseat while you begged your parents for literally any other movie, but now…

Now you miss it.

You click play, trying not to linger on that thought.

“Alright,” you murmur, settling back against the wall, eyes flicking up toward Max. “Hope you like America.” You pause. “And NASCAR.” He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Just moves slowly to sit on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, wine glass balanced between his fingers.

The screen goes dark. And then, the immortal words: “America is all about speed. Hot, nasty, badass speed.”

You bite back a grin. Max huffs. Not quite a laugh. But not not a laugh, either. You don’t make it ten minutes into the movie before the quoting starts.

You mumble along with the punch lines under your breath, lips twitching. Max doesn’t even bother pretending he hasn’t seen it.  When Ricky Bobby starts praying to little baby Jesus, both of you laugh- not because the joke is fresh, but because it is so goddamn stupid. Because it’s familiar.

It’s easy, for a minute. Too easy. So, naturally, you ruin it. “Talked to Danny lately?” you ask casually, not looking at Max- just watching the screen, as if it’s a throwaway comment. It’s not. You’re genuinely wondering.

You’ve been trying to avoid texting Danny too much- no more than he texts you. Do your best to be an easy friend. An un-annoying friend. A friend he might want to keep around for longer than three weeks.

He glances up at you- barely a beat of delay. “Yeah.” He takes a sip of wine. “Couple days ago. He’s in Perth.”

“Right, right.” You nod like you didn’t already know that from Instagram. “Holiday with the family?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. Adds, “Surfing. BBQ. Being….Australian, or whatever.”

You snort. That sounds about right. Max doesn’t say anything else for a second. Just sips again. Eyes on the screen. 

But he’s not watching anymore.

He’s turning something over in his head- he’s transparent like that when he’s trying not to be. You’ve noticed he didn’t inherit Jos’s subtilty. The movie’s still playing, Ricky Bobby still blazing gloriously across the screen, but Max is suddenly too still. Too deliberate. “You two still… hanging out?”

Your head tilts, just a little. “Me and Danny?”

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “Not since the party. Why?”

“No reason.” Another shrug, a sip, a pass of the glass, his eyes still fixed forward. He shifts beside you, kicks his legs out next to yours, the twin mattress groaning beneath the movement. His knee brushes yours by accident- both of you flinch- and he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back the complaint all night. 

“This bed,” he mutters, grimacing. “Jesus. This has to be the worst bed in the world.” You don’t look at him. Just sip wine, gaze flicking toward the screen. He doesn’t stop. “Seriously. How do you bring anyone back here?”

You turn your head. Slow. Stare at him like he’s sprouted a second nose. “Bring…” you echo, blinking. “A man?”

He shrugs, already regretting the question. “I mean… yeah.”

You huff. Dry. Amused. “To this? My dorm? At my job? With six square feet of personal space and cameras in the lobby?” You raise your brows. Let the silence do the rest. Hard, hard pass.

Max looks at you like you’ve just confessed to living in your car. In a blizzard. With no shoes. Twists to look at you fully, like maybe he’s just misheard.  “Wait- so you just go to their place every time?” he asks, incredulous, like this is the part that’s difficult to wrap his head around.

You stare at him. Truly, honestly stare. “Max. I don’t have anyone to go to.” He starts to say something, stops. Blinks. His brows pull in slightly, confusion breaking up the usual arrogance. “I’ve literally said this before,” you continue, voice flatter now. “Multiple times. Danny literally just asked me. You’ve been in the room. I don’t have time for a social life. Or friends. Or whatever it is you think I’m doing in my free time. Christian took me out for beers with you, for God’s sake.” You take another sip, wave your fingers like you’re dismissing the conversation. 

Max frowns like he’s trying to replay those conversations in his head. You can see the wheels turning, slowly, like he’s trying to file this under “unlikely but technically plausible.” But it just doesn’t compute. “You’re telling me,” he says finally, like each word costs him something, “you haven’t… hooked up with anyone since moving here?”

For fucks sake, he’s not letting it go. You sigh, like you’re trying to explain something to the world’s dumbest dog. “Correct.” His mouth opens. Then closes. The silence that follows is almost insulting in its length.

“…Not even once?”

“Nope.”

“Since you got to Europe?”

You nod. “Mmhmm.” Max just sits there, stunned. Processing. Watching you like you’re a rare insect he found in his bathroom sink. It takes him way too long to realize you’re not kidding.

Max is quiet. A little too quiet. He’s not shocked anymore- he’s analyzing. Assessing. Like he’s trying to puzzle out some hidden, catastrophic flaw that would make you, you, un-fuckable. As if this is some logic problem, and he’s waiting for the answer to reveal itself.

Then- dry, deadpan, one corner of his mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a smirk- “Maybe you should try talking less.”

Your eyes snap to him. “Shut the fuck up.”

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose. “Just saying. Might help.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He ignores that. Or maybe enjoys it. Probably both. “No, I’ve figured it out,” he says, a little more animated now, as if he’s truly cracked the code. “You like saying no.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you. At events. At dinners. You- ” he lifts his hand, gestures vaguely, “- set the bar so high no one could ever reach it. Then you get to shoot them down. Keep all the power.”

You stare at him for a beat, jaw clenched, but you don’t fire back right away- because the worst part? Is that he’s not entirely wrong. Not really. Just smug about it. And so very Max. You roll your eyes and grab the wine glass instead. “You think you know everything.”

He shrugs, but that smirk- that fucking smirk- lingers. “Not everything. Just enough.”

You take a long sip of wine, then tilt your head toward him- sweet, patronizing, eyes wide with mock praise. “That’s a very astute observation,” you say, tone dripping with teacher-to-preschooler energy. “Especially coming from someone with the emotional control of a five-year-old. Very good!” 

Max huffs a breath of laughter- quiet, begrudging, maybe even a little impressed. “Or,” you continue, push the glass back into his hand, “hear me out- there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.” He raises a brow, skeptical.

You know Max doesn’t want to hear the truth. But he keeps fucking pressing for it, so goddamnit, you’ll give it to him. You’re so sick of explaining yourself to boys, and you know what, he deserves to be uncomfortable. 

You go on, deadpan. “I just don’t feel like going through the inconvenience of shaving my legs, making small talk, hauling myself to someone’s apartment just to get my left lip rubbed like a fucking stress ball for thirty seconds and asked if I came yet.” You pause. “It’s not my fault men are incompetent. Why bother with them at all, honestly?”

Max chokes on the wine.

You don’t flinch. Don’t laugh. Just raise a brow and look back towards the screen, unbothered, like you’ve simply recited your grocery list.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still recovering from his wine misfire, then leans in just slightly- one elbow braced behind him, the other hand cradling the glass like he’s about to lay down wisdom.

“So what I’m hearing,” he says, slow and mock-thoughtful, “is that you’re just really bad at picking hookups.” You glance over, deadpan. He nods, all condescending concern now. “That’s fine. That’s fixable. You just don’t know the tricks.”

You blink at him once. Slowly. “Oh,” you say, voice flat. “There’s tricks, huh?”

He shrugs, smug and infuriating. “Obviously.”

You turn your whole head to look at him now. “Please,” you say, dry as bone, “do enlighten me, Casanova.”

Max shrugs, casual, like he’s discussing using wets at Silverstone in March. “You kiss them.”

You stare at him. Flat. Blank. Like he’s just explained paddle shifting to you. “No shit,” you deadpan. “You kiss someone before you sleep with them. Groundbreaking.”

“No, no,” he insists, sitting up a little straighter, the glass in his hand sloshing just slightly. “Not like that. Not during. Before. Like, early. Test run.”

You blink, the corner of your mouth twitching with restrained laughter. “A test kiss.”

“Exactly,” he says, as if this is a widely accepted, peer-reviewed strategy. “If they’re a bad kisser? Don’t even bother. If they’re okay, maybe. But if they’re really good- like really good? That’s almost always sex worth remembering.”

You blink again, slowly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

But you’re grinning now. Just barely. Because he’s dead serious, and he doesn’t even realize how much he’s leaning toward you while making this Very Important Point. You keep poking at him, grinning wider every time he bites. “Okay, professor. What makes a good kiss, then?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He swirls the last sip of wine in the glass like it’s something to contemplate. You don’t even care if he didn't offer you the last swallow of your own wine, because you’re testing something. “Mmm,” he hums, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Can’t give away the answers before the test.”

Your brows shoot up. Oh. Oh. He’s really doing this.

You sit up straighter, practically vibrating now- glee thrumming behind your teeth. You know exactly where this is going, and it’s hilarious. He thinks he’s being smooth. You think you’ve never seen anything so transparently thirsty in your life. He’s trying to half-drunkenly flirt his way into your mouth like it’s a clever psychological tactic. On Christmas, no less. For shame, Max.

He leans back just slightly, like this is no big deal. Says it like he’s offering you a sample tray at the fucking supermarket. “Yeah,” he nods, casual, “kiss me. Then we’ll see if that’s your problem. Science.”

You almost burst out laughing. Does he- does he- think you were born yesterday? That you’re going to fall for this little power play? That he’ll let you kiss him- like he’s doing you a favor- and then what? Rank it? Pat your head? Tell you he approves?

Absolutely the fuck not.

Your grin sharpens, toothy and electric. “No, thank you,” you say sweetly, like you’re declining a timeshare. You pause, letting the silence stretch- just long enough for him to think that’s the end of it.

Your grin turns razor sharp as you lean back onto your elbows, eyes glittering with mischief. “But hey,” you say, all false magnanimity, “you’re welcome to kiss me. And I’ll let you know if you seem like you might be decent in bed. Science, and all.”

That lands.

Max’s mouth twitches- just barely- but you see it. A flicker of something bruised under the surface. He masks it quickly, but not quickly enough. For half a second, he looks like you’ve just outmaneuvered him in his own fantasy- a fantasy where he was the one in control, the one doling out favors and deciding outcomes.

And now? Now he’s the one on his back foot.

You can see the irritation bloom across his features- not because he’s angry, but because he knows you’ve seen through him. Knows you’re right. Knows if he wants this kiss- and oh, he wants it- he’s going to have to do it your way now. Swallow the pride. Take the step.

You’re tricky. You’re sharp. You’re not some girl dazzled by a half-drunk Max Verstappen in a twin bed on Christmas night. You’re a challenge he didn’t see coming, and he’s annoyed because part of him loves it.

He stares at you a moment longer. Considering.

The air shifts.

You’re still close- so close- and the buzz in your bloodstream crackles again as his eyes drop, just once, to your mouth. When he looks back up, it’s different. Looser. Pretending it’s no big deal. Playing it cool.

“Okay,” he says, shrugging one shoulder like he couldn’t care less. Like he’s just humoring you. Like this is purely academic. “Why not.” And you bite your tongue to keep from smiling. Because you won. He leans in- slowly, almost like he’s giving you time to back out. But you don’t.

You don’t move. You barely even breathe.

And then his lips touch yours.

It’s soft. Shockingly soft. Firm in pressure, but not forceful- just the sure contact of one mouth meeting another with no fanfare. No tongue. No push. Just warmth and shape. Skin on skin. A delicate drag as his bottom lip shifts against yours. A breath, exhaled.

Your spine straightens. Nerves fire.

The contact isn’t hungry or possessive- if anything, it’s careful. Like he’s taking a first pass. Feeling it out. Like this isn’t just some cocky play to get in your pants, but something he actually wants to feel.

Your whole body responds on a microscopic level.

Your chest lifts with a sharp inhale, and suddenly your skin feels too tight for your frame. Heat curls low in your stomach, slow and slinky, and your hands twitch slightly against the bed, fingers flexing with the effort of staying still.

Behind your ribs, your heart gives a stutter. Not a pounding gallop, but a heavy thud. Like it’s recalibrating. Like it just noticed something your brain hadn’t caught yet. Your lips part slightly, reacting more than deciding- but there’s no escalation. Not yet. It’s still simple. Still closed. But everything inside you is wide awake.

His lips are warm, not chapped- slightly dry at the center, where the soft of his lower lip drags against yours. You feel the texture of him. The difference in shape. The way his top lip presses a little firmer, the way his bottom one lingers. The faintest catch of breath between you when he shifts- like neither of you are sure what comes next, but neither of you are pulling away.

Your thighs tighten, abs bracing without meaning to. It’s like a silent alarm went off in your body, a thousand small muscles contracting in the same moment.

You feel the wine in your bloodstream like a hum. Feel your fingertips tingle. Feel the entire front of your body start to buzz with the nearness of him- even though you’re not touching anywhere but your mouths. The rest of your bodies are still a breath apart.

And it’s intimate in a way you didn’t expect. In a way that makes it hard to think. Hard to blink. Hard to remember that this was supposed to be a joke. That you were supposed to win.

And just when you think it’s over- when you think he might pull back, break the tension, let it stay light and unspoken- you realize with almost a sense of relief: a kiss without tongue doesn’t really count. Not for adults. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way that leaves fingerprints on your ribs. If he stops now, you can both pretend it didn’t happen.

But he doesn’t stop. Instead, his lips shift. Just slightly. His mouth parts. And then there is tongue. Not forceful. Not aggressive. He doesn’t invade- he offers. Soft. Warm. A quiet invitation. And without thinking, without calculating, you accept. Your mouth opens to meet his like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Like there was never going to be any other outcome. And then- there.

The press of it- your tongue sliding against his, a tentative flick that turns into a rhythm before either of you consciously guide it- sends a shock straight to your spine. It’s not messy. It’s not greedy. It’s precise, like you’re figuring out the way his body wants to speak yours, and yours is already fluent.

Push and pull. Pressure and retreat.

You feel the shift in him immediately- his hand bracing against the mattress to keep from closing the last few centimeters between your bodies. His breath hitches, and the way he tips his chin tells you he’s chasing more. Not rushing. Just following. Syncing to the same tempo you are. Your teeth graze- just barely- and you feel him smile against your mouth like he felt it too. Like he liked it.

And something clicks into place you didn’t know was missing.

Heat pools low in your belly, rising slowly, steadily, until your whole torso feels flooded. Your palms burn against the sheets. You’re still not touching anywhere but your mouths- but it feels like so much more. It feels like the kind of kiss people look back on. The kind that burns into the inside of your skull and lives there forever.

You’re both panting now- barely, but enough. Breath warm between you, barely contained. Your lips sting in the best way, swollen and wet from where he kissed you like he meant it, like he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care who got wrecked in the process.

Then his teeth catch your bottom lip. Just a graze. A scrape and a tug, slow and deliberate, before he lets go. And leans back in. This one’s different. Already. There’s a charge behind it- an intention. It lands deeper, darker, laced with something that makes your hips twitch with the need to chase him. Makes you want to fist your hands in his hoodie and pull him flush against you, want to feel the weight of him, the shape of him, press your body against something solid and real and hot. But just as you start to shift, just as your hand flinches to move- 

Max freezes.

It’s not big. Just a second. A half-second. His body stiffens, his hand curls tighter into the bed, his mouth pulls just the slightest bit away. Not enough to break contact, but enough to break momentum.

And then- he’s retreating. Eyes wide. Lips still parted. Breathing hard like he’s been running, or fighting, or caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Something forbidden. He blinks down at you like he’s startled by his own body. Like he doesn’t quite recognize what just came out of him.

You’re still. Still wanting. Still stunned.

And he looks- 

Panicked. A little. Gutted. Maybe. Or like he just remembered who you are. And who he is. And what a terrible, terrible idea this probably is. But still, he doesn’t move further away. Doesn’t bolt. He just stares- wild and stunned- like he’s caught somewhere between what did I just do and why can’t I stop?

He recovers. Of course he does.

You see it flicker across his face like a muscle memory- panic replaced by bravado, by that smug, bulletproof mask he wears in a press conference after he ran someone over on the way to P1. The tilt of his lips creeps back into a smirk, slow and curling, like he’s already rewritten the scene in his head and cast himself as the one in control.

“Well…” he murmurs, voice low, rough from want, “what’s the verdict?”

Cocky. Fucking. Bastard.

Your pulse is pounding. Your lips are tingling. Your body’s still practically vibrating from where his mouth touched yours, where his tongue-  Nope.

You sit back. Just enough to put a breath of air between you. Your palms find the edge of the mattress, grounding. You force your breathing to even out, force the blood to cool beneath your skin even as you feel how flushed you are. He’s watching you closely now- too closely.

But you’re… you. And he’s Max. And you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.

You hum. Shrug, like this is just another Tuesday. Like you didn’t nearly melt into a puddle on your own sheets. Like you weren’t fifteen seconds from humping his leg like a dog in heat. You shoot him a sideways glance and smirk right back.

“Mmm…” You let it hang there. Let the anticipation curl. “Decent.”

His brows lift. A flash of disbelief, of protest. “Decent?”

You grin wider. Innocent. Infuriating. “Yeah. Not bad.”

Like you didn’t just come this close to dragging him under you and making very, very bad choices. He stares at you like he doesn’t know whether to be insulted or turned on.

Max looks at you like he might actually say it- that you’re full of shit. That decent is a goddamn crime. That you should be ashamed of yourself, lying like that with your cheeks flushed and your lips still parted like they miss him already.

His jaw twitches. But he doesn’t say a word. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, casual and sharp, like the kiss was just a thing that happened and not what it was. Scoffs- barely audible. Then leans back against the pillow like none of it touched him at all. Like he isn’t still riding the same high. Like the movie he’s seen four times this year is suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet.

You mimic him perfectly. A little mocking. A little delayed. You wipe your mouth too, soft and slow. Scoff- just as light. Settle yourself back into the other side of your pillow, leaving a space between you that feels too big and too small all at once.

And you watch. Or… pretend to. Because the truth is, you’re aware of everything. Of the way his knee shifts a fraction closer every time he adjusts. The drag of his breath when it catches just a little too long. The warmth radiating from the place where his shoulder brushes yours- barely. But it’s there. You could measure it in microns.

You don’t blink at the screen. Don’t laugh at the dumb jokes you’ve heard a hundred times. You’re too busy trying to keep your body still. Trying not to respond to the electric, alive sensation of almost.

Almost touching. Almost saying something. Almost doing it again. And then somewhere between Ricky Bobby screaming about fire and the rise of the final music cue- your body betrays you. Your lashes flutter once. Your limbs go heavy. And before you can chase down the last sparks still buzzing under your skin- you’re asleep. Just like that.

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

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════ A/N: Hiatus is OVERRRRR. Sorry to kill y'all. No excuses. But here is nearly 50 pages of good, good stuff. I went through a bit of a hard time in terms of motivation and comparison, but it was you guys who interact with the fic on a deep level- with these amazing, reflective comments and asks that spurred me through this writers block. So thank you for that, and please keep them coming because it's truly so meaningful <3

[skyrim-forever]

WIP Wednesday

It's Wednesday my dudes :) Thank you @chiqita @silly-little-diary @labskeever for tagging me! Great to see your cool stuff :)

Tagging: @theoneandonlysemla @pocket-vvardvark @changelingsandothernonsense @scholarlyhermit @sulphuricgrin

@hircines-hunter @ladytanithia @firefly-factory @heavy-metal-dick @sanzas-reverie @dirty-bosmer (I know your super busy bestie so no pressure)

@saltymaplesyrup @captain-of-silvenar @lucien-lachance @friend-of-giants @thequeenofthewinter @umbracirrus @pyre-of-pages

I've gotten a bit more hair done, progress has been slow on him, decided he'll get done when he gets done. But I have gotten a lot of writing done! This is a snippet from Chapter 4 of Changing Tides (which I'm hoping to post this weekend). Both 4 and 5 are done and Chapter 6 is underway!

Under the cut is Visdros being a dickhead to Odile's neighbour and this neighbours drops an important piece of information for her:

The other mer gazes lingers longer on Visdros than her so she introduces them. 

“Ah Baelyn,” she uses his first name. “This is Visdros, I found him wounded and now am trying to help him find his way.” She chuckles nervously, distinctly leaving the revenge-seeking out. When the Bosmer says nothing, the two just exchanging looks that puzzle Odile, she decides to get on with why she’s here. “I was wondering if we could trouble you for a ride to Leyawiin, if you are still going today.” 

“A ride in what?” The injured mer mutters. “A walking tree?”

“My boat,  twelve feet, single sail. Modest but perfect for going up river.” Baelyn almost sounds defensive, even more so when he adds, “Not for attacking others like some brute.” Visdros’s eyes narrow as the sneer which looks all too familiar by this point, dawns his face once more. 

“I will never set foot on a vessel controlled by one like you.” 

“Do you got a problem with mer like me? I thought you’d like it, maybe you could even steal from me, I’m sure you’ve done a lot of that.” What in Oblivion?

“You’re not worth my time nor the effort,” he does a stabbing motion with his hand. Visdros spits on the ground, offers one more glare and then turns to walk away. “We will walk.” An even more familiar feeling occurs in her chest, where it always did. Anxiety grips her lungs as she cycles through fear and confusion. 

“It’s a two day trek! It would be so much…” She stops mid-sentence. I can’t ask Baelyn to help us now, not when he has been so rude. The Bosmer had choice words of his own but Visdros did insult him first and most importantly, unprompted. Yet, he was already eyeing him, too frequent to be just curious… She turns to address her neighbor, muster up some apology for his behaviour as though she is responsible for him. I am. “Oh Mr.- Baelyn, I am so sorry for him. I mean absolutely no offense, I don't know what…” Her eyes drop to the ground as she grows even more confused. In a way she shouldn’t be surprised given how brash he’d already been but, that did not cease to make it jarring. Thankfully the other does not blame her.

“I’m not offended, Odile. Don’t worry about me.” That does ease her fears, but the confusion only grows when he speaks next. “I suggest you be careful traveling with one of those fish.” Fish? Is he alright? Has he been injured too?

