#concrete fixing bolts

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

👍 Wedge anchor All production processes are inside our factory

[rathod-24]

Anchor Bolt Fixing Services in Maharashtra | Chemical Anchor 9923437177

[keehomania]

act a fool — rcm (18+)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ smut, fluff, slowburn, swearing, fast & furious elements, reckless driving, drunk driving, enemies to lovers, gun use, crashout!rafe, kook/pogue dynamic, eventual smut, minors dni, drop! 2 fast, drop! 2 furious

there was a world on the island that went beyond the surface-level rivalry between the rich and the poor, one that thrived off something the two tribes both loved, made into a competition. a good alternator, lubrication, a solid engine—things that led to the adrenaline rush they couldn't get from their gas station beer or firing their dad’s gun. it was the wind in their hair and the money they knew they’d get from it if they were good enough.

you had moved to outer banks when you first heard the rumors, striking up your fancy as you pondered finally being able to live up to your father’s name. he had made a name for himself when he was your age, on that very island, and you were determined to honor it as much as you could. he was what the islanders considered a pogue, and so were you. you weren’t ashamed of it—it was just the way things were. and you weren’t ashamed of him either.

“that’s good, guys. right there,” you said, your voice carrying over the low hum of conversation and the clang of tools against metal. workers shuffled around the shop, hoisting equipment into place and unrolling cords across the smooth concrete floor. the building was nothing fancy—cinderblock walls painted a clean white and a pair of garage doors wide enough to fit the biggest cars on the island—but it stood out amidst the weathered, sun-bleached shops and homes that made up the cut. that was the point. it needed to catch their eye, needed to show them that even a pogue could make something worth noticing.

the smell of fresh paint mingled with the faint tang of oil and grease, scents that already felt like home. a sleek hydraulic lift sat in one corner, freshly bolted into place, while a row of shiny toolboxes lined the back wall. you’d spent months saving for those, cutting corners wherever you could, taking extra shifts at the docks, and bartering favors to make it happen. now, they gleamed like trophies.

your gaze drifted to the wall above the toolboxes, where you’d hung a photo in a simple black frame. it was an old shot, the colors slightly faded—a younger version of you standing beside your father, both of you grinning ear to ear with a grease-streaked hood open behind you. he’d always said, “it doesn't matter if it's by an inch, or by a mile—winning is winning,” and you’d carried those words like a mantra, applying them not just to the races but to everything else in life. fixing cars, building this shop—it didn’t matter how long it took or how many setbacks you faced. progress was progress.

you smiled faintly as you brushed a bit of dust off the frame, imagining the way his eyes would light up if he saw what you’d built. he’d be proud, you were sure of it.

“hey, boss, where’d you want this?” one of the workers called out, interrupting your thoughts. he was holding a heavy-duty air compressor, shifting his weight under its bulk.

“over there, by the second bay,” you directed, pointing toward the far end of the shop where a workstation was slowly coming together. a workbench stood half-assembled, and you could already envision it cluttered with tools and parts, the heart of the operation.

as they hauled the compressor into place, you moved to another corner where a small office space had been carved out. the desk was secondhand, its surface worn and scratched, but you’d given it a fresh coat of varnish that brought out the grain of the wood. a laptop and a stack of invoices sat neatly on top, alongside a mug that still smelled faintly of the coffee you’d downed that morning.

outside, the rumble of engines drifted through the open garage doors, reminding you why you were doing this. the underground racing scene was cutthroat, a place where the line between rivalries and respect blurred in the haze of burning rubber and roaring engines. you’d need every edge you could get, and this shop was going to be your base, your sanctuary, and your weapon all at once. satisfied with the progress, you stepped back to take it all in. the shop wasn’t finished yet, but it was getting there.

it was hard to snap you out of your thoughts, but an unfamiliar voice had done its job.

“this your shop?”

you cocked your head to the right, meeting the friendly gaze of a man you didn’t recognize. he looked to be in his early twenties, taller than you, with tan skin, sun-bleached blond hair, and arms that suggested he spent more time surfing than doing anything car-related.