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean...” He sighs, pointing to the mer who is now leaning against a tree, almost making a show of avoiding looking at them. “We don’t see them in these parts but they are notorious along Valenwood and Summerset.” Baelyn looks back at her for what he says next. “He’s a Sea Elf, a Maormer if you want to use the Elvish. They come from an archipelago far south. Their lot are either pirates or soldiers, both equally ruthless." A Maormer? So he’s not a Dunmer but, but something else? “I suggest before you go anywhere with him, you think on if he’s worth the hassle.” I am worth the hassle. Her principles of good will were worth the effort, wherever he is from does not change that.

[hamsternella]

hi!!! I have a request if you want too ofc!!! I’ve always thought of a reader who used to be in a relationship with ford before him being sucked up in the portal..and finding out that he was back?? It would be heavy angst with supreme fluff I think, I love how you write Ford in your other posts 👀

I'm sorry for my delay; I had a couple of problems BUT HERE IT IS. I hope you like it.

He's back

cw: stanford pines x reader, angst, fluff

It was déjà vu. Flashing lights, burned out outlets and the bustle of the masses. Communal fear; the terror of shadows devouring the streets as the gloom spread down every avenue—it had been a danger to set foot outside, but you risked it. One hand clinging to the edge of your robe, and the other holding a flashlight that barely worked without flickering; but with its mark referring to its recent departure from the factory, it was now the only thing that could keep your head attached to the last ounce of sanity.

You had not traveled back in time. You were still in the same Gravity Falls. Cars were ascending into the sky, darkness was taking over the town, and the stars were shining brighter than ever. Your own body had begun to rise; the lantern ended up somewhere unknown as you had to clutch both hands to the nearest lamppost, avoiding biting your tongue as you returned to the ground with the sting of cement against the skin of your legs.

You missed the exact moment when you had begun to cry—it was of no great importance. You tried to stand up, you tried to take deep breaths, and you tried to search for God between prayers; but nothing seemed to quell the urge to gouge your eyes out with your fingers. You were in denial about discovering what lay beyond the darkness when the light bathed Gravity Falls. You felt sick.

Your heart felt like it was about to burst in your chest; the nerves swirled in your stomach like an uncomfortable tingle. The world was spinning, and you didn't know if it was your head or if the event would repeat itself. Three times. Three times it would be. Now it was only two.

Two times.

How many more years?

Could it be?

?̸҇̿͑͆̇͗̐̏̎͗̚̚ɯ̵҇͂͑͐̽͐̊̀̈́ı̷̷̣̒͂̍́̌͊̌̓̈͐́͋̃͌̇̆͋͊̋̈́̎̚͡͠ɥ҈̄́̀̌̄͆̌̏́͐̍̅̆͞ ǝ̴̉͂͆̾͌͗͂̇̄͋͠q̵̍͋̈̀̉́̆̍̽̿̓̄̆͊̚̚͞ ʇ̵̐̅̓͐͗͂̐͒̌̐̽̆̕ı̷̴̣̉͊̃͆̉̐̇̽͛̎͐̓̃̽̏̓̋̋͗̔̾̀͌̕͞ p҈̌̿̃̅̐͐͂̚͞ן̵̛͊̓̋͊̓̀͒̈́̈n҈҇̾̔̄̈̋͗̽̚ơ̵͐̄̂̽̊̑́͂̚̚Ɔ̸̿̒͐̆̉̈́̈̄̍̋̕

Getting to the Mystery Shack was less complicated than you had imagined. The wooden signs —now scattered in the mud; hanging from the trees, among their branches— were helpful in reaching the shack. You barely reacted when a government special forces car (what were they supposed to be doing in Gravity Falls?) honked its horn, forcing you to jump to the side of the road. After it followed a whole line of armored vehicles. You didn't know what to think—there was nothing to do about it.

There was nothing you could do. Why were you there?

It had been difficult for you to return home to put on your shoes. Now they were ruined: muddy and the laces were wet with dirty water. You knew your socks were soaked through, and possibly your robe was the only thing halfway presentable. And for what? Who were you thinking of surprising? Stanley Pines, perhaps? The man you hadn't seen for a little over thirty years; or maybe his workers, who were the only people able to orbit around him. You had never gone to see him after ʇ̵̛̅̀̓ǘ̴̋́͛̃͝ǝ҉҇̏̂̉p҉̔̋͞ı҉̛̓̋̑̚ɔ̸̛̍̏̚ɔ̵̽̃͑́͠ɐ҉̓̍̚͠ ǝ҈͑̽̆͝ɥ̸̇̿͗͗͝ʇ҉҇̐̎̅ that day.

You lost the order of your thoughts —too confused on their own— as soon as the dome of trees was behind you. The sun rising behind the cabin blinded you for an instant, and too tired, perhaps even surrendered to the possibility of turning around and going back the way you came, you still tried to shield your eyes from the light. It was an instant. You let out a sigh caught in your chest, gathered your breath, and through silent tears you thought you heard a distant whisper.

Then it was a murmur.

Then it was a scream.

Then there were several. And they were all your name.

The tears, once small pearls hanging from your eyes, were now a torrent of bitterness and confusion twisting your gesture. They seemed to be born from a fresh wound in your heart; and it deepened as your arm fell limp to the side of your body, leaving you at the mercy of a blurred figure beyond what your imagination could trace. It was like a black blob, too big to be ɹ̴̊̑̃̅͝ǝ҉̈̊͛͡ɥ̵̛̐̿̊d̴͋́̕ı҈̿̍́͝Ɔ̶͑̆͒̌͞—but too small to be a black hole. Still, the way it approached and dominated your field of vision, eating away at the stability of your heart and the rhythm of your breathing, made it feel like one. Maybe this was the end of you. Maybe he was back.

You tried to swallow the rest of your tears, preparing both —weak— fists in front of you. Ready to fight. You mustered up the courage you needed, closing your eyes with the thought that if you avoided looking at him, possibly your death would be quicker. Maybe there would be mercy. Maybe the cut in your stomach wouldn't hurt, and when your organs fell out of your body you wouldn't have to see red bathing your feet. Nor were you going to see the world fade away; and you hoped much less was yellow covering your vision. Metallic taste, smell of meat and viscosity of guts and viscera. All the senses in an expression of his love for human carnage.

And the pain was going to be the least of it.

The impact came with the sound of hurried footsteps, and the scratchy texture of fabric that made you frown. The warmth of an embrace enveloped your body, and the fussy sensation of a breath on your neck made you bristle from head to toe. You opened your eyes a little at a time; gray and white invading your vision. Gray hair. There was a lot of gray hair. There was also the smell of gunpowder, dirt, dust and dampness—perhaps another musk you didn't recognize. And yet you cried again.

You clung to the body of a dead man; to the memory of a missing person. You wrapped your arms around the body of the man you had forgotten the color of his eyes or the sound of his voice. But there he was: crying like you, maybe worse, and with the clumsiness of a baby coming into the world—coming home. You dug your nails into his back, your gaze lost in the sun hanging in the firmament and the morning breeze freezing the wounds on your legs. Old, tired legs.

How the years go by.

You felt joy with those hands caressing your hair. You wanted to close your eyes again, but you feared losing the moment in another nostalgic and painful dream. You feared losing him. Losing—

"Ford," voice broken, tired. The voice of someone in fear, "I thought you were... I thought for a moment, Ford, that maybe... maybe you were..."

You thought you heard him mutter a 'no' so faint that it ended as a windblown sigh. Instead, Ford shook his head, beginning to push his body away from yours. You held on tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck. It was your turn to shake your head.

"Your eyes—I don't want to see them," you said. "I don't want to see your eyes, Ford."

"But I need to see yours," he replied softly. "I missed them... I missed you."

He was crying again.

"I missed you so much," he continued. "You don't know how much I have... This has been torture—without you, without your voice."

His voice was barely a plea that made your heart bristle.

"So let me see them; I need to know this is real."

"I don't want to find out you're not my Ford," you said. "What if you are him? What if you're playing with me?"

"He's not here," he shook his head. His hands began to stroke your back. "He can't hurt you, dear. Not here. Not with me here..."

"You left me," you interrupted him. "You left me, Ford. You went through the portal and left me. I've forgotten the color of your eyes—I can only remember the yellow; the long pupil, the smile... I don't know what I'm going to do if it's not you."

"But it's me. It's only me."

You let his hands pull your body away from his, and with the fear of one who searches in the gloom for a monster, you guided your eyes to his. You found a look full of tenderness and longing; a wrinkled face, tired and wet with tears. You couldn't control the impulse to bring one of your hands to his cheek, tracing the path of a fresh tear until it was lost beneath your palm; his face resting squarely against it, making him close his eyes with pleasure at the caress.

"It's only you," you whispered. You saw him nod, and then you released the sigh you had been holding in your chest. "It's finally you... I've been waiting for you all these years, Ford. Although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't waiting for something like... you know."

"I understand," he replied softly. "He's lied to me and terrorized me too; in places you couldn't possibly imagine, telling me horrendous things... Telling me that he had—he had killed you, God."

You smiled ruefully, holding his gaze when he opened his eyes.

"But then I saw you standing here," he continued, "and I thought maybe I might be delirious. I kept dreaming of you; of tracing you in drawings, in my head, everywhere... I didn't want to forget you. I didn't want you to turn to dust."

"I had forgotten your gaze," you replied. "I had forgotten your eyes—their color, their shape. All I could think of was the yellow glowing in the dark, and the pupils..." You swallowed your words, too overcome by the feeling of bitterness in your chest to continue. It took you a moment to catch your breath. "To see them again, after all these years, Ford... They are so beautiful. You are so, so... I don't know. I've just missed you so much. I think you get an idea of how much I do," you laughed through your tears, next to him.

Silence enveloped you both, barely interrupted by the murmur of wind and birds. The breeze swirled the earth and leaves, wrapping your feet with a shiver to your neck, where Ford's hands were now resting. You brought yours over his, drawing them to your lips for a kiss. You traced scars with caresses; you covered the roughness with the softness of your affection, and listened intently to his breathing quicken. You thought you could hear his heart beat out of control under your charm.

In an instant his hands cradled your cheeks; his fingers rested softly on your skin, brushing your earlobes, tickling you. You closed your eyes, drowning in the darkness, guided by the light pressure of a warmth foreign to your body. You rested your arms on his shoulders, barely catching his breath on your face as you sensed the awkwardness of shy lips seeking yours between kisses along your skin. On your forehead as a blessing, on your eyelids to drink away your anguish, on your nose to lighten your own nerves, and then on your lips; perhaps to savor the thousands of words you didn't know—those that might come to Ford's aid in understanding how much you needed him these thirty years, and how much you were going to keep longing for him now that you had felt his warmth again.

You let his body collide with yours, and barely interfered with the wildness of his own need for you. You didn't stop his arms when they wrapped around you awkwardly; nor did you utter a complaint when the kiss deepened with a pair of choked whimpers that died in your mouth. You let yourself be drowned by a show of affection too abrupt, too old—needed and almost forgotten. You savored Ford with the rage of an affair stuck in the past, and with the pent-up love of years of not having seen him. Of having believed him dead.

As the air thinned you parted. You still held him in your embrace, searching with your misty eyes for his. But there he was: flushed, visibly embarrassed, but there he was. Ford was still there. Still alive—back at home, with you.

"Don't look at me so intensely after such a disastrous kiss," he suddenly muttered.

"Do you feel embarrassed?" you asked under a chuckle. "And what do you call a disastrous kiss?"

"A kiss I practiced in my sleep and could never put into practice... until now."

This time you had to let out the laugh you'd been hiding. Ford covered his face, red as a tomato. He tried to explain himself but found it impossible; all his words choked, too garbled.

"It's like you're that boy who had barely made it to Gravity Falls," you tried to articulate. "Too many dreams. You've always been one to dream a lot."

"I could meet you in those dreams," he whispered. "You've always lived in my mind, along with them."

It was your turn to blush. Ford chuckled.

"What an old rascal you are when you want to be," you added.

"But it's true!"

You went along with his laughter, losing yourself in the way he looked at you. The sweet way he still loved you.

"Don't ever leave again," you said after a long while. "Don't ever leave me here again, Ford."

"I'd have to be dead to let you go, my dear."

"Or have your memory wiped," you added.

"Oh, that would be impossible. I have a special plate attached to prevent that kind of accident," he explained. "You know—other dimensions and that sort of thing."

"Sure, love," you laughed.

Ford brought one of his hands to his head, rapping gently with his knuckles to rattle the metal. You gasped.

"That's... Let's see," you throat cleared, "I deserve an explanation. Too many kisses but not enough answers, Ford."

"I know, I know," he smiled. "I promise to explain everything. But first a bath... and another hug."

"Another hug," you nodded, laughing softly. "You better never let go of me again."

"Never again."

[neonpaperlanterns]

Could I request a little story of Dogday (rescued, with legs is optional. Still in the factory.) fussing over reader/Angel not taking a moment to rest.

Like, Dogday has not seen Angel sleep once since they've met. Maybe locks em up in hug jail till they get some actual rest. Light little fluff.

Can't really survive that place without some sleep to keep the brain focused.

Go to bed

"I'm fine." You snapped, batting DogDay's hands away. The dog was not deterred.

"You most certainly are not." He snapped right back making sure to block the door. They've finally found some place to just take a moment but you simply refused. And DogDay has had enough of it!

"When was the last time you slept?" He prodded as you glared at him. Your arms crossed as you avoided his gaze.

"What about you huh?" You asked defensively, trying to turn this around on the smiling critter but again he was not having it. You've avoided taking care of yourself long enough. And if you weren't going to do it then he was.

Surging forward he grabbed you. A surprised yelp left you as he caged you within in his arms. Smooshing you against his chest and plopped onto the floor, back firmly against the door.

"What are you doing!" Your arms flailed as you smacked at him. Huffing he rearranged you so you were on your side facing away from him. Head cushioned by his arm as he secured the other one around your middle.

"Going to sleep." A yawn escaped him as he nuzzled his nose against your hair.

"You should to. We can set out later." He could feel you begining to protest.

"Please Angel?" DogDay tried to put as much desperate hopefulness behind his voice as possible.

It was silent for a moment.

And then you were sighing. You entire body deflated as you relaxed against him.

"Fine." You grumbled.

It made him let out a small laugh as he loosened his hold just a little.

"Thank you." He placed a kiss onto of your head. "Goodnight Angel."

He heard you yawn as you twined your fingers around his.

"Night DD."

[yey56]

I have been seeing your Harley X Reader stories and I would really like to see in the oneshot request as in what if the reader find out the higher ups turned Harley into a robot?

Maybe they might get really mad by this point to try to get Harley out of this situation? At least until the Hour of Joy happens and the Reader have to take cover to avoid being eaten by the Experiments. They were trapped in the factory fending off for themselves while searching for the remaining food to survive, at least until Yarnaby find them and take them to Harley, now revealed to be alive and decided to keep them safe.

I already have this promp ln the part 3 of my main fanfic of Harley Sawyer but if you like I can do it more on detail how they confront the other executives and add more detail in general.

Heavenly related to Chap 2:

AU (Y/N confronts the executives)

Y/N was going to the upper levels, with all of their belonging in a box. After being relocated under Leith Pierres command they weren't very happy either. The absence of Sawyer didn't help.

It wasn't like him to disappear. If he ever did that, he was found soon after in the labs or in some deeper levels of the factory.

That wasn't the case obviously, YN had searched for them even in Yarnabys cage. He was nowhere to be found, not even Dr Bruno White, his new superior, knew where Harley was.

While walking with heavy feet through the endless corridors to the elevator at the end of the hallway, Y/N stopped on their tracks after hearing a very interesting set of words.

"So, it's done right?" They recognised Eddie Ritterman's voice, cautious but cold "Sawyer is taken care of." A chill ran though Y/Ns back because they knew what they were talking about.

"I rather it be this way, he was getting... Out of control... He is unbearable." The soft but determined voice belonged to Stella Greyber, a coworker with wich YN actually got along.

"Oh he will be STILL unbearable even considering his condition"The focus on certain words was Leith's thing. "The only difference is that now we can shut him up" He seemed somewhat calm by the situation. As if he had taken care of a tedious task.

"What about Dr Y/L/N? They spent a lot of time down there with Sawyer and I bet my contract that they were close somehow. Shouldn't we take care of them as well?" The mood swifted immediately after Eddie's proposal.

Leith looked absolutely offended by the suggestion, as if it was some kind of stupid thing to conceive. "Dr YLN has already been relocated under my orders with he innovation team" He enfasized to Rittermann. "The investors are more confident to investing their money when a professional supports the new projects" Pierre readjusted his tie and straightened his red suit "Moreover, Mrs Greyber will also work besides Dr Y/L/N I'm home sweet home, there's not need to deal with them. They are under surveillance" He finished dry as if he didn't want the discussion to last longer

Stella seemed the most conflicted one out of the three of them. On the one hand, she liked YN well enough. They've shared some breaks together in her initials days and they were good friends. She knew YN as someone professional, stubborn but willing to respect boundaries with the children. That was something that a lot of employees seemed to forget while working at Playtime Co

On the other hand, she has seen you get more obsessive over your patients over the years. Ever since Bigger bodies was suggested. Stella blamed Harley for your obsession. She had seen it with her own eyes.

Dr Sawyer would be at first professional and maintained a distance and his characteristic coldness, just as always. But after months and even years of working together in the damned project she could see how Harley was getting more comfortable with YNs presence.

He would be found very close to them when supervising experiments. Once in an interview in which both of them entered together to talk to a child, she saw how event though your knees touched, he didn't move. At all

Stella started to notice how your little reunions in the lunch break we're replaced by your interviews with the 'toys'. She had started to resent the damn project because it was costing her the friendship she made with the psychologist.

That is the reason why she could understand the doubt of Eddie. YM had changed a lot throughout the project and they were getting more unpredictable each passing day.

"I think Dr Y/L/N should be given a chance to... Reinvent themselves" That was the suggestion Greyber proposed, and everyone agreed with it.

But before they could continue the conversation, the silent psychologist who had been listening the whole time bursted in the room, their belonging scattered on the floor.

"Under surveillance?" Was the first thing that came out of their mouth. Leith looked like a deer in headlights, Eddie looked afraid and Stella looked as pale as a ghost.

"You have some nerve 'take care of me'?... That's what you did with Harley? Take care of him? How so, may I ask?" The scariest thing wasn't being caught.

To the trio, the scariest thing at that moment was the demeanor of the psychologist. Even with their eyes covered with dark circles, the glasses displaced and the eyes almost out of their orbit due to the anger... The voice, the voice they had was what scared them.

It was calm, controlled, it almost reminded them to the tone the prototype used. Like a Storm at the verge of unleashing at any given moment.

A time bomb ready to explode....

Leith was the first one to talk. With all of the strength he had, he gulped the limp in his throat and began talking.

"YN, I'm sure you can understand, only if you'd let me-" Before his hand could touch their shoulder, Y/N grabbed it by the wrist and commanded to know where Harley was.

None said a word, even Pierre, who minutes ago bloated about having Harley silenced was silent.

They knew the hadn't killed Sawyer, they needed him for the operation so one way or another he must be alive.

Leith was going to speak again but before he could register what happend, Y/Ns fist met with his cheek. The punch was so strong that Pierre fell to the floor and his face started becoming an angry shade of red. His mouth slightly bloody.

Ritterman and Stella were absolutely still. Eddie didn't have any idea how to react. This behaviour had never been displayed by Dr Y/L/N and Stella felt absolutely horrified. She never likes violence or confrontation.

Pierre, was starting to get up, with an angry face but before he could, Y/N was on top of him again, grabbing him by the collar with both hands.

"What the hel-" The head of innovation looked furious over the punch

"If you appreciate your face in the slightest you are going to tell me where is Dr Sawyer" Y/N voice was getting more agitated. Usually they didn't react with physical violence, but after knowing that it was all planed but those three, they felt absolutely enraged.

Leith didn't put any resistance. "System room, Dr White will explain" He said as Y/N quicky got off him and went to the given location.

Leith cleaned his mouth of blood and accepted the tissue offered by Stella while looking at the door.

Ritterman looked angry with Pierre. He never understood the patience he had with YN. He could understand that they've known each other since the psychologist first started working there but still, the amount of things that Leith let go of both Sawyer and YN because of the psychologist was ridiculous.

"What do we do now?" Stella ask, uncertainty straining her voice. "They are not going to take it well" She murmured

"Leith, this has gone to far, we need to do something about them!" Eddie exclaimed while helping Leith to get up on his feet again.

"Damage control, that's what well be doing."Leith said. Cleaning his suit with his hand.

Even if Pierre appeared controlled and calm again, he was absolutely furious. His attempt of controlling Harley was complicating things more. Everything was getting out of hand.

Meanwhile, Y/N was impatiently waiting for the elevator to reach the laboratories. When the door finally opened, the Psychologist bursted into Dr Whites laboratory.

Dr White and his assistants remained still when Y/N bursted though the door. White already had an idea of why would they be here with a look that said more than words did.

He didn't put any kind of resistance, he was only a surgeon, he was not a confrontational person and he didn't want to face the anger of his colleague.

"Hes in the table right there" He murmured while putting his head down while he signaled to his assistants to get out discreetly.

Y/N looked at the table only finding a monitor, confused, they redirected their gaze to White "What is this?" They asked pointing to the object.

The voice of the psychologist was the thing that made the monitor turn on. A big purple and black eye appeared on the screen, apparently scanning the room until the pupil contracted at the sight of Y/N

"Y/N...Is that you?" The voice that sounded through the screen was robotic but it sounded just like Harley. In shock, you looked back at Bruno White almost as if you couldn't believe he had been turned onto a computer monitor.

"Harley?" You asked hesitantly before approaching the new Sawyer "Is this you? Really you?" You started touching the monitor and examining it.

You got close enough to feel the static electricity of the screen. "He is now attached to the main system of the factory. He is assisting us on the surgeries" White explained again, his voice still small, not knowing how to interact with you in this state of rage.

You looked absolutely shocked. You felt your head hurt a little and you could already image how Harley must be hurting with all of the new information flowing through him...

What will you do now?

Eddie's neck has turned out really weird :/

Heyyy, sorry for being inactive so long. I've been drawing, studying and I'm starting The Walking Dead. I'm on season 3 and I'm liking it a lot so I've been. Thanks for wanting and thanks for the support. It makes me happy that you guys like it.

-Unedited fanfic-

[blue-jisungs]

love shot

summary. seungcheol loves playing cupid for you and jihoon because of you two dislike each other

warnings. good ol' e2l but also a mafia-ish setting so the usual: guns, gunshots, blood, cursing, telling people to die. also suggestive at some points !

word count. 7k-ish

author's note. idk whats this but enjoy!!! big shoutout to my beloved @wheeboo for proofreading and correcting my silly mistakes!!! ilysm mwah thank u from the bottom of my heart <333 ++ thank u @weird-bookworm for inspiring me like i wrote 5k of this in one sitting bc of u 🫵

the air in the room was heavy, everyone waiting in anticipation. there was some chatter, only from the most talkative members of the group, yet it was very quiet. the others like you, jihoon, or wonwoo sat in silence staring at the wooden table. 

suddenly the door opened and seungcheol came in, dressed in a black coat and his luxurious watch. 

this immediately stopped all noise and caused all eyes to look at him. 

“our plug just gave us the information that the group is meeting up at an abandoned factory. we’re still waiting for the precise location but i want you all to be ready” he announced, voice stern. the leader of the group scanned all the faces “we suspect it’s the old factory that used to produce cigarettes. since it’s quite big, we’ll need to divide into groups. i’ll also call for backup if my suspicions turn out to be true”

you nodded, eyes scanning a board behind seungcheol’s back. it had all the evidence and necessary photos but by now – because all of the six months you’ve been trying to catch this criminal group – you knew all their faces by heart. 

you were a crime fighting organization, one would call it the fbi. but you weren’t really… a government official. you often switched groups, just depending on who’s running low on staff. 

some groups, like the one you’ve been working with, had their permanent squad. only because their leader seungcheol (nickname s.coups) had been injured, you were called in to replace him. maybe not in leader duties but your combat abilities were very similar to his… which gained respect amongst the organization. 

you liked working with seventeen – that was their group name. they were all unique and special in different ways but also talented, skilled, and laser focused on their task. 

you even got to meet them outside the work field, like going biking with soonyoung and seokmin in your free time. or taking a culinary class with mingyu and hansol. and many many others. you really liked them and contrary to other groups you’ve worked with, you were sure you’ll keep in touch with them after the work is done. 

they all liked you too. except jihoon… you weren’t sure why but that was okay. he pissed you off too, like always using your mug even though you clearly stated it’s yours, constant snarky comments aimed at you (and your ironic ones fired back at him). you both just didn’t click… you tried to avoid each other, knowing that even a mere meeting on a hallway will cause a quarrel. 

which is why you’re all tensed up, legs and hands crossed together, because jihoon was late. he had to sit on the spot next to you and of course he’s manspreading, fakely oblivious to the fact that he’s almost shoving his knee into yours.

the door opened and an intern, taehyun, barged into the room. 

“u-oh. hello, everyone. our suspicions got confirmed, it’s the old cigarette factory. they should be there in an hour but we don’t know how many people will be there” he said, eyes focused on s.coups. the man nodded gently.

“thank you, taehyun. so we’ll bring back up, just in case. we don’t know if they’re armed, do we?” the leader asked the boy. taehyun hesitated.

“there’s no official information…” his voice trailed off. 

“but?” seungcheol rose his eyebrows, crossing his arms.

“if you mind my honest opinion, i think they’ll be armed. they always carry at least a gun” taehyun said, face serious. seungcheol sent him a warm smile.

“good point. thank you, taehyun. go now and tell the staff to prepare our vehicles” 

the intern nodded and left. if you weren’t used to sore muscles because of all the hours of training, your legs would start to cramp because of how squished your legs were in order to avoid touching jihoon. 

“good. then, soonyoung you’re going as usual: jun, minghao and chan. wonwoo, mingyu and vernon go together. rest of the team as usual so seokmin, seungkwan, jeonghan and joshua” seungcheol nodded and you swore you saw a ghost of a smile dance on his lips.

“and me?” jihoon asked, leaning forward. 

“you’re going with y/n. you’ll work as a pair to sneak from behind” the leader announced and before you could let out a yelp of surprise, he was already going towards the door. “let’s go” 

the sun has already settled before you arrived to the location. the ride there was silent, everyone rather serious about the moment: will you manage to capture the drug boss? he always keeps running away, as sand slips through fingers. it was starting to get on your nerves and you were determined to put a stop to it. 

arriving to your base, you noticed some extra cars. the backup arrived. 

in your all black uniforms, heavy boots and hidden knives behind your belt (and extra one in your left shoe), your team was ready. well, jihoon. 

“you’ll go first. entering from the back. we studied the building before so you should be able to know where to go more or less. as soon as you locate them, let us know” seungcheol said and put his hands on your and jihoon’s arm “and no fighting or i’ll fucking kill you” 

“yes, dad” you snickered and patted his hand.

“and don’t die, alright?” seungcheol rose his eyebrows.

“as if i would let that happen” jihoon snarled and shrugged off cheol’s hand, leaving. the leader nodded and you followed your partner, hand resting on your gun. 

you were lead to the building by the instructions in your in-ear. managing to slip in quietly, you were following jihoon. 

the building was consumed by darkness, nothing but silence. going through the corridors, you checked in all the rooms. 

finally getting to the main room with all the machinery, jihoon stopped in his tracks. he looked back at you, his dark eyes shining with pure focus. 

“do you hear it?” woozi asked, voice below a whisper. you frowned and suddenly heard it: 

distant chatter, footsteps, and a shuffle of something moving around. your eyes locked with his (and you became hyper aware that he had his gaze on you all the time), and you gave a small nod.

“i’ll try to locate them more or less. you go check the rest of the rooms… and let’s call backup” he ordered. his gaze lingered on you for a bit longer before he went into the darkness of the factory. 

you did as he said, your hand ready to pull out your gun any second. 

room by room – nothing. you knew the rest of the team already came inside since you could hear noises of combat. some shouts, things getting thrown. no gunshots… maybe they weren’t armed after all? 

for a while your heart skipped a beat. are they all okay? even… jihoon? 

you shook your head and while checking in another room, you didn’t notice anything strange. as you began to grow annoyed that all the action is taking place and you’re here, alone and without anything… you heard footsteps, rushed footsteps, as if someone was running away. 

you returned to the door, peeking out since the sound came from the corridor.

“fucking beomgyu… i’ll kill him. i knew there was something wrong with that boy” 

your eyes went wide, hearing the voice. it was the boss. you knew the voice (and him) too well. 

“do we need to do it?” you grunted, arms crossed. a thundering gaze that was supposed to scare seungcheol was rather amusing for him. 

“yes. you’re the only woman in our group” he said, shaking his head. 

“well, so what? he can go with his friends? with homies for a drink!” you grunted and paced around the room “i respect you as a leader, cheol. i really do. but you know how much i just don’t get along with jihoon…”

“hm, do you? i already see that you started calling him by his name, not his code name” seungcheol wiggled his brows and you came up to him, punching his arm. chuckles left the buffed man’s body and you realised he doesn’t care, at all.

“fuck you” you grunted, grabbing your bag “you owe me a drink after this” 

seungcheol’s laugh was the only thing that you heard even after leaving the room. 

arriving at the restaurant, you sighed. joining the seventeen group you wouldn’t even think that you’d be send to a “date” with your enemy to spy on your actual enemy. and yet, here you are. 

the chatter of people and clinking of glasses hit your ears, the inside of the building taking your breath away. it was so royal and rich, you felt small. well, no wonder that a mafia boss would dine here. and only here. 

“hello, ma’am. may i ask who are you here with?” a waiter asked, smiling politely.

“oh. the reservation is set for kwak jiho” you answered swiftly. the fake name was so ridiculous “is he here?”

“ah, yes. mr. kwak arrived shortly before you. let me lead the way” the waiter nodded and you followed them. 

there were so many stunning people. some of the faces you knew - due to their criminal record or just because they were celebrities. you made sure to check where your main concern was sitting. park chinhae was sitting there, in all his glory, sipping a drink. 

your eyes widened when you realised you’re sitting at the table right next to him. the waiter bowed gently and left, leaving you with jihoon. 

he stood up and walked up to you, grabbing your hand and placing a soft kiss atop of it. the action made you freeze, but nonetheless, you kept your façade as best as you could.

“you… you look stunning, my dear” he breathed out, eyes scanning over your figure. 

well, you figured that it’s a lifetime opportunity: having seungcheol’s black card to spend on the attire. so you went crazy, as anyone would. 

a little birdie (minghao) told you that red (especially the ruby shade) is one of jihoon’s favourite colours. so you picked a red dress, nothing too revealing yet having a nice cut to show your left leg. paired with a ruby lipstick and some pretty, sparkly jewellery off you went. you even decided to go to a professional hairdresser because who’s stopping you...? 

and apparently, it worked. or maybe jihoon was so used to seeing you in sweatpants and hoodies that this elegant side of you unexpectedly swept him off his feet. 

“thank you, baby. you don’t look bad yourself” you hummed and watched him put the chair away for you. jihoon was wearing an all black tuxedo and an expensive tie. his hair slicked back… he was quite handsome looking this way. not like you cared, of course. 

once you were in your seat and jihoon returned to his, you crossed your legs. your heel brushed against his leg and he raised his eyebrow. 

“i ordered some wine already, dear” he hummed and when you shifted your gaze to park chinhae, he just nodded. he knew. 

the nickname caused a swirl of butterflies to storm your stomach and for the nth time this day, you cursed seungcheol in your mind. 

you grabbed the menu that you already studied beforehand – the name of the dishes were code names for different question or orders. 

“which wine did you choose?” you asked, tapping the table. 

“château haut-brion” jihoon answered, eyes never leaving yours. nothing yet. 

“i see” you nodded. suddenly your mind goes blank – what are you supposed to talk about with jihoon? the two of you never met outside work. duh, you barely even talked normally at work… 

“what about the food? fancy anything?” he asked, shifting in his seat. you two had secret cameras and microphones that could catch the conversation happening next to you, so technically you wouldn’t have to do anything. however, you were curious if you’ll hear anything useful.

“i… i don’t know” you scoffed and put the menu down, biting your lip in wonder “i think i’ll wait for the waiter to recommend something”

jihoon was about to answer you when suddenly you heard a male voice.

“if i may interrupt…” 

you looked up and noticed park chinhae looking at you with a smirk dancing on his lips. he was sitting relaxed in his seat, almost as if he owned the place. 

“i couldn’t help but pay attention to such a beautiful lady and if you’re having a dilemma what to choose… i truly recommend lemony mussels with cherry tomatoes and potatoes” the man said, giving jihoon a look that you couldn’t crack. was it some sort of trying to assert dominance? or genuine help?

“ah… thank you mr…” you rose your eyebrow, waiting for his name.

“mr. park chinhae. but such a pretty lady can call me just chinhae” he smiled. you saw jihoon’s jaw clench. you leaned forward charmingly and tapped your red nails against the table.

“well, thank you chinhae. but i’m not a connoisseur of seafood, sadly. i appreciate your help though” you nodded with a playful smile.

“ah, no worries! then, let me take a guess: pork or beef?” he asked, full on ignoring jihoon. you couldn’t lie – the situation amused you. 

“lamb” was your reply, eyes focused on the drug boss. he looked at the man he was with and clicked his tongue.

“a woman of a taste, i see. good. such lady is a true gem” only now park chinhae’s landed at jihoon. almost threateningly “then my choice would be rosé-marinated grilled lamb leg with walnut salsa fresca”

you gasped, dramatically covering your mouth with your hand. 

“chinhae, you must be a regular here. that’s what i’ll settle for, then. thank you so much, i bet it’ll be delicious” you hummed. the man only winked in response and returned to his friend. 

silence fell between you and jihoon, his gaze on fire. was he… pissed?

“what? there’s too many things to choose from” you chuckled and nudged his leg. almost as if to say ‘behave’. 

“i’ll be sure to later remind you the dish name at my place” he snarled, his mask slipping off for a second. you let out a scoff, noticing the waiter.

“we’ll see if i even end up there” you teased and relaxed in your seat as the waiter came with wines. 

“may i take your order?” they asked. 

as you ordered the dish chinhae recommended to you, jihoon ordered sweet and spicy pork chops. a code name for ‘be careful’. you just rolled your eyes at him and once the waiter was gone, you saw a sudden glint in his ebony irises. 

“so, aeri… what were you up to this weekend?” he asked, the fake name sounding strange in his lips. 

“i went on a trip to yongin with my friends. we had a lovely time there” you hummed. with a corner of your eye, you noticed chinhae smile. well, it was his hometown after all. 

“oh, really? what did you do there?” jihoon asked and suddenly placed his hand down, close to yours. looking him in the eyes, the air in the room began to grow heavy. 

“we’re a little too old for amusement parks” you giggled and decided to start drawing shapes on his hand with the tip of your finger “so we settled to go see a traditional folk village and art museums, then we went to a bar or two at the end of the day”

jihoon was focused on you, as if the mafia boss next to you didn’t exist. the whole room felt empty, only you and jihoon on the room.

“and you? didn’t you miss me too much?” you teased and noticed the boss picked up his phone.

“i think about you every minute of the day, so obviously i missed you” he said ironically, drawing an eye roll from you “i just stayed at home and binge watched the series you recommended me”

“really? alice in borderland?” you asked, stunned. you didn’t recommend it to jihoon, to be precise, but to be fair you were talking about it a lot lately.

jihoon shrugged and from the side, you overheard a piece of rumble from chinhae. 

“–all of it? you better, you smart beast. good job, i’ll see you at the usual, next week–”

“yeah, really. it wasn’t that bad” he shrugged. 

shortly after your food arrived and while you chatted (and to your amusement, flirted a lot), jihoon occasionally grabbed your hand. you, trying to show him that two can play that game, from time to time rested your high heel against his leg and moved it slowly. you enjoyed the flushed look on his face, whether it was your antics or the wine. 

you managed to catch some words like ‘magazine’, ‘6pm’, ‘make more income’ or some useful – new or old – names being dropped. 

you came to a conclusion you wouldn’t get more information. he was in a public space after all. 

“shall we have some dessert?” you asked “i’m craving tiramisu” 

jihoon rose his eyebrows. tiramisu was a code for ‘let’s end this’.

“why? i mean– are you–?” his eyes widened. you rested your chin on your hands.

“i’m fine, i’m just in the mood for something sweet” you shrugged and jihoon couldn’t crack what you meant. then he just smiled playfully.

“hm, okay. i was hoping we could get some dessert afterwards” he hummed “but tiramisu sounds fine” 

you scoffed and grabbed your purse.

“great. i’ll be right back, you can order in the meantime” you said and stood up, noticing park chinhae looking at you. he was talking but you sent him a gentle smile and went to the bathroom.

you took your sweet time, fixing your lipstick and hair. also checking the hidden camera and microphone (which, to be frank, you completely forgot about), you took a deep breath. 

then the realization hit you. the whole team was listening to your and jihoon’s flirting. 

smacking your forehead, you let out a loud groan. seungcheol will so need to buy you a drink. a couple, even. 

reapplying some perfume, you zipped your bag and left the bathroom. only to see park chinhae in the hallway, leaning against the wall and being in the phone. he didn’t see you, back facing you. 

“i need all the cargo by friday. ship it to the factory this time because i think someone is sniffing around us” he said, voice low but enough for you to hear “and check that intern. beomhan– ah, beomgyu”

you saw him move and before he fully turned around, you acted like you just left the bathroom. 

closing the door and turning around, your heart sped up.

“i’m hanging up” was all you heard before there was a sound of approaching footsteps “hey there”

you turned around and faked a shocked face.

“oh, hello mr. lamb leg. it was delightful, thank you” the corner of your lips turned upwards. you noticed his phone in his hand was unlocked, showing the caller id number. you had to act quickly if you wanted the camera to capture it. and you had to shift your position. 

“no problem, it was my pleasure to help such a beautiful woman. may i know your name, though?” he asked, eyebrows rising up. you playfully threw your hair back and crossed your arms, shifting your body weight to your left leg. you noticed the way his gaze lingered on it because the cut in the fabric revealed it. 

“it’s aeri” you said and cursed mentally. it’s probably not enough “if you hit me with ‘a pretty name for a pretty woman’ i’ll have to give you a disappointing look” 

he laughed and you suddenly leaned closer, fixing his bowtie. it was risky, you could see how he tensed up to your touch. but because of that, you were sure that the hidden camera captured his phone screen before it turned off.

“it was crooked. sorry, i’m a bit of a perfectionist” you apologized and leaned back. 

“who would i be to despise a woman’s hands on me?” he flashed you a toothy grin. gross. “is your date boring? you can always leave with me”

your heart skipped a beat. you could. that way you could get more information… or what if he lead you to his place? no, probably not. but still…

“ah, i can see you thinking about it” chinhae hummed. if there was an in-ear in your ear, you’d probably hear seungcheol saying to not even think about it. 

you were about to say something– anything. 

“y/– aeri!” 

you turned around and saw jihoon. fuck. 

chinhae put a hand on your shoulder and it took you everything in your willpower not to shrug it off. 

“here you are. i began to get worried” jihoon snarled, shooting daggers at the man touching you. 

“anyways. my offer still stands, if you want to have some actual fun” chinhae whispered in your ear and began to walk away. jihoon walked up to you, wanting to say something but suddenly turned around.

“she’ll have some fun, don’t worry about it” he said. chinhae turned his head and scanned jihoon head to toe. 

“with a man your size?” 

you had to tug his sleeve. chinhae winked at you and left, leaving only you and jihoon in the hallway. 

“calm down, lee” you grunted and when he looked at you, you just sent him a amused expression “i bet aeri would have some nice time with jiho. but there’s nothing left to do, we should go” 

“agreed. i already paid, let’s just go” he grunted and gestured you to go first “i’ll drop you off and don’t even argue. that weirdo could follow you”

how ironic. while undercover at the restaurant, he was walking away from you. and now, he did the same yet now you were the one playing with him. 

stepping out to the corridor, you debated your options: you could shoot him. you could harm him and capture. or just capture. 

suddenly he took a sharp turn to the stairs that lead to the other floor. you managed to hide in one of the janitor rooms. only when the sound of his footsteps became quiet, you followed him as quietly as you could. 

the open space allowed you to see the lights of flashlights far away. you noticed a glimpse of him going into one of the offices. why isn’t he running away…? 

quietly placing your steps you approached the room. taking a peek inside, you saw that chinhae is rummaging through drawers.

“where the fuck is it…” he grunted, throwing papers on the ground. 

“we’re done here. there’s everyone except park chinhae but he wasn’t even meant to be here, apparently. let’s leave. does everyone copy?”

you couldn’t answer – the man would hear you if you did, and your cover would be blown.

taking a deep breath, you checked if you had handcuffs with you. luckily, you did. swallowing with a beating heart, you walked in. 

“hands up, chinhae” 

the man turned around and frowned. the room was dark, only streams of moonlight sneaking through the blinds. you kicked the door close, gun pointed at him. 

“whatever you’re looking for, it won’t save you” you said harshly. 

“a woman threatening me with a gun. never would i have imagined i’d find myself in such a position” he laughed and started slowly approaching you. one thing was clear: you can’t kill him. or seriously injure him. 

before you could act, he jumped towards you. and it hits you like a hard slap to the face – you didn’t unlock your weapon.

ducking his attack, you kicked him in the stomach. the man lost his balance and hit the desk with a thud. grabbing the first thing that was in his reach, he hurled a lamp at you. it hit your arm, making your weapon fall out of your hands. 

before he could jump and grab it, you kicked it away. landing on the floor, he hastily pulled at your leg causing you to fall next to him. the man didn’t waste any time and grabbed you by your shoulders, climbing atop of your body. one hand cupped at your jaw. as he hovered above you, he tongued his cheek.

“you” chinhae grunted, scanning your face. the moonlight shined perfectly on your face, and you could see the puzzle pieces connecting in his head. in the meantime you tried to sneakily reach for your dagger tucked behind your belt.

he ripped your in-ear and sent it crashing against the wall. 

“ah, i should’ve been more careful” he hissed and his hands moved down to your neck. his body weight was crushing you, your sweaty fingers mere millimetres from getting ahold of your blade “such a beautiful woman… what a shame i’ll have to kill you”

“i’d like to see you try” you snarled just when his hands tightened around your throat. the lack of oxygen hit your head, he wasn’t sparing any time. as his hold became tighter and tighter, you struggled to take out your dagger. 

mere moments from all the air being cut off, you finally grabbed your knife and stabbed him in the arm, drawing a loud yelp from him. using the sudden shock you managed to roll him over and take a deep breath, followed by painful, hacking coughs. leaning on your hands, you tried to blink away your spinning vision. a sudden kick landed at your arm caused you to fall on the floor again.

“you’re alone, huh? where’s your date?” he growled ironically. 

you stood up and noticed your gun. you reached for it, swiftly unlocking it. loud steps of his heavy boots echoed through the room.