“yeah,” you replied coolly, the edge in your tone natural. “getting there.”

he took a step forward, his gaze sweeping over the shop with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “no kidding,” he said, grinning wide enough to light up the room. “the cut doesn’t have any good mechanics. shitty parts, shitty people. i was getting my dodge fixed the other day, and the guy was totally drunk…”

he kept talking, his words tumbling out one after another, like he couldn’t stop himself. you guessed it was nerves—the way he kept glancing around, his hands fidgeting in his pockets.

“shit, i’m sorry,” he said abruptly, realization dawning on his face. he stopped in his tracks and ran a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “i’m jj maybank. sorry for rambling.”

you didn’t know anyone on the island yet, and he seemed harmless enough, with a disarming charm that wasn’t exactly unwelcome. you extended your hand. “nice to meet you, (y/n) (l/n).”

his handshake was firm but friendly, his smile genuine as he asked, “you a racer? mechanic?”

“whatever i wanna be,” you replied with a casual shrug.

jj’s grin widened, impressed by your confidence. “i like your enthusiasm.”

he stepped further into the shop, his curiosity getting the better of him as he started to examine everything. he crouched to inspect the hydraulic lift, nodded in approval at the toolboxes, and paused by the engine stand, where a half-dismantled v8 waited for your attention.

“what’re you doing to this one?” he asked, gesturing toward the engine.

“rebuilding it,” you replied without missing a beat. “block had a crack, so i welded it. now i’m just replacing the camshaft and lifters.”

jj blinked, clearly surprised. “you did the welding yourself?”

“yeah. why?”

he let out a low whistle, his admiration obvious. “most people would’ve scrapped it, don’t you know?”

you smirked but didn’t respond, letting him wander through the shop. he asked more questions as he went, quizzing you about everything from the tuning process to the differences between turbochargers and superchargers. you answered each question easily, and his impressed nods became more frequent. when he reached the back wall, he stopped abruptly, his eyes landing on the photo of your father. he stepped closer, studying it with reverence.

“you’ve met him?” he asked, his voice quieter, almost awed. “dude’s like my hero.”

tension settled in the air as you replied, your voice steady but firm, “well, i’d hope so. dude’s like my dad.”

jj turned to you, his mouth slightly open, his expression stunned. “you’re joking.”

you folded your arms, your gaze steady. “dead serious.”

“bullet?” he asked, his voice rising. “the bullet? your dad?”

you nodded, the weight of the moment pressing down on you thanks to the rather spontaneous topic. but it was gonna come up at some point, you knew that. jj looked back at the photo, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “that’s insane. he was a legend. the races, the cars, everything. i mean, he’s the reason i even started racing in the first place.”

“he’s the reason i came here,” you said quietly, your eyes flicking to the photo. “wanted to honor his name. his legacy. that’s why i started this shop.”

jj was silent for a moment, clearly processing everything. his mind was working—though you could tell it didn’t happen often—until something lit up in his eyes. when jj maybank got a good idea, it wasn’t often, but it was always worth considering.

“what if,” he started, pausing to make sure you were listening. “what if you drove with the pogues?”

you blinked, caught off guard. “drove with you?”

“yeah,” he said eagerly, the excitement building in his voice. “we’re always looking for drivers, and with what you know? you’d be perfect. plus, your dad’s reputation alone would make waves.”

you thought about it, letting the weight of the opportunity settle over you. your father’s voice echoed in your mind, reminding you that he’d always been one to take a chance. winning is winning. finally, you nodded. “i’m in.”

jj had spent the next hour perched on the edge of a worn metal table, watching you in silence. his gaze tracked every movement of your hands as you worked on the motorcycle in front of you, the harsh fluorescent lights of the shop casting a sharp glow over the sleek black paint. he was fascinated, though he tried not to make it too obvious.

the motorcycle wasn’t anything special—just a kawasaki with a busted fuel pump you’d been hired to fix. you’d dismantled it with expert precision, the kind that made even jj, someone who lived for speed, pause in appreciation.

“that’s not your ride, is it?” he finally asked, unable to hold back his curiosity.

you clicked your tongue in mild irritation at the interruption, but your answer was sharp and clear. “not a fan of anything with two wheels. only use them if i have to.”