“i told you to leave with me. you’d have way more fun, and wouldn’t end up this way” his voice was way too close for your liking. 

you pointed the gun at him, standing up. before you could realize, the moonlight shone on his figure. 

seungcheol stopped in his tracks, counting all his crew for the nth time. jihoon was talking to joshua, vernon and seokmin; wonwoo and mingyu were on the phone with someone from the company; minghao, jun and chan were comforting beomgyu; soonyoung, jeonghan and seungkwan were counting the captured men. 

“what is it?” joshua asked, drawing everyone’s attention to seungcheol. even the backup people were starting to get worried.

“it was… too smooth. no guns, their boss not in sight… and i have a feeling that…” his voice trailed off and he suddenly noticed jihoon getting pale.

“did anyone see y/n?” 

the silence that fell amongst them spoke volumes, the feeling of anxiety hitting them all.

“fuck, i knew it.. i’m still getting used to the fact there’s 13 of you now. y/n, do you copy?” seungcheol asked through the in-ear. 

he was answered with only silence. but then unexpectedly, there was a gunshot.

the horrifying sound of it ripped through the empty space, causing everyone in the room to stiffen up. 

“y/n, say something” jihoon ordered, tapping his in-ear piece as if that was supposed to help. 

“the IT guys are saying that they don’t see her in the voice channel” wonwoo spoke up “but she’s in the building. the northern side, where you guys entered” 

“jihoon, wait!” seungcheol yelled after woozi ran in said direction. 

“always getting in fucking trouble…” he snarled to himself, trying to ignore the heavy feeling blooming in his heart. it wasn’t a gunshot aimed at you, obviously. how could it be? they captured everyone. 

he checked all the rooms on the floor and with each passing second, when there was no sigh of you, his chest swelled with fear. hypothetically speaking if you were hurt, he was running out of time. 

a sudden, dull noise of something – or rather someone – falling on the floor reached his ears. it came from… upstairs? 

he noticed the stairs. fuck.

“she’s on the second floor” he said to the in-ear, almost flying through the stairs. kicking every door open, he finally found you. 

you were putting handcuffs on an unconscious park chinhae, a growing pool of ruby blood between your bodies.

“thank goodness… is he alive?” jihoon asked, dropping to his knees. 

“you’re worried about him?” you joked, relieved to see that jihoon is fine. 

“why would i care about you?” he grunted. oh, so you’re back to normal. good to know. 

he checked his pulse and noticed the knife in his arm. you just shook your head and saw dark spots in front of your eyes. 

leaning your head exhaustively against the desk, your face twisted in pain. 

jihoon should’ve seen that first. but the thing that caught his attention were two guns on the floor.

which meant the unconscious man had a weapon too. 

“don’t even tell me it was him” jihoon said, a hint of worry in his voice. you shook your head and he just sighed, walking up to you. 

he kneeled in front of you, gently grabbing you by your chin and forcing you to look him in the eye.

“please tell me it was you who fired” he repeated, voice stern and cold. emotionless on the surface but you felt the bitterness of it.

“i’m fine” you huffed, scrunching your face.

the silence spoke volumes and jihoon wasted no time helping you stand up. eyes focused on you, he tried to look for any wounds. 

“you still haven’t answered my question. can you stop being annoying for once and tell me who was it?” his voice rose up a bit and you sensed genuine concern. your heart ached upon that but the pain was stronger.

“i’m sorry. it was too late when i noticed” you whispered and felt your knees go weak. thanks to jihoon’s quick reflexes, he caught you, arms wrapping around your body. and that’s when he felt it. 

he couldn’t see the blood due to the black clothes and darkness in the room. but he certainly felt it on his hands, and his throat went dry. 

“i’ll fucking kill you if you die on me right now” jihoon’s voice broke. 

people barged into the room, immediately taking care of the mafia boss.

you just shook your head and jihoon felt more and more warm blood spilling on his hands.

“you’re such an dumb idiot, getting yourself shot” he rambled at this point. the next events slurred into one vague memory. him grabbing you in bridal style, seungcheol shaking your arms, a car ride to the base with jihoon’s fingers interlocked with yours. his voice repeatedly saying ‘don’t die’ and you, struggling to respond with an ironic moment and only managing to mumble a “try me’’ before passing out on his lap. 

you slowly opened your eyes, the blinding brightness of the room causing you to close them again. trying again, you looked around the room. hospital room…? 

once the events started slowly coming back to you, you noticed a fluffy ball next to your knees. then you realised it’s a fluffy ball of messy hair. jihoon’s messy hair. jihoon, who was sleeping next to you on a plastic chair. 

you frowned and tried to look for the wound. with one hand examining your body, because the other… the other was held by the man next to you. 

when your shaky fingers stumbled upon the bandage, you saw jihoon slowly rose his head up. 

he looked at you, dark circles under his ebony eyes. then they widened in shock upon noticing that–

“you’re awake!” he gasped, back straightening. you could only nod weakly “do you need anything? water? does it hurt? should i call the doctor? are you…”

“water will be fine” you hummed in slight amusement, enjoying this caring side of jihoon. only when he stood up to get some, he realized he was still holding your hand. turning his back to you, so you couldn’t see his reddening face, he started looking for some water.

“what… what happened to park chinhae? you captured him, right? did he say anything?” you asked, fixing your posture. hissing when a sudden wave of pain ripped through your body, jihoon turned around immediately “also… how long i’ve been…”

“two weeks” jihoon replied quietly, placing a bottle of water on the nightstand. you went to open it but struggled, hating the way you were so helpless “you lost a lot of blood, the bullet stayed in your body. we got the best medic but you scared us all to death” he mumbled, grabbing the water bottle and opening it for you. when he handed it back, his caring gaze lingered on you. 

“oh i bet” you mumbled before taking a sip.

“that’s what you do the best, apparently” jihoon bit back, opening the blinds in the room. 

“i barely woke up and here you go again… will you tell me what happened to park chinhae?” you asked, looking at him.

“you captured him and knocked unconscious so we could transport him. then we had an interrogation, he–” jihoon let out an annoyed sigh, returning back to the chair next to you. he looked tired “he didn’t say shit. in fact, all he was saying was shit about you” 

“oh?” you frowned. you were used to this, sadly, since it happened frequently but the way he said that was… hinting that he didn’t leave this in peace. 

“yeah. so me and cheol taught him a little lesson about respect for women and then he started talking” he said with a playful smirk.

“jihoon, am i hearing that right? you stood up for me?” you teased, putting the water bottle away. he rolled his eyes. 

“whatever. he said the name of his main dealer so we handed him to the police. after wiping out his money, of course” he smiled and his mouth hung open for a while, as if he was thinking about adding something.

but just when he seemed to make his mind and speak out, the door bursted open. 

“Y/N L/N YOU IDIOT! YOU’RE AWAKE?” seungcheol yelled out, but you just shrugged. 

just when he was about to rush and hug you, you shook your head. 

“it still hurts, cheol” you mumbled. he sent you a reassuring yet worried smile, then his eyes shifted to jihoon.

“you’re still here?” he asked teasingly, crossing his arms. you rose your eyebrows “y’know, y/n, he wouldn’t leave your side when you were unconscious” 

“can you not?” jihoon grunted, face stone-cold.

“you felt guilty, huh? i remember you saying ‘as if i would let us die’ but there you were, as pale as a ghost when y/n passed out on you” seungcheol snickered and stopped once he saw a dangerous glint in woozi’s eyes “jihoon, could you actually leave for a second? i need to discuss a private matter with y/n”

“whatever” the man sighed and before he left, his gaze lingered on you for a while longer. with a soft click of door closing, seungcheol sat down next to you.

“what is it?” you asked, scared. 

“nothing, actually. i just wanted to ask if there’s something between you and jihoon?” he rose his eyebrows. you shook your head, frowning.

“absolutely not” you grunted, looking away. okay, he was good-looking and funny but… not annoying most of the time. 

“ah, really? because he wouldn’t leave your side while you were unconscious. he made sure the nurses that took care of you and changed your clothes were female and… beat up park chinhae pretty badly when we interviewed him. and also he wouldn’t say it but i could see it on his face that he felt guilty that it happened” seungcheol crossed his arms “what i’m trying to say is… consider his weird behaviour” 

you stared at the leader with a mixture of confusion and awe. 

“are you trying to say that… he likes me…?” you mumbled. cheol just shrugged.

“dunno. he acts differently around you. i’ve known him for a while and i just know that something is going on. but he’d rather get shot than admit it” seungcheol scoffed and gestured at you “no pun intended”

you reached for the water bottle and sighed, mind racing. that was a lot to process.

“i’ll go and tell others that you woke up, m’kay? and i’ll also call in the doctor” the leader stood up and smiled, ruffling your hair. 

leaving you and your thoughts alone, you stared at the hoodie that someone left on the chair.

jihoon paced in front of the door, his thoughts spinning around him. you were supposed to leave today since the goal was accomplished. everyone bid you goodbye, and even threw a small party. it’s not like you’re leaving forever – you’ll stay in touch with them or join them again. but physically, you won’t be here anymore. 

he took a deep breath and knocked at your door. whatever. it’ll be fine. 

“yes, come in” your voice chirped welcomingly. he smiled and pushed the door open. 

he saw you packing your bags with… his hoodie on. 

“oh” 

jihoon frowned. 

“what do you mean ‘oh’?” he grunted, crossing his arms. you just let out a chuckle and shook your head. 

“you’re the last person i would’ve expected to come here” a hum left your mouth as you turned your back to him and grabbed a pair of socks “what is it? one last ironic comment before i go?”

you were met with silence, causing you to turn around and look at him. jihoon looked serious, ebony irises focused on you. 

he was practising this. he memorised everything what he wanted to say, even the tone of his voice. but seeing you now caused everything to fly out of his head, lips moving on his own. and before he realized – it was too late.

“i like you” 

the socks dropped out of your hands. you blinked slowly, mouth closing and opening like a fish that’s been out of water for too long.

“w- what?” you scoffed and shook your head, trying to bend down to grab the socks. yet, the state of your wound didn’t allow you to do it normally. letting out a hiss, jihoon rushed to help and grabbed it for you. placing the socks in your bag, you were able to see his face up close. to your amusement, you noticed his ears turning red. 

“i guess seungcheol told you his assumptions. i like you, okay? the stupid gun thing made me realize that” he huffed, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“what do you mean?” you asked, playing with him. it’s a rare occurrence that jihoon gets so open and talkative, you might as well use it. 

“it’s just… i felt guilty. you were dying on me and it suddenly hit me that life would be horrific without annoying you. and you, yourself. i’d miss you… and stuff. so i guess i like you. i’m not telling you because you’re leaving now but i… i just felt like it” he admitted bashfully, stumbling over his words, all while avoiding your eyes. 

“jihoon” you couldn’t help your smile grow.

“and it’s my hoodie by the way” he pointed at the clothing, trying not to think how perfectly the hoodie fits you.

“jih– huh, really?” a gasp left your lips. you were sure it was seungcheol’s or… ah. jihoon probably left it when he was looking over you. 

“you can keep it” he said softly and finally, your eyes met. for the first time, you saw that he’s anxious “i’ll get going. don’t die on your way back. bye”

“jihoon, wait–” you laughed and grabbed his wrist. he turned around and his stomach was stormed by butterflies when he felt your gentle hold. “it’s true, seungcheol made me realize this and that”

“that asshole” jihoon muttered, peering at you. you were… smiling. 

“so i’ve been thinking about it. i told myself: i’ll be here for two more weeks. if until my leave jihoon won’t say or do anything, i’ll leave like nothing happened. if he does – i’ll tell him the truth” you said slowly, seeing how the gears visibly turned in his head. cute–

“what?” he asked, now being the one stunned. 

“you like me. i… think i like you too. apart from being an asshole, you’re pretty sufferable” you grinned and poked his chest. 

“what?” he frowned, his face contorting like you just spoke to him in a completely different language.

“don’t make me repeat it” you breathed out, the sudden realization that you said it hitting you. 

“does… what…” his eyes suddenly fell on your lips “can i…”

“yes, you can kiss me” you whispered, finishing the sentence for him.

jihoon stepped closer, his hand leaving yours only to be placed on your jaw. the hold was gentle, almost as if he was afraid that he’ll break you. 

then, his plush lips landed on yours. the kiss made your head spin – it was so unlike him but then again, so jihoon-y. nothing but tender and respectful, a taste of the chocolate cake that was served during the party lingering on his lips. 

before you could deepen the kiss, he leaned away.

“i’m 100% serious about it. i know i’ve been acting like a dick but i couldn’t help it. it’s hard to act normal around such a pretty person” he snickered, thumbs caressing your cheeks “and as much as i’d want to kiss you again, chan was supposed to pick you up”

“but… we’ll stay in touch, alright?” you asked, pouting slightly. jihoon noticed the way your e/c eyes sparkled with hope and he couldn’t help but shoot you a genuine smile. 

“of course. do you have any plans for the weekend? we could go on a date… like a normal one” he offered, stepping away. 

you nodded with a grin, zipping up your bag. “i’d love to” 

out of the blue, the door bursted open. chan was about to yell something when he noticed jihoon.

“what the fuck!” the youngest yelped.

“i hope you fall down the stairs, by the way” almost like a switch, jihoon snarled. however, this time you saw the amused smile on his sneaking lips.

“sure. you too” you shook your head and left with chan, giving jihoon a last goodbye look.

but only for now, because you’ll see him again soon. 

masterlist <3

taglist. @mirxzii ,, @primoppang ,, @l3visbby ,, @nicholasluvbot ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @slytherinshua ,, @jiwuu ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @dazzlingligth

[cheol-e-kat]

• no blueberries, feat. mingyu, pt. 3 •

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader

mentioned: seungcheol, joshua, vernon, christian yu (dpr ian in part ii& iii)

word count: 3.1k

genre: fake dating, college au, college student!mingyu, college student!reader, fluff, f2l, idiots, idiots in love, angst, pining, denial of feelings, established friendship (reader & ian), miscommunication

summary: mingyu was just your lab partner and study buddy for several semesters, but lately things seem to have changed, and maybe everyone else has noticed, but for the most part, neither of you even think about what you are to one another until mingyu asks you to be his 'fake' date for a long weekend trip so he can avoid an ex, the biggest problem is realizing that there's nothing fake about your relationship but when mingyu won't even talk about what you are to each other, you start to think things might be over before they even really start

warnings: explicit language, mentions of anxiety, sexually suggestive situations, drinking, smut, penetrative sex, oral (m. receiving)

a/n: they are still idiots but idiots who are finally getting it together ;-;

xx kat

[part i] [part ii]

♡ if you would like to be tagged in my upcoming posts, go [here]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔

she spent the rest of the break hanging out with ian - they went to a few art galleries and some new restaurants. she didn’t upload her photos anywhere, she didn’t want to make things any worse with mingyu. it was just a low-key break. she slept late a few mornings, went running if she felt like it, and took long breaks from reading a book she had found by staring out the huge windows of ian’s apartment. he had an insane view of the city. 

the problem was her habit of snapping photos because she was suddenly without anyone to send them to - she had taken tons, and she could sit and scroll through them, but they only made her feel lonely as the break wore on. she kept thinking if he would just post one thing where he looked like he was having fun, then she could pretend nothing had happened. everything would go back to factory settings or something - she wasn’t sure.

it was only the last night of break, while they were having dinner, that ian asked her about mingyu.

“so, have you answered him at all?” 

naturally, she knew the ‘him’ being referred to. “not yet,” she paused, “i don’t really know what to say - how do you back up from the fact that you left someone during a vacation because you’re in this weird tenuous space where neither of you seem to be able to talk about anything properly?”

he laughed, “yeah, that’s a nice description - i’m sure i’ll back away from the discussion now,” he rolled his eyes, “you have class with him tomorrow don’t you?”

she nodded, “yep - two classes, actually, and usually we grab breakfast,” she sighed, “not tomorrow though, i guess.”

he drummed his fingers on the table, “because you can’t, you know uh, give him a ring and i don’t know, maybe ask to talk?”

she stared at her plate, not wanting to let the reasonableness sink in too deeply. 

she poked at her food, “look, i don’t like that he kept something from me, and i don’t like that admitting we might be a couple seems like such an issue,” she pursed her lips. 

she had had a lot of time sitting around to think through how she was actually feeling, and even if she handled things badly, she felt like there were legitimate issues.

“ah, and so instead of telling him about all of this, you’re just going to avoid it, or did i miss something?”

she shrugged, “i don’t know - shouldn’t he maybe know that i have issues with these things?”

“to me? how would he - and why are you being so inflexible - we both know you like him, maybe you just need to take a step towards him instead of running in the opposite direction like your hair is on fire whenever you start to have some real feelings,” he sounded way too sage. 

“don’t be obnoxious,” she deadpanned.

he swirled his wine, “look, if you want to end it with him, then just do it, but waiting around, seems like a big mistake, especially if you do care about him - you’re stringing him along.”

she sighed, “i think i’ll wait to see if he’s suddenly back with his ex before i do anything,” she concluded icily. 

he laughed and sipped his wine, “so avoid him until he does something that proves your theory then?”

she flipped him off. 

but even when she went to bed in his spare room, she kept tossing in bed. she couldn’t get comfortable. 

it was too hot - then too cold - her back hurt, but she didn’t like sleeping on her stomach. she was convinced the aircon wasn’t working properly and kept trying to feel the air from the vent by standing on a chair. she eventually gave up and sat down to scream into her pillow out of sheer frustration. but, lying there post-scream, more than anything, she wondered what mingyu was doing. 

she kept checking his socials, looking for signs of life, but he hadn’t posted anything. she checked again, and when there was still nothing, she went to her messages to stare at the draft she had typed out. she had typed short things and long things, and she kept coming back to the fact that they were all wrong. none of them said the right things - none of them were going to fix anything. 

she glanced at the clock, 10:38 pm. she stared around and finally typed a message quickly and hit send. she couldn’t undo it - it was already gone. all she could do was stare at her phone and wonder if he would reply. 

after about one minute, she shoved her phone off the bed, certain he would never talk to her again. she couldn’t handle waiting and checking. she had flipped her ringer on, though, just in case he did answer. she hoped that he would, but she was very sure that he wouldn’t. in her mind, he had totally forgotten her and was already back together with katie, exactly where he should be. and she was alone - probably forever. she was definitely going to die alone, and not just in the poetic way of how we are all alone in death or whatever. 

she practically leapt out of bed when the little ping suddenly interrupted her thoughts. 

[mango 10:41]

where?

she stared for a moment, trying to remember what she had even asked - she glanced back at her message, asking if they could meet. 

she bit her lip, trying to think of where might even make sense, but she saw his little typing bubble and waited to see what he said. when it went away, she felt like she needed to answer quickly or all would be lost, she named a park - it was probably closer to him, but she didn’t exactly care. she waited, feeling nervous all over again. 

but then her phone screen lit up - he was calling her. she watched for a moment, silently panicking, before finally swiping to answer.

“why do you want to meet in a park, y/n?” he asked immediately, no preamble, just his husky, sleepy voice.

she shrugged, “i don’t know - i guess so we can talk in private?” 

she knew precisely how uncertain she sounded.

he was quiet for a moment, “just come here - it’s only me,” his voice trailed away.

she closed her eyes, “did they decide to stay or something?”

she felt horrible for asking. 

“not everyone has monday classes.”

she hummed, “right.”

she suddenly felt tired - she realized how used to talking to him at night she was. the difference being they were usually in the same room, and the same bed. 

she sighed, “i miss you.”

she picked at the fabric of the duvet she was lying on top of - it had never become comfortable for reason. 

“like a lot,” she added, voice soft, floating off into nothingness.

she stared hard at the white fabric of the duvet, waiting for him to say something, as she tried to follow the lines of the fabric’s weave. and the silence only made her hate that she had taken ian’s advice. he was wrong - she should never have taken a first step or any step at all. 

she started to say his name, thinking maybe he had fallen asleep. 

“so come here, then you won’t have to miss me,” he whispered. 

“mmmh, are you mad at me?”

she could hear him shift around, “not mad - maybe confused,” he paused, “but not so much that it really matters right now when i just want to be with you.”

she nodded, feeling her stomach flutter, “mingyu?”

“hmm,” his voice was low.

she knew what she was thinking, but she wasn’t sure how to say it.

“if it’s too late”— she started.

“y/n, just - please come - i’ve missed you too,” he spoke quickly. 

⋆˙⟡

she ordered a car, and without traffic, she was over the bridge quickly. it didn’t stop her from being nervous when she hit the buzzer for his apartment. even walking up the familiar stairs, she was still jittery. she decided that if she needed to leave, at least it would be a quick ride home to her very empty, very cold bed. 

she was expecting to need to wait outside his door, but he was already there, waiting for her. she gave a small wave as she neared him. even dressed in sweats and a tshirt with slight bedhead, he looked stupidly handsome. no, she decided, he was much worse than handsome; he was gorgeous and perfect, and she had missed spending her entire break with him. 

she only noticed his split lip when she was closer, immediately reaching for him, “what happened to you?”

he shrugged and moved for her to go inside, which she did since standing in the hallway wasn’t the best thing. but she immediately rounded on him, “seriously, what happened to you?”

“nothing,” he caught her hands lightly before they could make contact with his face.

she tried to tamp down her annoyance because it felt like, again, he was just holding out on her. for no reason she could even begin to understand. 

unlike earlier in the week, she wasn’t looking for a reason to be annoyed with him, but she wanted to know. 

“please tell me?”

“why, y/n? it was just something stupid with seungcheol - it’s not important,” he whispered, his hands tracing lightly over her arms. 

she groaned, “yes, it is,” she could see him getting ready to assure her that it wasn’t - “it’s important, just like the stuff katie said to you, okay - all of it matters to me because it’s about you, so even if it annoys me or whatever, please tell me, okay? you’re not protecting me from anything - it just makes me feel like you don’t trust me or something,” she had imagined being a bit calmer when she explained that, but she hadn’t known how soon they would be talking about it either. 

he nodded, “fine,” he laughed, “he was trying to make me feel better about you leaving, and it turned into me calling him short and we sort of got in fight,” he nodded, his face flushing.

she stared at him for a moment, “did you at least hit him back?”

“yeah,” he whined, “he was being a dick to begin with.”

“i thought you said he was trying to make you feel better?” 

he rolled his eyes, “he was, in a very seungcheol way, and even if he was right, i didn’t like the things he pointed out,” he said matter-of-factly.

she tilted her head slightly, wondering what seungcheol had pointed out. although, she had the distinct feeling this wasn’t the time to ask. they were both quiet for a moment. she could feel his fingers tracing along her waist, gently pulling her closer.

“did you actually miss me?”

she nodded, “umhm,” she stepped closer, leaning into him, feeling his arms surround her.

she pressed close, glad that there was no distance between them. 

“i’m sorry i left,” she whispered. he kissed the top of her head in response. 

they stayed there hugging like it would make up for the last few days. and then they went to his room to go to bed. but even lying next to him, she knew she wasn’t exactly doing anything differently than before. she was letting the physical calm between them fill all the little emotional cracks, but that wasn’t going to fix how she felt. it would just keep things together until the next time and the next time until maybe the cracks were too big to be held together. 

which was how she found herself poking mingyu in the cheek at 3 am until he woke up.

“what’s wrong?” he sounded only slightly annoyed, like she did this all time, and he was used to it. 

she took advantage of the fact that he was groggy, not because she thought it would help her get what she wanted - it was because groggy mingyu was less intimidating than fully engaged mingyu. 

“nothing, but i need to ask you something,” she whispered. 

he whined “right now?”

“yes, it’s important.”

he nodded, barely keeping his eyes open, “okay, what is it?”

maybe she was wrong, even groggy mingyu made her stomach turn back flips. “do you want to date me?” she was barely audible.

she watched him close his eyes - her stomach immediately sank. 

but then he nodded, “yes, of course - that’s what i was trying to tell you before, about being with you is all that matters.”

she leaned over him, playing with his hair, “i wasn’t completely focused on those things.”

“i know.”

she watched him for a moment before leaning close to kiss him. it was sweet at first - soft and mellow - neither were in a rush. she realized that even a few days without kissing him felt like ages. to her, mingyu had seemed half asleep, but after a few minutes, she found herself on her back, caged in by his arms as they continued to kiss. when she felt his hand slide down to grip her thigh, she knew it was over - the fact that it was the middle of the night didn’t matter. she gasped softly when she felt his hips press roughly against hers. he found his rhythm easily, rolling his hips against her, teasing her. she pulled his hair roughly, wanting to feel more. 

she managed to break their kiss and press him back. she pulled off her own shirt before tugging at his, wanting him to undress too. she watched him run a hand through his hair before finally matching her, pulling off his shirt, and he followed her example again when she stripped off her pants and underwear. 

she pressed close to him, running her fingers down his chest, loving his muscles - she wondered if she told him that enough - the things she liked about him. she leaned up to kiss beneath his collarbone.

“you’re so perfect,” she whispered against his skin, kissing further down his chest. she pressed him back onto the bed, leaving a trail of kisses and bites and whispered praise as she went. 

she liked going down on him - there was something about the size of his cock that she couldn’t help but enjoy. she licked a fat stripe along the underside of his cock, paying attention to the thick vein there, all the while, she heard him moaning softly. she smiled, kissing his shaft and sucking gently at the skin as she moved up to suck his tip. she tasted his precum and enjoyed knowing that she could make him leak for her, just like he could make her a wet, sopping mess. 

she pulled back, hearing his soft panting, “good baby?”

he groaned, “what do you think?”

she smiled and leaned up to kiss him. she licked into him and moved so that she was straddling him. she grasped his cock, hearing his low groan. he knew she was going to finish him off by riding him. he gave her ass a soft smack, urging her on as she lined her pussy up with his cock. she didn’t waste any time taking him in - she let herself slide down on him until she was sure she could feel his cock in her stomach. she stayed there for a moment, loving the way he filled her. she leaned back enough to let her hands rest on his thighs for leverage, and then she started to move her hips. 

she knew he liked when she was a bit rough - she loved the way he watched his cock disappear inside her. she felt his fingers on her clit, massaging it in little circles, she moaned, “fuck, just like that.”

he bit his lip, “come on, finish yourself on me like a good girl,” he rasped. 

her eyes fluttered closed, and she smiled at the idea that she was just using him for his cock when they were like this. 

instead though, she started to whimper and whine, “i can’t,” she gasped.

“can’t what baby girl?”

her hips had slowed, “can’t get myself off like this - need your help, daddy,” she leaned forward, her fingernails barely digging into the skin of his chest, “help me?” she whined softly, knowing how much he liked it, feeling his cock throb inside her.

she kept him inside as they swapped positions - she grinned up at him, “fuck me?”

he nodded, picking up her thighs and throwing them over his shoulders - his first thrust left her mewling. the way he was hitting every spot so perfectly left her grasping the edge of the mattress, whining his name over and over as he slammed into her. 

she squeezed him tightly, hearing the soft grunts, despite how determined he looked, until suddenly he became relentless, fucking into her like she was the toy - their roles reversed. she came, gasping and moaning, almost choking on her own pleasure, and still feeling him pumping into her until he finally finished with a hard groan - his cum filling her completely. he leaned down between her legs, sweat glistening on his skin, as their bodies melded and they kissed until he finally pulled out with a soft moan.

“fuck,” he groaned, wiping himself off with his discarded tshirt before turning to her to do the same. 

she pulled him into another lingering kiss. she wounder her fingers in his hair, wanting nothing else but to stay in the afterglow with him. 

when he leaned back, licking his lips, “so did that count as ‘make-up sex’ or ‘we’re dating sex’?”

she laughed softly, “both maybe?” she suggested, watching him.

“or maybe i just really missed you sex?” she offered after amoment.

he nodded, “i was afraid you wouldn’t miss me at all.”

she pressed closer to him, kissing him again. it was soft, though. 

“how could i not miss you?” she asked as she pulled away, “i love you,” she whispered, a new flush coloring her cheeks.

she waited nervously for him to respond - she had thought it so many times. it was only when he kissed her back, gently pulling away and whispering his own confession, that she relaxed, knowing that mingyu loved her too. 

⋆˙⟡

they did not go to classes the next day. 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁

a/n: look they made it! sorry if miscommunication (lack of communication maybe in this case) isn’t your genre - to me it’s like the main driver of most issues…there could be more pining but as someone who also loves instant crushes….i actually just want them together

anyway, tell me what to write next…some vampire x human arranged marriage?? or like type a personality / type b personality rivals to lovers…both are in my wips but so are so manyyy other things, like mafia au with arranged marriage, gov’t assigned soulmates and more random stuff - give me input, plz - otherwise it may end up being this random idea i had about golf and fr no one needs that

♡ kat

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁

tag list: @syluslittlecrows @cherrylovescheol

if you want to be tagged, go [here] & my [master list] if you want to read more

[lsunstreakerl]

little 800 word post-kidnapping darkbull snippet. max pov! lowkey- this is not near as bad as the rest. worst warning is probably the concerning objectification, which is a running theme anyways. I would argue it's almost sweet, if not for the way max is now just as clinically insane as the rest of them.

Max stalks upstairs, fingers curling and uncurling into his palms, nails leaving little crescent moons. Daniel and Carlos have been avoiding him.

It's only been a few days but Max can tell, and he's not interested in letting it happen any longer.

He's had the worst month of his life, been put through the psychological wringer, found out his team has been methodically drugging him for years, and also that they killed his dad.

Max wants to get fucked, get a bath, and get cuddles- in that order- and he wants it now.

He wants gold around his wrists, wants a bull laid over the ink on his ribs, wants to know anywhere he goes there are people protecting him.

There's definitely guns in Max's factory flat. He wants to know where.

He doesn't even care if Oscar is here- he'll kick him out if he needs to, doesn't trust him enough yet to let him in, not even after everything.

Besides.

This is about Max, Carlos, and Danny- it's about the way they're guilting themselves, afraid of Max's reaction now that he knows.

Max has been choking down chalky pills for weeks. If Redbull has the decency to at least make them taste good, Max will do them the favor of pretending not to notice.

His new ID beeps against the doorpad, and he swings it open. Max knows Carlos and Danny are still here, because he'd made Christian tell him, right before he said he was done with meetings for the day, and if anyone needed him they could wait until after he'd gotten laid.

No one had given any objection, so Max is coming back a few hours earlier than the team timetable had shown, which means they won't be expecting him.

Sure enough- when the door swings open both of their heads snap up from where they're at the kitchen table, ankles hooked together under the chair.

"Oh shi-"

"Max-"

Max doesn't want to hear it. He lets the door swing shut behind him, toeing off his shoes.

"Hi. I missed you both, but I am wanting to be sappy and upset about it later, instead of right now, because right now I am thinking there's too much clothes and not enough kissing- so if we could go to bed please?"

Daniel's mouth is dropped open, but it's Carlos that recovers first, standing and making his way over to Max, hands settling gentle on his waist.

Max doesn't want gentle.

"Are you sure?"

He frowns at Carlos, feels his eyebrows pushing together.

"Yes, I am sure. If you do not want to that is fine, there are plenty of other people in the factory-"

Bingo. Carlos's fingers grip into his waist, and the pinpricks of pressure are exactly what Max needed, bringing him back down to Earth.

"No. No one else- me and Daniel."

Carlos leans his head down, mouthing at Max's neck, stubble scraping against his skin. Max can feel another set of hands settle on his waist from behind him, slightly overlapping Carlos's fingers.

"You've got us, Maxy. Whatever you want."

Max leans his head back, Carlos leaving little starburst of pleasure across his neck. Daniel is a solid weight at his back.

"I want to get fucked like you have a point to prove."

Max pauses. He needs to make this clear, because he has a feeling he knows what the invisible boundary is here.

"And I told the entire meeting room that I was going to get laid when I left, so I am intending to see that through, thank you. Do not think about what the team has told you, think about what I am telling you."

Both of their hands tighten, and Max can already feel himself relaxing into it. This is what he wanted, the two of them exactly as possessive as he knows they are.

"If Oscar wants to get off he can of course watch the camera feed, but he does not get to be in here yet."

Carlos laughs softly, teeth nipping into Max's shoulder.

"Rookie."

Daniel's breath ghosts hot across the back of Max's neck.

"He took your necklace away. You sure you want us leaving marks? Carlos and I can make you a new one right here- won't let you leave the bed until you're crying for it."

Max shudders, and he can feel Carlos's lips curve into a grin against his skin.

"Who's going to say anything about it? Not the store associates- Christian has paid them all off. You can go shopping with him tomorrow, with our marks all over you- let the associate know exactly what you're there for."

Max wants.

He wants to be so publicly protected that no one questions even for a second who's responsible for him. He knows logically that he is, but- he wants the proof, irrefutable physical evidence.

The Redbull team is a collection of dangerous, powerful people. They would all bend over backwards for Max.

His team.

Max belongs to them.

[cannibalisation]

pavlov’s kiss | carwood lipton

switchin up the format of fic intro(?) title thing but i’m too lazy to do it to my other fics… so anyway this kinda sucks, it’s rushed and i didn’t even want to post it but i wanted to finish it before i started any other stories lol. 855 words

!! war-related ptsd, physical trauma (scars), allusions to sex (nothing explicit)

QUIETNESS was something foreign to you now. The long years spent in European lands, a constant buzz of soldiers and nurses around you at all times, the common violence of bombs being dropped overhead. You had grown accustomed to the wild nature of existing.

But now, safe and solitude in a warm bed, thousands of miles away from the horrors you endured, you can’t bring yourself to revel in the absence of noise honestly.

Carwood is hunched over the flower beds now. Fingers dirtied with the flesh of the earth, burrowed beneath his fingernails. Does it remind him of France or Belgium? Once spending his time digging up foxholes or graves, now planting flowers and vegetable seedlings.

You try not to think about it. All the young men and close friends you watched die, or tried to save, only to fail them. But it becomes such a habit, now especially that you have all this time on your hands.

You had contemplated turning to the working world the moment you got back. Picking up a few shifts at the nearest hospital or maybe at a local linen and cotton factory, but Carwood was immediately dismissive about the idea. Questioning you, ‘What kind of husband would I be if I let you work after all you’ve done?’

You had to remind him that you weren’t even married.

So, he married you. A small ceremony, with a good number of the Easy Company boys and your respective families. Joseph Liebgott even showed—that was the last time anyone’s seen him.

Now, you take care of the house—the inside only, though; the gardens are all Carwood’s.

Much has changed over the years. How you went from stopping the blood flowing from dying men to sewing the holes in your husband’s ruined work clothes.

He plucks a lone marigold from the flowerbed and turns on his knees to face you. An invitation. A burning notion brews in your stomach that forces you to bite down on your tongue.

As you make your way down the path to where Carwood sits, you think about the day it happened.

December, 1944. Easy was stationed in the forests of Bastogne, where you were posted in a nearby township, in a church-turned-hospital.

A couple of days before Christmas, you were instructed by a doctor to go and gather some bedsheets from some of the civilian housing to use as bandages. The next second, the church was brought to rubble by German artillery.

One of the warheads that was dropped not far from you was what caused it.

A sizeable amount of shrapnel embedded itself in your left arm, fire burned away at the first layer of skin from your wrist to elbow.

It left a scar. A bad one, one that you became embarrassed by. It wasn’t proper or ladylike, as you’ve been taught to be. The weather had warmed up once you made it to Austria, but even then, you didn’t wear your summer uniform.

Now that the years have passed, you’ve grown accustomed to the cicatrice, but the insecurities still fester whether you want them to or not.

A set of cobblestone steps led to the gardens, you narrowly avoided the mess of water that pooled into the walkway.

With a slow movement, you pluck the delicate flower from his grasp. He smiles up at you warmly, and you can’t help but mirror it.

“Hey.” He whispers, eyes filled with admiration.

“Hey, dollface.” You answer with a cheeky smirk. Carwood chuckles at the term and moves up from his kneeling stance.

A pair of calloused hands find familiarity around your waist as he uses the grip to pull you closer. Your hands lay atop the collar of his rumpled shirt, fingers curling around the soft baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Shit, when was the last time you ironed any of his clothes?

His tender gaze briefly flickered to your upper arm, and an ailing sensation seeps into the back of your mind.

Over the time you’ve spent together, Carwood has never allowed you to feel bad about your scarring. Having no shame in spending a big amount on pretty dresses with short sleeves or thin cotton blouses that showcased the rippled flesh in an almost indecent manner.

For he could not bear to allow you to see yourself as something undesirable, a lot of time was spent in the darkness of your bedroom to make sure that was the case.

A light touch to your shoulder, you look down.

He’s leaning forward now, pressing feathery kisses across the discoloured and warped skin. You shudder as his teeth skim over the surface, and it’s clear that he has to hold in a laugh.

In an attempt to get revenge, you nip lightly at his face. His own scar sits there, a permanent crease embedded into the fat of his cheek.

He lets out a noise, a mix of surprise and humour, but it doesn’t halt his path of kisses down your arm.

“Hey, Lip— First Lieutenant,” You pause, revelling in the feeling of him against you, “Want to take this inside?”

[crownpastelyellow]

Consider: PET postal “punishing” Scar for needing to have his mailbox moved

I had a thought about this on the train today and took the travel to write something for it. Not quite as punishing as you maybe hoped for but I still hope you enjoy either way <3

Nsfw under the cut or read on Ao3

Tango groans when he sees Etho's message, "You're on clean up duty this time, Scar clogged the mail system again."

With a sigh, Tango gets up from where he was sitting, taking a break from designing his factory. "Wanna help me chew him out?" He sends the message before flying off towards Scar's base.

Once there, he sees Etho already there, leaning against the walls of the mailbox. "Took you long enough. He fell in two more times by now"

Tango musters him "And you haven't stopped him?" Etho only shrugs in response "Well it's not like I'm the one going down there, seeing where all his things got mailed to."

With a grumble, Tango climbs down the little maintenance shaft, "Keep him from spreading more of his bits while I'm down there." And since Etho was the one who built almost all of the mailboxes, Tango can’t really refuse.

The sound of the other man's voice barely carries down, "Can't make any promises."

Making sure nothing is clogged up by tools, a stray arrow or one of too many ender chests, Tango finally emerges to find Scar and Etho in a rather intimate scene.

Climbing up the ladder, back onto the grounds of what will become Scar's base, Tango pokes his head out and can't not see Etho, leaning casually against the sturdy wall of the contraption and Scar, on his knees, with the other’s dick in his mouth.

Flushing incredibly red, Tango ducks his head back down, debating which other exit he can take to avoid walking into this, or if he should just sit it out. This is all happening so close to him.

He can still hear the noises, wet, and Etho's slight panting as if it were right in his ears.

"You can join in, you know. Was just keeping him from dying again." Etho's voice calls out from above with a slight chuckle to it. For a moment Tango considers pretending he isn't there, hasn't heard the offer, but as he listens to the sounds, arousal starts to fester in his gut.

In a moment of bravery, or stupidity, Tango decides to ignore any decency and climbs out of the maintenance hatch.

But actually standing there, watching his two friends like this is hotter, but also a lot more awkward, than he could have anticipated.

Thankfully, Etho helps him out of his misery by pulling Scar, who is panting for breath, off his own member and motioning with his head for Tango to come closer.

Tango's steps are still a bit reluctant, his hand gentle on Scar's face as he asks, "You okay with this?"

Scars voice is rough as he already starts fidgeting with Tango's belt, "you got my stuff back so-" the words get interrupted by a moan as Etho pushes a finger into Scar from behind him, glancing at Tango the entire time.

And Tango should hesitate more but Scar's hand is still on his waistband and with each passing second, any remaining doubt about this crumbles further.

Taking a deep breath, Tango takes over, undoes his belt and lets his pants drop down to his thighs.

Scar doesn't seem to want to waste any time, lips wrapping around the tip and the feeling of his tongue brushing over Tango's cock nearly causes his legs to give out.

With a shuddering breath he leans back against the wall, a free hand finding Scar's hair, digging in, not painfully but instead to ground himself.

When Scar starts taking him deeper, Tango curses under his breath, the feeling only intensifying when Etho starts thrusting into the man from behind. Every movement pushes him back and forth between them.

Tango would like to think of himself as collected enough not to move but soon he finds his hip bucking forwards without him really wanting to, just chasing more of the friction, the feeling.

His eyes are closed, Etho setting the pace as Scar moans around Tango's cock, the vibrations of the sound dragging a relieved sigh out of the netherborn.

When he risks a glance down, member immediately twitching in arousal, Etho starts fumbling with the rest of Scar's clothes, helping him out of his pants.

Tango pulls back far enough to remove the shirt too, leaving Scar undressed, toned and muscular body on his hands and knees and a string of spit connecting him to the cock in front of him.

Nearly spilling at the sight, Tango holds his length in front of Scar's mouth and, to his surprise, Etho is the one who gives the last push, gloved hand on the back of his head.

Unable to last much longer, Tango tries to pull back, but with Etho setting the pace he can't. "Wait, I-" Scar groaning as Etho fucks into him sends Tango over the edge, his release spilling down Scar's throat, who swallows it, not really able to complain either way.

As Tango slowly comes down, still feeling the warmth of Scar’s mouth, who he can’t really pull off of him, Etho starts to pant and groan behind him, approaching his own climax quickly.

At the very last second, he pulls out and Tango can watch as streaks of white paint Scar’s ass and back.

For a moment all three of them catch their breath in spent silence until a needy noise around Tango’s now soft member reminds them that one of them hasn’t finished yet. But that someone was also the cause of the mailbox issue today.

Etho shrugs, putting himself away, clearly not making this his issue, so the responsibility falls onto Tango. 

“Well, I’m a bit tired from fishing your bits out of the system, I’ll pass, maybe take a nap.” Tango teases but he knows very well that if Scar were to come by his base later, he’d never turn him down.

[heavenlyraindrops]

The Devil Made Me Do It | Arcane | Silco x Reader | Chapter Seventeen

available on AO3 and Quotev | visit the first tag for other chapters | warnings: profanity, violence, guns, blood and injury, choking (in a non-freaky way), sexual tension if you SQUINT,

summary:

In the midst of an unfortunate run-in with the enforcers, you meet the young revolutionary Silco, and by extension, his friends Vander and Felicia. Growing close friends, you get through life in the undercity together, determined to make Zaun a better place. Until tragedy strikes, and betrayal and carelessness stabs hard enough to turn you bitter. Years later as time solidifies the scars, Silco proves to be a thorn in your side. You, in his. Hatred festers. And your world cracks further open.

Chapter Seventeen:

Allison had begun to have night terrors.

You didn’t know how they’d started or why, but most nights you would awaken with her relentlessly knocking on your bedroom door. You’d force yourself to get up and let her in, allowing her to curl up next to you on your bed, as long as she wasn’t too close to you or touching you.

You didn’t want to get too close to the girl.

Listening to her soft breathing, sleep forgotten, gave you time to contemplate. You watched the girl turn over, mumbling something under her breath, and you yourself turned over to face the wall. Something had been nagging at the back of your mind for a while now:

Why do you favour this kid?

Your eyes squeezed shut. The answer was obvious, of course, not that you felt any less guilty admitting it. She reminds you of Alice. That’s the only reason you give a damn about this kid. Your hand clenched into a fist, clutching the bedsheets. ‘Don’t want to get too close.’ Pssh, oh please. It’s already too late. 

You can’t replace Alice. You can’t fill the void in your heart with another girl and try and make her be like Alice. She doesn’t deserve that.

“But I don’t…” you mumbled, trailing off. Alice stirred.

“Madam?” She asked sleepily. “Did you say something?”

“No, sweethea- Allison, go back to sleep.” You buried your face in your pillow and tried to ignore the warmth radiating from the girl next to you.

You completed the thought in your head. But I don’t expect her to be another Alice. I know she’s her own person. You sneaked a glance at her already sleeping form.

But you were scared.

What if something happened again?

What if she died?

You sighed. Now was not the time to be worrying about all of this. Now was the time to go to sleep. 

-

“More conflict has risen at the factory,” Donna recited, a clipboard in her hands as she read out the report to you. “Silco’s men don’t plan on backing down. What should we do?”

You frowned, absentmindedly inhaling from your cigarette. Smoke curled around you. “We can’t back down either. Change tactics, send in more men. I don’t care what happens.” 

“[name]…” she said quietly. You looked up, frown deepening. 

“What?”

Donna sighed, and walked towards you, setting the clipboard down on the table. “There’s a chance enforcers might get involved.”

You stiffened. “What?” You repeated.

She shifted uncomfortable, avoiding your gaze. She knew enforcers were a touchy subject for you. “Our team saw a bunch of enforcers around the area. Looked like they were staking it out.” But then she shrugged. “But like… they left after a while. Crawled back to their utopia.”

You inhaled from the cigarette deeply, leg shaking. Your silence was suffocating.

She ploughed on. “We’re assuming what’s happening at the factory is catching their attention. Although-“ she frowned. “It’s strange that they’re so interested in one factory, out of all the conflicts in Zaun.” She looked at you expectantly, as if you must have had an idea.

More silence.

She cleared her throat. “Well, I, uh… I suspect it’s maybe because they just cleared it out?” She nodded to herself, because you didn’t.

Eventually, you said:

Nothing.

Donna shuffled her feet. “O-okay, well, I’ll tell them to avoid conflict with the enforcers.” She spun around to escape the insanely uncomfortable situation. “Bye.”

You didn’t stop her as she left.

-

“Remind me again why I agreed to accompany you on this… errand?” Silco grumbled, as you were both shoved and jostled by the busy street. The box in your hand rattled as you nudged aside a strangely short person with your foot. 

“How am I supposed to know?” You replied, miffed. “It was your choice.”

“I suspect you must have bewitched me.”

“Am I that alluring?” 

“Temptress,” he spat. You threw your head back and laughed.

Suddenly, he grabbed your shoulder and wrenched you back. Narrowly missing the sizzling oil that was thrust in front of you, you yelped, stumbling and tripping over to fall backwards, right into his chest. He grabbed you and steadied you as you looked at him breathlessly.

The street vendor that had thrown the oil was crossing his burly arms over his chest, as shouts rose from the crowd. A woman stepped forward, her rough voice rising over the rest.

“Hey, you almost fucking got that on my kid!”

The mob grew agitated, tempers rising. Someone shoved someone else, and you could sense a fight breaking out.

You looked around helplessly. There was barely any way out. It felt suffocating. You squeezed the box tighter.

Suddenly Silco grabbed you by the waist, both your wrists being occupied by the box, and shot you a look before dragging you away through a gap in the crowd. He hugged you close to his chest so you wouldn’t get seperated, and before long you both disappeared down an alley, away from the tension.

Breaking away from the crowd you looked at him, face flushed with heat.

And the fight erupted right behind you.

Something metal and heavy flew over your head. He grabbed your wrist and you dropped the box, letting out a panicked scream, before he roughly tugged you along with him, both of you racing down the narrow street. You promptly ran into a metal pole, and groaned, rubbing your nose before he grabbed you again, sharply dragging away your rather pained self. 

You both emerged in a slightly wider street. He grabbed your shoulders and smoothed his hands down your arms. You wiped at your bleeding nose. “Are you okay?” His voice was filled with concern.

“Yeah,” you hissed, gritting your teeth. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and held it underneath your nose, watching the white fabric soak up the red blood. “M’sorry,” you muttered, a bit of blood dripping into your mouth. You could taste the metallic tang of copper on your tongue. “I ruined your handkerchief.”

“It’s fine,” he said reassuringly. You gave him a mirthless smile, turning away and wiping at more of the blood. His hands were still on the bend of your arms, and you looked at him strangely. His eyes searched your face. After finally deciding you were really okay, he dropped them and they fell away to his sides. “The thing that makes up for it is, that scream you let out was hilarious.”

Your face and ears heated up. “Oh, fuck off.” He laughed.

You both looked around, and a sharp twist of dread in your gut suddenly took hold of you. The place you were in was completely unfamiliar. You didn’t even recognise the brick of the walls, let alone the steel mesh stands and rickety rusted ladders. The small clearing suddenly felt even smaller.

“So… where exactly are we?”

Silence.

Being lost in the undercity was no joke. You walked to the wall on the other edge of the little concrete plateau, placing a hand on the painted brick. The wall was covered in a painted mural. You tilted your head, shielding your eyes from the sun to look up at it properly. 

Silco went up to stand behind you, studying the mural alongside you. It was of a woman, colourful swirls of paint creating her visage, gazing out over the rooftops. It was actually quite beautiful. 

You were both walled in. There were two tiny streets: one from where you entered, and one even tinier one leading out.

You sighed. “Fuck, I dropped Hilda’s order. She’s gonna be so mad at me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Silco said firmly. “At least you’re safe.”

You crossed your arms and looked away. He pointed at the tiny street leading out. “Let’s go.”

You leaned to the side, craning your neck to peer in. “It… it looks kind of dark though. I don’t wanna go in.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” he said flatly. You shoved him. 

“Language!” You admonished him. He scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“What better idea do you have? Scale the wall?”

“We could try that,” you said slowly, turning around to gaze back up at the wall.

“You can barely climb a tree.”

“I can get onto a rooftop faster than you can.”

“Ladders and window ledges,” he replied smoothly. “You’d be dead without either of them.” He went over to the wall and grazed his hand over it. “And this wall is too flat to climb. We need to go through the alley.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “Fine. We better not get mugged.”

You squeezed into the dim alleyway, feeling Silco right behind you. Unease crawled up your throat to settle on your tongue. You stopped abruptly.

“I want to walk at the back,” you hissed, hands brace on either brick wall on your sides as you stared into the dingy darkness, breathing speeding up. You heard Silco hiss exasperatedly behind you, his breath on your neck.

“Janna, [name], you couldn’t have said that five minutes ago?”

“I’m sorry,” you choked, and he exhaled sharply. You shuffled to turn and face him, grabbing his jacket. He took one look at your face, and his expression softened ever-so slightly.

“Fine,” he hissed, shoving you straight against the wall. You yelped, pressing the back of your head against the bricks as he went to sidle past you, hands gripping your arms, pinning you. “Just know that if you were anyone else I’d make you get over it.”

You cracked a grateful smile, and he looked down at you. His eye twitched subtly, as it always did when he was irritated, and your smile was immediately wiped off of your face.

He lost footing and you yelped again, being pushed farther up the wall as he fell into you, chest pressing flush against yours. Your face heated up as a strand of his hair tickled your nose. He cursed under this breath. “Wh-what happened?”

“Nothing, my foot got stuck on something,” he muttered. His breath was searingly hot on your cheek. You turned your face away, and felt it on your neck instead. You squirmed, and he gripped you harder, squeezing your arms so intensely you thought he’d snap them off. You gasped at the pain.

“That hurts-“ you tried to wriggle out of his grip but he grabbed and shoved you back against the wall again, avoiding your gaze. Heat involuntarily pooled in your stomach. You stopped moving, caught by surprise by your own body. breathing heavily. 

“Don’t move.”

You looked at him and pressed your lips together. Your blood was on fire. You needed out of that position, now. “You okay?”

“Just-“ his voice was shaking. “Don’t move.”

He seemed to have fixed the issue with his foot because then he pushed past you, letting go of your arms. You stared at his back, and grabbed onto his jacket, pressing close to him. He tensed beneath you, then relaxed, melting into the contact. Your eyes darted around in the darkness as you both advanced.

“We’re almost out,” he said reassuringly. You just squeezed his jacket harder.

You both finally emerged into daylight. He looked at your face, which had paled considerably, and tugged on his messed-up hair to re-tie it. You pulled your arms around yourself, and was caught by surprise when he gathered you in an embrace.

You found your shivers subsiding in his warmth. “I’m fine,” you muttered. “It was just- it was tight, and it was dark. Made me anxious.”

“You’re fine,” he replied, mirroring your own words. You remembered your reaction to being pressed against him in the alleyway and immediately pulled yourself out of his grip. Him, on the other hand, seemed to be having the same reaction, snatching his hands away from you.

He turned away quickly, squinting in the sunlight. “I recognise this place.” He turned to you and flicked his head over his shoulder. “…Come on.”

You didn’t say anything- just jammed your hands in your pockets and stumbled after him.

The walk back to Hilda’s shop was an a strangely awkward one.

-

By the fifth time your employees had returned you were beginning to grow extremely frustrated. Not to mention the fateful day Donna had arrived at your office:

“The enforcers are issuing us a warning.”

“Did they issue Silco’s people a warning?”

Donna shrugged. “No idea.”

You’d learned from Sevika- after a lot of threatening Donna’s life- that they had in fact not.

So, you did what anyone would decide to do. You decided to pay a visit to your future property.

Nodding at the group of armed people you’d brought along with you to stay put, you entered the building. The sky was dark and the air was cold, silence weighing down on you heavily. You turned up the collar of your coat. The door was left wide open.

You figured no conflicts would arise inside the building, considering the fact that neither party wanted the place damaged. You clicked on a flashlight, waving it about, eyes scouring the shadows. The place was practically bare, a simple lift at the end of the giant room, a couple of doors and a stairwell.

Footsteps.

You turned off the light, flooding the place in darkness. 

The footsteps were disgustingly distinct- the signature thump of the boots those dratted enforcers wore. You stepped back, pressing yourself into the corner as he appeared at the foot of the stairs, waving about his own flashlight. You ducked behind a concrete bar, hoping he wouldn’t see you.

You saw the beam of light advancing. 

Then, something else. Something orange glowing in the darkness. 

An eye.

You pressed your hand over your mouth, stifling a gasp as you watched Silco and the enforcer, who you now recognised as Piltover’s Sheriff, go towards the open door. Before Silco left, they shook hands.

You knew a deal when you saw one.

The Sheriff turned as he was left alone, the flashlight sweeping across the floor. It landed on you.

He screamed.

You screamed.

Lunging at him with terrifying speed, you knocked the flashlight from his hands, forcing him to the floor. He grabbed you and you tumbled down with him, digging your elbow into his chest. He groaned, reaching for his gun, but you were too quick- you grabbed the flashlight and cracked it over his head, which snapped back as he groaned again.

You wrenched the gun from the holster and pressed it against the side of his head. “Don’t fucking move,” you warned gleefully.

Blood dripped down his chin. He cursed softly as you tilted the gun, dragging it down his cheekbone. You gave him a catlike grin and shone the flashlight directly into his eyes. He squeezed them shut, cursing again.

“Hello, Sheriff,” you said smoothly. “Care to explain what I just saw?”

He didn’t say anything, most likely still dazed from the hits he’d taken from you. You tapped the barrel of the gun on the side of his head impatiently. “It all makes sense now.”

“…What?” He muttered. You threw your head back and laughed.

“Why you enforcers are so interested in this place.” You smirked at him, watching him squirm beneath you. “Why you’re crawling up my ass, while you barely spare Silco a second glance.” The gun clicked. “You have a deal with him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Sheriff said through gritted, bloodied teeth. You sighed heavily, pressing down on where you assumed his voice box would be.

“What’s your name?”

He let out a strange gurgling sound.

“Well, alright, ‘augh,‘“ you snorted. “Don’t bother fucking with me. I know he’s getting you to try to wipe me out and repel me from the factory so he can lay claim to it himself.”

‘Augh’ did not reply, too busy being tormented by the light of your flashlight. His eyes had grown bloodshot as you repeatedly flashed it in his face, then away, in- then away. A salty tear trickled down the side of his face. You removed your hand from his throat, and he spluttered.

“Marcus,” he gasped.

You cocked your head to the side. “What?”

“My name’s Marcus. Please, just- don’t tell anyone about the deal. I swear I’ll do anything.” His voice was broken and shaking. Scared.

You pouted, pressing the gun back to his head. “Why not? I could just blow your brains out on the floor right now. And then you won’t be able to tell anyone about it either,” you sniggered.

“Look, I’ll- I’ll call off the enforcers. They won’t bother you. You can fight Silco in peace.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” you grinned, pulling the gun away. You lazily tipped it to the ceiling, pulling on the trigger.

The bang was deafening. It was still ringing in your ears as you pulled yourself off of Marcus, kicking him away from you. He scrambled up, dragging himself away as he fled.

It was still ringing when your people ran inside in a frenzy to watch you standing above a few splotches of blood and a flickering flashlight, blowing on the steaming barrel. 

Who the hell does he think he is? Your eyes darted around the darkness. Already fucking holding secret meetings in here like he owns the place. 

But no matter what, your mind was whirring, sifting through the next steps. He’ll figure out you know. You pocketed the gun. That’ll make you a proper target now. 

But another thought: how could you hold this over his head?

You could tip off the Pilties, and cause a whole load of problems for him and Marcus. You could tell the Lanes. Tell them how he was working with their worst enemy. However, the second option seemed less inviting, knowing he was most likely working with Marcus in a way that benefitted Zaun, and not the other way around.

In other words, Marcus was working for him. 

You left the factory, your guards behind you. You adjusted your coat and dusted off your shoulder. 

You could figure out what to do later. Until then, you desperately needed a bath.

You left the factory with more knowledge than you had entered. Knowledge that you could weaponise.

You were slowly gaining the upper hand.

[sundrop-writes]

Your First Kiss With Jason Todd

Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary:

Jason always thought he hated you. He did hate you.

Until he didn't.

Until his love for you ruined him in ways he couldn't even imagine.

Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Reader. Frenemies to Lovers. Pure Angst (Hurt, No Comfort). Set during Season 3.

Word Count: 8,200

DC Titans Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: This fic is almost entirely angst - hurt, no comfort. This fic does not have a happy ending!!! So be warned of that before you enter here. Jason and the reader are described as ‘hating’ each other, but they are more like frenemies/annoyances - they have a playful banter (at the time, even they don’t know that they like arguing because it’s sexual tension and passion for each other); the reader is completely gender neutral - the only pronouns used for the reader are you/yours; this is mostly written from Jason’s POV (which is where most of the angst comes from); Jason describes himself as a ‘zombie’ or ‘half-alive’ - but he is fully alive and has all of his mental faculties, he is just freaked out about the fact that he was resurrected; the reader does not have any meta powers, but is described as being very good at combat (this does not denote the reader’s body type); mentions of sex and some sexual themes - but there is no outright smut and no detailed descriptions of sex; mentions of negative stereotypes surrounding frat boys/frat houses - including STDs and group sex (mentioned in a negative light); mentions of Jason masturbating (and thinking about the reader while doing it); mentions of Jason’s canon trauma (being kidnapped and tortured by Deathstroke, dropped off the building); mentions of Jason being killed by the Joker (and being ressurected by Crane); mentions of the reader mourning Jason’s death; mentions of drugs and drug addiction (based around the canon storyline of the anti-fear gas); mentions of Jason’s trauma surround his mother’s drug addiction; mentions of Jason killing Hank (as in the canon); the reader is kidnapped (by Crane or someone who works for Crane) and held hostage, and later rescued by Jason; somewhat graphic descriptions of violence (Jason beating up Crane, other background instances), gory descriptions of a death toward the end (mentions of acid burns and choking on non-breathable air); major character death - the reader character does die. Like I said - no happy ending. Sorry not sorry.

A/N: This is set during Season 3 - and this does feature spoilers for Season 3 if you haven't seen Titans before. So if you wanna watch the show spoiler free, definitely avoid this fic. I was imagining this to be set around episode 6 or episode 7, before Crane's plan to use the ice cream factory is taken down by the Titans, but obviously Jason breaking away from Crane's control so early goes against the canon - so there's that. Also, if you wanna pair some music with this for something truly heartbreaking, I would highly recommend the classic Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush, or the highly underrated Colorado Sunrise by 3OH!3 (the lyrics are way more depressing than people realize, and I love it as a whump song. oomf). I also feel like the song Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny would go so well with this fic, but in like - the most devastating way. I haven't written something this cruel since I wrote Ghosting and I had so much fun doing it. You can't leave me alone with whump for too long, I turn into a monster. I need to go back to smut again quickly lmao.

...

Jason Todd was in love with you. 

It was something that he hated himself for. Actually, it was one of the most infuriating, devastating facts in the world. But it was true. You were someone who was so entirely amazing. You were beautiful - literally the hottest person Jason had ever met who wasn’t photoshopped or catered to be some unrealistic daydream. You were clever and smart and strong. You could kick anybody’s ass on any day of the week and still have enough energy left to tell them how much of an idiot they were and list all of the reasons why. 

And you would definitely never love Jason back. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he could ever have someone like you. 

So he kept all of that stupid, idiotic love to himself. It was a secret that he had sworn to die with - and technically, he already had. 

Jason tried not to linger on the very fucked up, seemingly impossible fact that he had come back from the dead. And now he was existing as some weird, fucked up zombie thing - resurrected from having his skull caved in by the Joker to do Jonathan Crane’s bidding. This definitely wasn’t what Jason would have wanted out of a renewed life - but hey: when an Arkham prisoner gives you rotten lemons. 

When Jason wasn’t beating down drug dealers, stealing money, or strapping bombs to people - when he was trying his hardest not to focus on the fact that he had died and he was now living some strange half-life, reliant on Crane’s drugs, he was thinking about you. He thought about you a lot. 

He hadn’t come into contact with you since his strange foray back into the land of the living. That was probably for the best. He knew that you had freshly come back to Gotham, upon Dick’s request. Nightwing had called for backup from all the ex-Titans to help end Red Hood’s reign of terror. Jason wanted to stay as far away from you as possible. 

Genuinely, he didn’t want you getting caught in the crossfire of whatever Crane was planning. He wished you had stayed out of Gotham, but he knew that you were too loyal, too good not to come to the aid of the Titans when they needed you. He couldn’t reveal himself to you just for a taste of nostalgia - one last argument before you sold him down the river for good. But fuck - he thought about you a lot. 

When the two of you had first met, you were the last person he ever thought that he would surrender that stupid, soft label of love to. Even months into first knowing you - he would have said that he hated you. He would have told anybody that he found you to be the most annoying person on earth. 

Your relationship used to be the worst kind of dance. 

Every single time that Jason opened his mouth, you said something to contradict him. To a point, he believed that you didn’t even fully stand behind the things you said - you just enjoyed arguing against him. That you did it for sport. You used every single last bit of your time and energy to get under his skin. From mocking him to calling him a fuckboy to prodding at his grammar, poking holes in his points by smugly correcting him. He always found you to be the most infuriating person in any room. But it seemed that the more frustrated he got with you, the more cool headed you remained. 

He tried to mock you back, and you shrugged it off. Every time he became visibly annoyed in your presence - you giggled. He wanted to strangle you. 

And it was one fated day that he realized the line between heat fueled by frustration and heat fueled by lust truly weren’t that different. 

… 

“Jason! I thought I smelled you coming down the hall!” 

Jason groaned when he heard you make this comment. 

He thought that for once, he could have some peace to train alone - but it appeared that he would have no such luck. You were already in the training room, holding a long bo-staff as you ran some drills. Apparently, you were eager to exercise your mouth too - already whipping off clever insults the minute that Jason entered the room. 

When all he could muster was a glare in your direction, you let out a giggle. His blood boiled. 

“Between that god awful Axe body wash and that alcohol based aftershave that you like to drown yourself in, you smell like a walking frat house.” You continued, blabbering on even though Jason had made no efforts to engage you. At least not yet. “Just throw in some Busch Light and weed, and I might be able to catch gonorrhea just from the stench.” 

That was the nerve that hooked Jason into the conversation. First of all - he smelled fucking delightful. He always made hygiene one of his personal priorities. He was absolutely not one of those guys with crusty, sweaty balls. And second of all - he was not one of those STD spreading manwhores. He was clean in all senses. He always used a condom. 

“Sounds like you’ve got experience with that.” Jason quipped back. 

He looked to you for some kind of reaction, some inkling that he had gotten under your skin even a fraction of the way that you did his. His movements were rough with annoyance as he began wrapping his knuckles with tape so he could have a few rounds with the heavy bag - mostly out of a need to pound out his frustration on something. He was getting too angered with your presence in the room and not wanting to snap and take it out on you. (He already had enough on his record with Bruce, and despite popular opinion - he was trying to improve.) 

When you weren’t quick to respond, Jason continued. 

“You used to letting frat boys all over you? You seem like the type of person who would enjoy a good, sloppy frat house train. Twenty guys, one after the other, none of them knowing your name, just because you’re so needy for a good fuck.” 

Jason grinned, feeling like he had won this conversation with the essence of shock alone. 

But no. As always, you remained cool. You grinned right back at him, stepping toward him, crowding into his personal space as you said your next words in a low, smooth voice. 

“Sounds like you spend an awful lot of time picturing me running a train.” You smirked. “Is that why you’re always so late getting up in the morning? You wake up and the first thing you do is get a hand on your dick, imagining me getting fucked by a lineup of guys? Probably just wishing that one of them was you.” 

Jason’s face fell flat. 

You were so strikingly confident in your words that it made his stomach twist. Facing him down, speaking such filthy words without flinching - embarrassment and heat collided inside of him. Even more so with what you did next. 

You put a hand out in front of your crotch, mimicking the motions of jacking off while you mocked him in a broken voice. 

“Oh, oh fuck Y/N! Come on! Take my sloppy, frat house cock!” 

You then mocked a whiny series of moans that must have been Jason’s fake orgasm - and while Jason’s insides bubbled with a confusing heat, you quickly dissolved off into laughter. 

“Shut up.” Jason snapped, forcing his eyes down to focus on the process of taping himself up - praying that you wouldn’t see the heat that had spread across his cheeks. “You’re the fucking worst.” 

“Only when I’m with you.” You replied, blowing him a kiss - to which he stuck his middle finger up at you. 

He was eternally thankful when you went back to your own training in silence, only taking occasional glances up in his direction. 

… 

After that point, Jason had to admit to himself that he was attracted to you, at the very least. He could no longer deny that you were insanely attractive; you were a very, very hot person. And somehow, even past your annoying habits, he was being drawn into the orbit of your gorgeous looks and your wonderfully cocky, filthy mouth. 

But he still hated you. He definitely still hated you. 

He hated it even more when you became right - and you did become the object of some of his more heated fantasies. He became downright annoyed at the times he had his hand around his cock and imagined himself hate fucking you - imagined forcing every cocky retort out of your mouth, imagining you breathless and needy beneath him, begging for more with every hard push of his hips. 

He hated how everything changed after Doctor Light. 

Jason wasn’t thinking about your stupid beautiful cocky mouth after that. His mind was full of glass and he was being shredded from the inside out. He came home broken. After everything that happened with Deathstroke and Doctor Light - he was some fragile bird; some chewed up, used, pitiful thing. He didn’t have the energy to fight you anymore, not even for sport. 

So after he was rescued, still floating in numbness, he didn’t know what to do when you burst into his room unannounced. You practically shoved the door off its hinges, and stormed across the room toward him - tears hot in your eyes. You pounded curled fists against his chest, screaming at the top of your lungs. Half of your words were static in his ears, but the tone of your voice pierced through his heart like an arrow. You called him stupid, asking where in his empty head he had gotten the idea to go off by himself. 

Jason didn’t have it in him to fight you. So he broke down. 

He felt like the world’s biggest idiot for crying in front of you. But his throat was tight and he choked on the tears - he was too tired. He just couldn’t hold them back. He screamed back, and asked you to lay off. To get off his fucking back. 

You looked shocked. Like you had swallowed a piece of glass. 

You surprised him when you uncurled your fists and wrapped the most tender, gentle hands around his back, and for the first time since he had known you - you embraced him in a hug. He was weak and he needed it more than he was willing to admit, so he let you. He sobbed against your neck, his own cries too loud that he missed the timid sound of your apology. 

That wasn’t the only time you surprised him that week. 

He knew it was because he was some broken little bird, but you started taking care of him. You brought him plates of food without being asked, and when he attempted to shove them away - you refused. You told him to eat before you had to ‘shove it down his fucking throat’. 

You didn’t mock him. You didn’t correct him. And you surprised him even more when you turned the sharpness of your tongue on the others when they tried attacking Jason. They accused him of planting booze in Hank’s room or drawing crosses on Rachel’s mirror to fuck with her, among other things. And you popped veins in your neck going on a winding rant about how stupid and baseless their accusations were. 

Jason wasn’t sure if you knew it, but you jumping to his defense wrapped him in a blanket of protection that he had never before felt. It was so entirely strange, but welcomed coming from you. Especially because he knew that it was genuine. He knew that you didn’t have any ulterior motives for doing this - for some reason, you just wanted to help him. 

When you extended an invitation toward him to come with you as the group dispersed, torn apart by Dick’s nasty, festering secret - Jason felt welcomed by you. He knew that the dynamic between the two of you was changing at a breakneck speed, and he had to embrace it. He found himself eager to follow the weird, newly developing kinship that he had with you rather than wanting to stay in the empty coldness of the Tower with a brooding Dick. 

From there, it was really difficult for Jason to pin down the exact moment that his feelings transitioned toward you from casual lust to something more. He couldn’t tell exactly when it turned into that panic-inducing, ‘oh my god, I’m fucked’ feeling of being in love. After leaving San Francisco, during the entirety of the time that the two of you were in Gotham together, your relationship remained completely platonic. 

It was a few short weeks spent kicking ass as the best vigilante duo the city had ever seen, but there wasn’t a single moment Jason could point to where the two of you lit up with that romantic spark. It wasn’t some romcom bullshit come to life. It was just the two of you being friendly for once. The two of you helping each other survive. 

Back then - Jason wanted you, badly. Even if he didn’t know just how badly, he wasn’t going to fuck up the whole dynamic just to get laid. He felt safe with you. He kicked ass with you. He was good with you. And during that short time - he was happy. So he wasn’t going to do anything to risk that happiness. Happiness was too rare for him. So why the hell would he try putting the moves on you, scare you away, and fuck it all up? 

… 

A little slice of that happiness came in the form of Hal’s Diner. It was a place in downtown Gotham, open twenty four hours, and you and Jason had gotten into the habit of stopping there after your patrols. 

The two of you would kick some ass - break the legs of some drug dealers, make sure that women got home safe if they were walking late at night, keep the streets a little safer. And then you would change out of your patrol outfits and head to the diner, just as the sun was rising over the scummy streets of Gotham. You would get breakfast and Jason would get dinner. He would steal one of your eggs and you would take half his burger, and you would always comment about him putting way too much ketchup on his plate. 

It was harmony. 

“You know, every time I see you make a grown man cry, it brings me such intense joy.” Jason grinned as he said this, reminiscing about a beautiful moment from earlier in the night. 

He spoke about it in the same manner that someone might reminisce about seeing a relative or a cute puppy. But this was natural for the two of you - since you had taken up vigilantism as a duo, violence was a sweet art for the two of you. 

“Well, if he would have left that girl alone the first time I asked, I wouldn’t have broken his arm.” You shrugged, speaking very casually about it yourself. 

You then picked a piece of bacon up off your plate and took a bite, grinning at Jason fondly. You did appreciate it when he complimented your skills. 

Jason chuckled. 

“You know, it is nice to see you using your powers for good instead of evil.” He commented. 

“My powers?” You parroted back, your mouth half busy with chewing, your words slightly muffled. 

You didn’t have any metahuman powers, so this comment did leave you slightly confused. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, entirely confident in the statement he had to follow. “Your endless amount of energy to harass people and be endlessly annoying. The powers you used to spend all your time using on me.” 

“You used to deserve it.” You were quick with your tongue as usual, not missing a beat with this statement. 

Jason’s only rebuttal was to pick up a french fry - one not doused in ketchup - and throw it at your head. You flinched slightly when it bounced off your forehead - but when it landed in your lap, you easily picked it up and put it in your mouth, not thinking twice about doing so as you tossed Jason a wicked grin. 

That. That must have been the moment. 

That was the moment he realized that he was truly in love with you. You grinning at him from across the table, your smile lighting up your whole face, playing around with him like he actually made you happy. Like he could spend the rest of his life making you happy. 

That’s why it hurt so much more when your phone buzzed on the table a few minutes later. When you told him that it was the Titans - Gar in trouble. That’s why it hurt so fucking much when you left. 

Jason knew, in hindsight, that he should have gone with you. But he flailed like a rabbit caught in a snare, and rather than just agreeing with you, he felt the trap tightening around him, and he opted to chew off his own foot rather than simply letting you help him free. 

He stupidly argued that it was some test from Dick. That the Titans could deal with their own problems. Jason knew that deep down, he was still tender from everything that had happened - Dick dropping him, even by accident. The accusations, the secrets. The rejection. He felt like he was laying down a line - he was letting you make a choice. 

Him or the Titans. 

But it shouldn’t have been a choice. It was Gar. Jason should have stood by his friend. He should have gone with you. 

Deep down, Jason feared that if he did go with you - the Titans wouldn’t want him back. He feared another cutting rejection. They would simply bench him again, they wouldn’t even need him to help save Gar. They wouldn’t want him to help. He was useless, after all. He was careless and stupid. That was why he needed you to choose him. To stay. 

That was what his mind was screaming out as you looked at him, disappointment flooding your eyes as you questioned him about Gar, about going back to the Titans. 

Stay. He silently begged. Pick me. 

And watching you snatch up your jacket in a huff and get up from the table, your food barely touched - his eyes boring into your back as you retreated - it was like having his heart carved out of his chest. And because he was so fucked up, he just sat there. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. He didn’t chase you. 

He let you go. 

Having you suddenly disappear from his life was like missing a limb. Jason was constantly aching around your non-presence, constantly missing you. He felt torn up from the inside out, wondering if his frayed nerve endings would ever heal themselves. When he went to Donna’s funeral, he stared at you from across the tarmac - telling himself that if you even so much as glanced in his direction, he would cross that sickly one hundred foot black sea and talk to you. He would make the leap and apologize. 

But you were fettered and stubborn and you kept your head straight. You knew it was the ultimate punishment not to acknowledge him. So the moment that the plane took off, Jason shoved on his helmet and sped off on his bike.

He easily became numb after that. 

He went back to Bruce - to lay low and lick his wounds, or because it was the only place he knew, he wasn’t sure. He tried to be a Robin that wasn’t with you. It didn’t work. He felt more broken than ever. It was cheesy, pathetic bullshit - but he talked about you in therapy. Leslie encouraged him to reach out to you, but every time Jason’s fingers hovered over your contact in his phone, his hands shook, and all he remembered was the look of pure scorn you had given him before you snatched up your things and left the diner that day. 

He thought of you as he suited up to go after the Joker. He considered how easy it would be for the two of you to take down the stupid clown together - how flawlessly the two of you worked as a team. 

Jason thought of you as he drew his last breath, soaked in blood and struggling past the world-ending pain. He wondered, in a haze, if you were warm in your bed in The Tower while he was pressed into the cold ground, taunted by the laughter that rung in his ears. 

… 

Jason didn’t know how hard you cried for him when you heard the news of his death. 

You wouldn’t have dared to say that the hole in the middle of your chest was caused by love - caused by the heartbreak of a lover being stolen. But you certainly felt robbed when you heard that the Joker had killed him. You seethed and you heavily considered marching toward Gotham to seek revenge. 

You knew that Dick was angry with Bruce for finally giving in to what the Joker wanted and killing him. For finally ending their sick, twisted game. But when you found out - you were glad that the clown was dead. You wrapped one of Jason’s stolen shirts around your pillow, and you slept a bit easier at night. 

…

Jason knew that he should have left town. 

Crane claimed that Red Hood was going to be the next Batman - that he was going to be something the Bat never could. That he was going to actually keep the streets safe. But so far, all Jason had done was steal, kill, terrorize, torture. Crane spoke of omelets and breaking eggs - pigs and bacon, and ‘marketing’ himself to the public. But truly, it never made any real sense to Jason. 

Jason knew that now, he was the type of man lurking in the night whose arm you would have broken if he was lingering too closely to the vulnerable. And you would have been right for doing so. 

Jason was tired. He felt lost - directionless. He was getting tired of Crane’s bullshit. He missed you. But he knew that he couldn’t just go running back to you. You likely wouldn’t have accepted him back into your life if he did. 

When Crane called him in that night, wanting to discuss ‘the game plan’ - Jason was worn. His patience for all of it was already wearing thin, and what happened next - it truly caused him to snap. 

Jason showed up in full gear, wearing the costume of an alias he no longer believed in; foolishly dressed up as someone he had truly begun to resent. He was holding his helmet in hand, his heavy boots clunking on the floor as he dodged around Crane’s egghead lackeys - a random group of people who were working to convert the anti-fear gas into a larger batch. He knew that they were aiming to get more and more people in the city hooked; if Jason hadn’t abandoned his morals in this new life, he might have cared more about the consequences. 

Instead, he made a B-line for Crane, who was typing away at something on the computer. 

“Jason, my boy!” Crane grinned at him, giving a false, performative grin over his shoulder. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” 

“What do you want?” Jason asked, his tone flat. 

He was far too tired of Crane to engage in more word play or stupid riddles. 

“Never one for pleasantries, are you?” Crane chuckled. 

Jason didn’t offer him a reply - seemingly confirming his theory with this simple act. 

Truthfully, he wasn’t. He wasn’t feeling very pleasant today. He hadn’t felt very pleasant any day since he had been so rudely pulled from the morgue and zombified to do someone else’s bidding against his will. Being an undead puppet didn’t really make a person all that pleasant. 

Crane reached into the pocket of his oddly quaint grandpa sweater and pulled something out - a small glass vial, containing some clear liquid. It looked harmless - like water. But Jason knew Crane, and he knew that whatever it was must have been entirely dangerous if Crane was carrying around such a small dose of it. 

“Do you know what this is?” He asked, giving the vial a small shake, jostling the liquid inside to emphasize his point. 

Jason hesitated before he shook his head in the negative. He hated to appear clueless and stupid around such an intelligent man, but he didn’t want to guess and be wrong. He knew that being misinformed around Crane was dangerous. But being cocky and pretending to know more than Crane was even more dangerous. 

“This is a very highly concentrated form of liquid Methadone.” Crane explained. “It’s a highly addictive substance. And I think it’s going to give the mass market version of your formula that little extra kick that it needs, ya know? Keep the people coming back for more!” 

He let out a bright chuckle, as though he was talking about a cleaning product that was marketed on an infomercial or some kind of great recipe for soup. That was one of the things that scared Jason the most about Crane - his ability to talk about life changing, deadly things with such jarring enthusiasm. He truly thought of bringing people their worst nightmares and their most painful deaths as ‘beautiful work’. 

“What about it?” Jason prodded quietly. 

He knew that Crane hadn’t called him here just to brag about a new idea to add something to the formula. He needed Jason for something. 

Jason just hoped that he wasn’t looking to use him as a guinea pig again. He would likely rather die again than go down the path of heavy drugs. One thing he had vowed - he wouldn’t end up like his mother. 

“Well, you see, my boy, that’s where you come in.” Crane grinned at him. “Due to its highly addictive qualities, Methadone is also a highly regulated substance. But because I am the wonderfully well-connected man that I am, I happen to know that there is a very large stash of it just sitting there, ripe for the taking, in this quaint little building uptown.” 

Jason’s gut stirred with suspicion. 

“Where uptown?” He asked. 

“Well, it’s just-” Crane stuttered, and then sighed, deciding to get it out and over with. “The Wayne Memorial Cancer Research Facility.” 

Jason glared at him. 

“But see, it’s fine! Because I happen to know someone who knows their way around the Wayne Tech security systems very well. So Red Hood breaks in there, gets me my-” 

“No.” Jason said flatly, before he turned and started to walk away. “Find somebody else. We’re done.” 

Crane had threatened to replace him before. Crane had no-so-subtly threatened to kill him alongside being replaced. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe Jason would be better off dead. Maybe Crane would find out that Jason was irreplaceable after all. Maybe Jason was a dirty, seedy criminal shaped by life for only one thing: ruining the lives of others. If Jason couldn’t do that, he wasn’t sure what he would do. 

But he wasn’t going to fucking do this. 

Killing was one thing. Stealing from drug dealers and mobsters was another. What he had done to Hank had crossed too many lines - but it didn’t even begin to approach the lines that this crossed. 

Stealing from a facility that Thomas and Martha had set up when Bruce was just a child, shitting all over their legacy, using skills that Bruce had taught him in order to do it? That was too far. Jason couldn’t say that he had morals anymore, but he still had that voice of common decency in the back of his head yelling at him to stop it. Maybe it was your voice, correcting him at every turn the way you used to. 

He should listen to that voice. 

He should leave town. 

“Hold on, hold on there, Jaybird!” Crane called after him. 

The pure annoyance that the nickname caused was the only thing that stopped Jason. He considered turning around and shooting Crane just to shut him up. 

“See, I think you forget how this works.” The man went off again - talking in that humming tone he always used that made Jason’s ears numb, made his brain switch off. “Every loyal dog gets a treat. A little motivation to get that Pavlovian mind barking in the right direction.” 

Jason turned back around then. 

“Nothing you say ever makes any fucking sense.” He barked out, ready to leave Crane with these as his last remarks before he left Gotham forever. 

But then Crane tapped at a few things on his keyboard and pulled something up on the monitor - a dark, grainy video feed that had Jason squinting his eyes and walking closer to get a better look. 

When Jason was able to truly take in the scene - his stomach dropped. 

It was you. 

You were sitting alone in some anonymous, concrete warehouse - probably in the industrial district of Gotham, if Jason had to guess. Crane didn’t like to keep his insurance policies too far away, he liked to play it close to the vest. You were tied to a chair, duct tape tight over your mouth, very much there against your will. You were looking straight ahead, with the camera angled down from the top corner of the room. Even through the grainy, black and white footage, Jason could see the wetness of tears streaking down your face. 

You were terrified. 

Jason’s helmet clattered to the floor, slipping from his grip as the shock overtook his system. 

For the first time in weeks, fighting through the numbness of the drugs and the hazy shock of his new half-life - he was terrified too. Then he was angry. Rage bubbled up inside of him like a sharp, acidic bile. 

“What the fuck have you done?” Jason growled out, the anger setting his jaw so tight that the words could barely escape between his teeth. 

“I told you - every loyal dog gets a treat.” Crane said, a barely contained glee filtering through his voice as he peered over Jason’s shoulder at your weeping face on the screen. 

He clapped a large hand on Jason’s shoulder, and Jason felt himself nearly choke on his own tongue - so swollen with anger that it barely fit in his mouth. 

“So, go fetch, doggie.” Crane continued. “Go get me what I need. Otherwise, that sweet little treat of yours is gonna play dead.” 

Crane leaned over and whispered those last words into Jason’s ear - and that was what truly caused him to snap. 

In a flash, Jason grabbed the hand that was on his shoulder, whipped Crane around - there was a loud crack as Jason broke Crane’s arm. The egghead types who were working on the formula all paused; some of them gasped or hid behind things, but none of them were brave enough to intervene. Jason shoved Crane’s face into the monitor, cracking it out like a spider’s web but never fully obscuring the image of that dark, cold warehouse - the place where you were alone and terrified. 

He twisted Crane’s broken arm, making a sound like glass grinding in on itself, and the man let out a howl. 

“I think you forget how this works.” Jason barked at him, his voice so dark with rage that it almost sounded like he was wearing Red Hood’s voice modulator even though his helmet was on the floor at Crane’s feet. “When dogs get pissed off - they bite.” 

He twisted the injury again, and Crane let out another bitter howl. 

Jason demanded to know where you were, and Crane squeaked out an address. It was in the industrial district, so it checked out in Jason’s mind. It didn’t seem like a trap or a false answer to waste his time. 

Jason shoved the pathetic, useless man to the ground, kicked him in the gut for good measure, and then leaned down to grab his helmet before shoving it on. He would need it in case Crane had anybody stationed there, guarding you. 

Crane shouted something at him as he walked away, but Jason was barely paying attention - now very singular minded on his mission toward you. 

“You have to learn to play by the rules, Red!” Crane choked out. “You won’t like how this ends! I made you! I fucking made you!” 

… 

Jason was surprised to find the building empty. No guards, seemingly no bombs, no gas canisters. At first, he thought it really was a trick, a misdirect to waste his time. But when he had just about given up hope of finding you, searching one of the back most rooms that used to serve as overflow storage for Ace Chemicals - he found you. Concrete and anonymous, some of the beams having eroded away in places from improper chemical storage. 

When you saw him stalking toward you - his gun drawn, heavy boots thudding against the floor, modulator puffing out heavy, mechanical breaths - you let out a terrified whimper past the duct tape and more tears flowed freely down your face. 

Jason felt a twinge of guilt. Of course. You had no clue it was him. 

Perhaps he could get away with the mercy of never revealing himself to you. He could keep his mask on, release you, drop you back off with the Titans and then leave town. But eventually, Dick would tell you who he was. 

At the very least, he could give you the comfort of seeing a familiar face after the hell you had been through. You were wearing a sweatshirt and simple cotton pants, and running shoes - it looked like you had been plucked off the street during a jogging session. He could only imagine how much Crane’s lackeys had scared you. 

Once he was confident that the area was secure, he holstered his gun and then reached up, removing the face mask from his helmet and tossing it aside. 

“Hey, hey, it’s me.” He told you - attempting to be gentle and soothing in his voice. 

He approached you slowly, not wanting you to be scared as he reached to his belt for a knife - only with the intention to cut the ropes around your torso, wrists, and ankles. 

He watched your expression as you flashed through a range of emotions - deep confusion, a bit of relief, sadness, and then strangely - burning anger. You glared at him with the most intense rage he had ever seen from you - more intense even than the day you had stormed into his room and called him stupid and suicidal for going after Doctor Light without backup. 

Jason was slightly afraid of the lecture that would come next, but nonetheless, he knelt beside you and began cutting you free. 

The minute that one of your hands was free, you reached up and ripped the duct tape off your mouth. You took only a fraction of a second to wince in pain from the tender skin of your lips being disturbed before you began verbally tearing into him. 

“Jason Todd!” You screamed at the top of your lungs, so loudly that Jason was sure some of the edges of the corroded concrete pebbled off and fell down just from this. “Jason fucking Todd! I should have known you had something to do with this!” 

“Wh-?” 

Before Jason could question your odd choice of words or even recognize it as an accusation, you raised your other freshly free hand and slapped him squarely across the cheek - it was a hard, skull-shaking clatter. It had Jason dizzy, falling back onto his ass and dropping the knife before he could finish cutting the ropes around your legs. 

“Fucking ow!” Jason griped, reaching up to grab his now very red cheek. 

“You are such an asshole! Of all the completely idiotic, stupid things you have ever done-” 

“I didn’t fucking kidnap you! Okay? I didn’t do shit!” Jason quickly argued back, finally now realizing that you thought he had put you here in the first place. “I’m here to rescue you!” He said each of these words slowly, looking you in the eyes, hoping that his point would get across more firmly this way. 

There was a tense moment as you stared back at him with your jaw locked. It was likely that if your feet hadn’t still been tied, you would have run away - or kicked him. Jason was thankful that you couldn’t do either at the moment.  

“Why?” You asked, finally breaking the tension. 

“What?” Jason gaped. 

This was the last thing he had been expecting. 

He was saving you - why were you questioning him? 

“Why are you ‘rescuing’ me?” You asked, taunting his phrasing of it with a mocking tone and large air quotes. He now regretted freeing your hands. “So you can bargain me off to Dick for ransom money? So you can put a bomb in my chest?” 

You said the last part with intense disdain, tears dancing in your eyes.

So you did know what a monster he was.  

He was surprised that you hadn’t hit him harder. 

Jason heaved a sigh. He reached over and picked up the knife, very slowly, very tentatively resuming cutting the ropes on your legs to free you. 

“I’m just freeing you so that you can be free. That’s it.” He said quietly, defeat lacing through every inch of his voice. “You don’t deserve this.” 

He cut the last rope and folded the knife, sticking it back in his belt. He stood up then and caught a glimpse of your face - you were wearing the most complex expression he had ever seen. Perhaps confusion, perhaps anger. Maybe somewhere deep in your eyes - hurt. 

He turned and moved to leave, hoping you would simply follow him out of the confusing maze of the building and he wouldn’t have to drag you out kicking and screaming. 

“That’s not an answer.” You told him, your tone sharp and certain - the same tone you always used to correct him. 

Jason whipped back around then, heaving a sigh as he looked at you - standing in the middle of the room now, arms folded over your chest, glaring at him on the spot. Cocky and so sure about yourself. Too damn certain and immobile in your points. Infuriating. 

“Why the fuck do you have to make everything so damn complicated?” Jason shot back, annoyance and dread tight in every inch of him. “Why do you have to interrogate me about every damn thing that I do?” 

“Because you make stupid ass decisions when I don’t.” You easily fired back. “Now tell me: why are you doing this?” 

“Because I wanted to.” Jason huffed. 

“Why?” You prodded again. 

He let out another hot huff, and you didn’t let it go. 

“Come on Jason!” You shouted, increasing in volume as you became more frustrated with his lack of an answer. “You didn’t just develop a conscience all of a sudden! Why did you feel the need to suddenly drop everything and come to my rescue? What makes me different than Hank? What makes me different than-?” 

It was the annoyance grinding on him. It was a combination of your nagging voice, the lack of drugs in his system for the first time in weeks. The rawness of the world ragging on his last good nerve. The sound of your voice putting him in line - exactly where he was supposed to be. The way you reminded him of the truth now more than ever. 

“Because I’m in love with you!” Jason shouted. 

It was almost… angry. It was a declaration that hit you like a whip - more like an insult than something warm and kind. It wasn’t made of sweetness, like some moment from a film with a gentle piano riff wrapped around it. It was real - made of the haunting kind of passion that kept Jason awake at night. 

Your eyes widened. Jason’s breathing stilled as he waited for you to react - to say something. 

“Oh.” Your voice cracked around this syllable, and your eyes danced with more tears. 

Jason felt his own heart crack apart inside of his chest, more terror flooding him. 

He had died with the secret because he had never wanted to live up to the embarrassing vulnerability of confessing it. In the deepest part of his mind, he had lived this horror a thousand times. Him finally creeping out onto the edge of oblivion - speaking those words. Confessing. And then you stabbing him in the heart, rejecting him. 

The reality of it ripped through him so much harder than it ever had in his nightmares. 

Any last tiny piece of his soul that had survived being murdered by the Joker had just been shattered by you. 

“Yeah. Fucking oh.” Jason echoed back, his own tears clutching at his throat. 

Seeing him with that naked vulnerability dancing behind his eyes - it reminded you of the same person who came back from being kidnapped by Doctor Light. It reminded you of the real Jason you had gotten to know. 

In that moment, it all came crashing toward you. You gasped harshly as you could barely breathe around it. 

That hole in your chest had been shaped like a lover - it had been shaped like him. Filled with the pain of letting him get hurt, leaving him alone in Gotham to be murdered by the Joker. Filled with the doubt and confusion of never knowing what could have been between the two of you if you had chased those flirtations a little bit farther. 

And now, he was standing right here in front of you, somehow perfectly alive and well - and there was only one possible thing you could do. 

“Jason.” You gasped out his name, unable to fathom more words. 

Before he could move, you reached out and grabbed both sides of his face, one of them still singed with a burning ache where you had slapped him so hard - and you pulled him into a kiss, hard. 

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t dainty or smooth like some Hollywood love confession - it was hungry. Bordering on feral as you both fought to consume more of the other person, bleeding out little moans and fighting for breath past each other’s lips. Jason’s hands rushed to embrace you, wrapping around your back and grabbing a needy, possessive handful of your ass while you kept your grip tight on his face, keeping his face forcefully close to your own as you devoured his mouth. 

You felt some of his tears escape - such a rush of emotions making him raw and unable to hold them back, and you moaned pitifully into his mouth as he wetness slipped underneath your palms. Whatever it was - his pain, his pleasure; you would take it. He was all yours now. 

… 

Far off, on the other side of Gotham, Crane chuckled quietly to himself as he watched the scene unfold. He had pulled up the camera feed on a separate tablet, seeing as Jason had used his head to crack the monitor. With his broken arm bound in a temporary sling, he used his one good hand to pull something out of a drawer - a remote with a single button. 

“For these violent delights have violent ends,” He recited to himself, still grinning widely as he looked at the two lovers in the grainy, black and white footage. “And in their triumph, die like fire and powder. Which as they kiss, consume. Even the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness, if the taste confounds the appetite.” Crane poised his finger on the button. “Therefore, love moderately.” 

He pressed down, and dissolved into more epic laughter as he watched what came next. 

… 

You were only human, and you could only kiss Jason for a few minutes before your brain demanded oxygen. As much as you hated to pull away from the sweet, bruising sting of his lips, you forced yourself back and immediately took in a sharp breath that turned into a rolling pant - Jason let out a needy whine in protest. 

With his arms holding you so securely and the dizzying heat now flowing through you - you almost didn’t catch it. But it was there, in the background, something steadily present that wasn’t there before. 

Beeping. A small, electronic beeping. 

“Do you hear that?” You asked Jason, squinting your eyes with confusion and looking around, trying to find the source of the noise. 

He did hear it. 

“Fuck.” Jason mumbled. 

Panic flooded him. The whole thing had been a trap. 

He pulled away from you hesitantly and grabbed his mask up off the ground, snapping it back on. 

“We have to go. Now.” He told you, his voice now sharp and robotic through the voice filter as he grabbed your wrist and began dragging you away - you became limp to his direction for once and simply followed, fear tight in your gut once again. 

Jason didn’t want to consider the possibilities, but he knew it could be anything from a large bomb, meant to tear you to shreds, to a large dose of fear gas waiting to be deployed. And he didn’t have an antidote at the moment. He needed to get you out of the building and transport you to safety. 

When the two of you came to a door - one of the many that Jason had passed through on his way in - it snapped shut in Jason’s face. It was on some kind of mechanical locking system, that much was apparent. Jason rushed forward, trying to pry it open - but it was welded steel, and it wouldn’t budge. 

Jason heard more slamming - more metal forcing itself shut on the same locking system. 

“Jason?” You croaked, that unsure terror back in your voice again. Something so rare for you. You were looking to him for answers. You were looking to him to rescue you. 

Overhead, the last bits of light were shut out - glimpses of the street lights outside - as thick metal shudders collapsed down over the windows. The room was sealing itself shut, becoming air tight. 

“Stand back.” Jason told you, not waiting to see if you followed the instruction before he pulled out one of his guns and began shooting at the door’s heavy metal hinges. He knew it was futile and he feared that one of the bullets might ricochet off and hit you, but he didn’t have many options left. 

Then he heard it. The gentle hissing of gas being released into the air. 

Jason was naive to have hoped that it was Crane’s classic Fear Gas - that would have been a merciful walk in the park compared to what he had planned for you. Betraying Jonathan Crane meant that Jason had to be truly punished. 

Jason turned to you, wrapping his arms around you, as if trying to shield you from the air itself - but it was too late. You began coughing and struggling to breathe, and Jason looked on with confusion as his chest twisted with guilt. 

With his helmet on, he felt nothing. For the first few moments, he didn’t even understand what was going on as you gasped for air, struggling to form a word as you choked on each breath. Jason had no clue what the substance was or how he could fix it, looking on in horror as thick fog clouded around your ankles - your eyes bulging out of your head as you struggled for oxygen. 

“Y/N?” Jason gasped, holding you by both shoulders as you became weaker and leaned on him. “Y/N?” 

You couldn’t answer him. 

You continued to wheeze, your breath hitching against your throat harshly. As the fog reached up to touch your face, it left angry, blistering marks in your skin. Unlike Jason, you had no armor to protect yourself - and somehow, Crane had turned the air itself acidic. Your eyes became wrecked with bloody red streaks and your face swelled as you continued to choke. 

Jason’s insides screamed, but he felt too still. 

As more of the fog touched you, some of the marks on your neck and your cheek blistered more and opened up, bleeding out pinkish bubbling puss as Jason continued to hold you - he didn’t know what else to do. 

All he could do was hold you. 

A harsh foam seeped out of your mouth as you choked on your last half-breath, and Jason felt a stinging pain consuming him - he wasn’t sure if it was the acidic fog finally breaching through his clothing, or the biting pain of having you limp in his arms - dead, as he huddled there on the floor. 

“Come on.” Jason wept, steaming up the inside of his helmet as he recycled back his own breath now. He reached up to your cheek, accidentally skimming off a layer of your marred skin with his gloved thumb as he tried to wipe away some of the teary blood that had leaked from your eyes. “Come on, Y/N. Wake up.” 

Jason simply wept. And he held you. 

As he looked at the camera feed, Crane smiled. 

“This is what happens when you don’t play by the rules, Red.”

...

A/N: SOOOO obviously this ending leaves us with a lot of questions - did Jason survive? I think this can be interpreted one of two ways: one, Jason did live. He managed to escape somehow, and he had scars all over his body from the acidic fog, and he enacted a very vicious, bloody, torturous revenge on Crane before going into hiding forever (or before using Red Hood to give actual justice to innocent people who needed it, his scars always a reminder of who he lost). Or - he sat there in shock and eventually choked to death as well. Or he pulled the whole 'my life is not worth living anymore' thing and just took off his helmet on purpose. So you can imagine that either of those things happened next.

Also, if you didn't catch it (or, if you're not a Saw person) - this situation was heavily inspired by the final plot twist trap in Saw X. I love the acidic fog, and I feel like Crane could be a trap guy. The Titans version of Crane could be good friends with John, imo.

Also, if you enjoyed this fic, check out my DC Titans Masterlist for more of my other fics!! And please consider reblogging and commenting on this fic to tell me what you liked about it.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 3/18/2025

in which we read a lesbian romance where the highs are pretty fuckin good and the lows are not so pretty good

listening: the giver by chappell roan

reading: a bella books update, but mostly Beautiful Journey by Kenna White

watching: fallow week

playing: genshin (!) and Pokémon

making: garden update, rit dye bounty

listening

new single out. i want to hear this in EVERY commercial this summer

-

reading

special shoutout to a blazed tumblr post that led me to Haden Cross’ Uncontinented Stars, a queer moby-dick retelling. before you dismiss it out of hand here are some of my thoughts about how it neatly avoids some common queer retelling pitfalls

in this gay and lesbian romance project, i really think (one of) my (big) problem(s) is with Bella Books specifically as a publisher and their lack of quality control or editing assistance, but we are closer to done with them. with the bella and naiad conglomerate, i have two books of short stories (one naiad one bella, neither with covers i can take to work) and two more naiad originals after this. i will be breaking them up into three weeks in between kim baldwins (the insane lesbian bunker mercenary one i enjoyed).

three up this week: could not finish the one on the left due to a printing error with random missing pages, could not finish the one on the right bc of a hard-out trigger.

this is Kenna White’s Beautiful Journey, a 2008 Bella Books original (not acquired from Naiad), 276p softcover with a worse than usual application of glue to the perfect bound binding.

Kit Anderson is determined to make a difference. All around her the Battle for Britain is raging, and ferrying factory-fresh airplanes to combat bases makes excellent use of her skills as flight lieutenant for the British Women’s Air Transport Auxiliary. An American in southern England, she is undaunted by war. It’s safer than love.

The talented aviatrix could fly a crippled craft through a thunderstorm without a compass and find her way home, so it is singularly disconcerting to find herself flying in circles around Emily Mills, a too young, too attractive and too abrasive British literature teacher. Even though Emily’s grandmother is Lady Marble, it’s a time of war and scarcity and Emily needs work. Kit offers to help her find a job on the air base—and as is often true, no good deed goes unpunished.

i had zero expectations from a bella books book (and there were still a handful of misspellings and formatting glitches) but on a scene by scene level, White is excellent at setting a scene and making it come fully alive with a sort of forties wartime romcom slapstick vibe. in the back half there’s a very good very coen brothers scene with ornery pig farming lesbians, married for twenty-eight years, who (after holding her at shotgunpoint and wanting to see the American label in her American silk underwear) help Kit get her plane out of a field after an emergency landing and some intergenerational bonding. to which she gifts them her silk parachute as an anniversary present. there’s a great dramatic romantic set piece during a daytime air raid in London, where they flee a claustrophobic, unhygenic tube station and shelter outdoors in an alcove (very stupid). a big dramatic kiss to comfort someone and distract them from a panic attack. that sort of thing.

contains one of the worst reactions to a first orgasm i have ever read: i texted my bestie in horror “American lesbian successfully seduced British lesbian (found out she was a virgin, got her clothes off) and after she made the British lesbian come the British lesbian BURST INTO TEARS AND RAN OFF INTO THE NIGHT” HELLO??? EMILY WHAT??? while this is a BONKERS thing to do in real life i must applaud this specific bella book for making me go HELLO??? in this way and not in frustration bc i want something! anything! to happen. good decisions are out interesting decisions are in etc. bella books sets SUCH a low bar.

also contains straight up one of the most effective scenes ive read in this project so far, that made me tear up AT WORK:

the book has a very water-themed series of mishaps (walks in on Kit while she’s having a bath, drenches her with dirty water from a kitchen pot, doesn’t set the brake on a truck and Kit has to drop flat in the mud for the truck not to run her over, Kit ends up going back in the rain to rescue Emily from a thunderstorm, Kit rescues Emily from a river overrunning its banks, at least one more thing i can’t recall). this is a pretty amusing lesbian getting-you-wet schtick without doing a russo brothers HEY IM GETTING YOU WET. GET IT? WE FUCK NOW? and does supply some believable friction for the “why can’t they be together NOW” question. they can’t be together now bc emily is a walking disaster.

unfortunately i think this book is much weaker in the last third of the relationship, and the way they resolved their misunderstanding from an accidental eavesdrop felt like it could be very forties romantic drama in the eventual film adaptation, but felt very flimsy as a modern reader. i hope that makes sense. wretched ending, i did NOT enjoy the Kit spanking Emily scene to get her to confess why she broke up with her in the LAST THREE PAGES. it felt very strange when they were so focused on being soft and gentle for the rest of the book, and i don’t think that’s a good place to rebuild a relationship on.

yes, and the sex?

certainly better than all of the other bella books sex scenes: three? i think? with one nearly a full chapter long. i wish some of the word choice (eg “honey path”) was different. i think White’s strength is in groups conferring amongst each other and establishing non-romantic relationships, but she’s good at making me invested in them because they have so much frustration to overcome and have to establish a friendship beachhead before they can get to anything romantic.

by far the best bella book with some really standout individual scenes, but still a very mixed bag. i will probably keep it on the strength of that shortbread passage alone bc. OOF. i think it was worth slogging through the bella/naiad books for that.

-

watching

rare fallow week! hopefully i will sort myself out as i get used to working in person and need less completely silent floor time. hopefully.

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playing

no news on the desktop front unforch BUT i did finally have a phone upgrade tick around and good god. going from an iPhone 12 to a 16 plus is insane. this thing is enormous. i get WHY genshin makes a billion dollars a year on mobile bc this looks sick but my god do i prefer mouse and keyboard. i feel a billion years old. i am glad i can get in and do my dailies and some events but i am nowhere near confident enough to do like. the fighting part of the fighting game. anyway, get a load of this guy and his thigh high demonias

with this guy the only other guy i really really want is pink fox lady Yae Miko. and woman of mystery Skirk. whenever the fuck she drops. so glad i was grinding before my pc died lol bc i dropped three mil in-game currency on making sure my beautiful sad man has maxed artifacts maxed weapon and talents to 8/10. he would be totally maxed but i have One! ONE! boss drop left and can’t quite clinch it yet on mobile. i may have to drop the difficulty level down as far as it will go :( i cannot git gud :(

but get a load of this other guy!

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making

continuing battles with the insane microclimate on my balcony, which is extremely hot and dry yet i am constantly battling drainage issues and a fungal damping-off issue, where seedlings wither at the base before they get their first true leaves. also having a strange issue with things simply not coming up: the purple bush beans and lettuce mix i bought last year, and half the marigolds i bought this year don’t want to sprout At All even in a damp paper towel in a baggie. they’ve been kept in the cool and dark. so what gives.

however, the nearly six year old butternut squash seeds @shiny-good-rock sent me at the beginning of the pandemic? all four of those babies came up. while they sort themselves out into something photogenic, behold my beautiful little satellite array of nasturtiums. they need to be moved around a bit so they all have breathing room but that’s a problem for future kay

and finally, i so rarely enter giveaways but i entered one on Instagram and got a stupid mchugelarge box FULL of rit dye!!! i am going to commit so many synthetic crimes. gorls THRILLED by big box and so much paper

[kharla-k]

Ending a Grand Overture

Seige's, Vina's, Alexandrina Victoria's story in Ending a Grand Overture, is a legitimately interesting, if dry story that covers post-war recovery and setting up a new system of governance, and the pitfalls and struggles that come with that. I appreciate that type of story, of covering how the Dukes power struggle despite the objectively more important events, of how Vina plans to try and handle matters, avoiding power, and trying to allocate more of her time to her friends.

I think that Allerdale, Milliscar, is an intriguing, fascinating character, and her relationship with Vina something I desperately want to see more of. I yearn to see their meeting, some angsty, tearful confrontation that I hope ends in wonderful resolution and heavily implied romance. (GO-8 After:)

Catherine. That's all that needs saying.

The scene between Vina and Matthew is one that I can picture crystal clearly in my mind, a phenomenal moment that truly tests Vina's character, briefly bringing her back to Siege from the exhaustion and emotional duress of the situation. It does a great job at showing that she was still originally a gang leader, and that everyone is human, and fallible. That sometimes there are no solutions, and the things you're trying just won't work fast enough. (GO-5 Before:)

Everything around is pushing her, looking for guidance, direction, stability. Pushing her towards things that she loathes to consider herself. Making her accept decisions and compromises she doesn't want to. Multiple factions, all people with varying levels of trust in her. The exemplars, the soldiers, the civilians, the factory workers, all with different needs and wants that she has to try and help meet. It's a veritable crucible of character development, with an excellent set of antagonists in the predatory and scheming Dukes, and natural pressures of the now widely infected populace. Ultimately; a very promising setting.

While this event certainly had struggles outside of its own control, primarily being the follow up to Chapter 14, I believe that its done an effective enough job to warrant future explorations of its plotline and seeing it play out. I'm legitimately excited to see where it goes next.

[annathefenecfox]

How did Dogman and Petey become a couple?(Dogman 2 theory)

A year after the incident with the Beasty Buildings, Dogman and Petey became friends, but they did not know that they had not exactly friendly feelings for each other. Petey gives Dogman his invention, the "Talking Collar 2000", thanks to which Dogman can speak like a human, after this gift, Dogman asked Petey to call him Greg, since he is now his friend.

Meanwhile, the Mayor enters the secret place where the cats are located and manipulates them by knowing that cats are inferior creatures, they cannot walk calmly through the streets, to the store, etc. They have to hide all the time to avoid getting into the cat jail. The mayor offers them a contract: they help her kill Dogman, and in return she increases their status.

The mayor and the cats are trying to frame Petey, and even though it wasn't the first time, they did it. Petey is put in a cat jail, and Dogman takes Li'l Petey under his care.

That night, Li’l Petey is abducted, Dogman finds a note written in Petey's handwriting, which says that he escaped again and took Li’l Petey to his secret laboratory.

Dogman, Chief, and Sarah go to Petey's lab, and Dogman asks them both to stand outside until he gives them a signal.

Dogman enters the laboratory, and saw something he did not expect to see at all, Petey and Li’l Petey were tied up and held by 2 cats hummocks. The mayor came up to the dog from behind and stabbed him in the back.

Petey asks the Mayor to cure him and then he will joins her, she initially refuses him, because her plan was to kill Dogman, but after several prayers from Petey, she agrees.

Petey tries to cure Dogman, but Dogman asks him not to, while apologizing for not believing him, Petey forgives him.

A dying Dogman sets a fire in Petey's lab, and Petey takes him and Li’l Petey and they run out of the building to safety.

Dogman and Petey confess their love for each other, but Dogman dies in Petey's clutches. The Chief and Sarah find them and are scared that Dogman is dead, Petey says they can arrest him, but first save Dogman. Chief remembers about the living spray and they run to the factory.

They spray Dogman and he comes to life. After that, Dogman and Petey became a couple, and after a while they got married altogether.

PS: I'm not sure if Dreamworks will bring up the LGBT topic, because as far as I understand, they only joke about these topics, and they're not going to make gay couples directly. But I'm sure that in part 2, Petey will completely abandon the status of a villain.