“so what is your ride?”

you glanced up at him, smirking. “in the back.”

jj raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “wanna show me?”

you finished tightening the bolts on the fuel pump, wiped your hands on a nearby rag, and straightened up. “sure. why not?”

he hopped off the table, following you eagerly as you wheeled the motorcycle into place and locked up the shop. when you led him to the garage at the back, he couldn’t hide the anticipation bubbling beneath the surface. his mind raced with possibilities. a supra? a skyline? he had already started placing bets with himself. whatever it was, he could already tell it’d be something worth seeing.

the garage door groaned in protest as you unlocked it and slid it open. the smell of oil and gasoline hit him first, but his attention snapped to the vehicle parked in the center of the space.

“no fucking way,” he exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer. his hands hovered over the car, reverent, before finally making contact. “camaro?”

you nodded, leaning casually against the garage wall, watching him with amusement. “z/28,” you clarified.

“but the z/28 isn’t supposed to be out yet,” he said, his voice full of disbelief. “not until next year.”

you shrugged, smirking. “rules don’t apply to everyone, maybank. what’d you think?”

jj turned to you, his eyes wide and pleading, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. he didn’t have to say a word for you to understand what he was asking.

“you wanna take her for a spin, don’t you?” you teased.

he nodded furiously, and you couldn’t help but laugh as you tossed him the keys. “don’t wreck it,” you called after him as you slid into the passenger seat. “you’ll owe me an eight-second car if you do.”

he didn’t need any more encouragement. the engine roared to life as he turned the key, the deep, guttural sound filling the small garage. he gripped the wheel with a wide grin, barely containing his excitement. the camaro tore out of the driveway and onto the street, its tires screeching as he pushed the gas pedal to the floor. the car was smooth, powerful, and perfect—a beast on wheels.

“holy shit,” jj breathed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “this thing is unreal.”

“told you,” you replied, smirking as you leaned back in your seat, your eyes on the road. “handles like a dream, doesn’t it?”

“more than a dream. gotta be in heaven or some shit.”

he shifted gears with practiced ease, the camaro responding to every command as though it was an extension of himself. the wind whipped through the open windows, and the sound of the engine reverberated in your chest. the drive to the pogues’ shop didn’t take long, though jj seemed to savor every second of it. when he pulled up, the building came into view—a far cry from your setup.

the shop was rough around the edges, just like the pogues themselves. the walls were made of weathered wood, the roof patched in places where time and storms had taken their toll. a rusted sign hung crookedly above the door, reading “outer banks auto parts.” the front yard was littered with old car parts and broken tools, a makeshift graveyard for vehicles long since stripped for parts.

jj parked the camaro carefully, as if it was made of glass, before jumping out and grinning at you. “welcome to paradise,” he said with a laugh, gesturing toward the shop. you stepped out, taking in the scene. it was rural, gritty, and undeniably pogue, but there was something charming about it. something real. something your father would have respected.

yoy let your gaze drift over the pogues’ shop, taking in its rough exterior and cluttered front yard. the place had character, you’d give it that—old wooden walls bleached gray by the sun, mismatched patches on the tin roof, and rusted car parts scattered around like they were part of the decor. it was the polar opposite of your shop, but it felt honest in a way that was hard to ignore.

“this is nice,” you said after a moment. “real earthy.”

jj rolled his eyes, smirking. “it’s okay, you can be mean. i can take it.”

you shrugged, letting a sly grin play on your lips. “alright, it’s pretty shitty. but it’s practical.”

“damn straight it is,” he laughed, walking around to your side of the car and gesturing for you to follow him inside.

the moment you stepped into the shop, you felt like you didn’t belong. the interior was as mismatched as the outside—a haphazard mix of tools, parts, and personal touches that somehow worked. it wasn’t the mess that made you feel out of place, though; it was the dynamic. you could tell right away that these people were a family, and you were the outsider walking into their world.

“guys!” jj called, his voice echoing in the small space. “got someone you need to meet!”

the group turned toward you, their expressions a mix of curiosity and friendliness.

“this is john b,” he started, clapping a hand on the shoulder of a tall guy with messy hair and an easy smile. “our fearless leader, or something like that, kind of glazing him.”

the man grinned and offered you his hand, “nice to meet you.”

“and that’s sarah, his girlfriend,” jj continued, gesturing to the blonde girl beside john b. she had a warm, welcoming smile that immediately put you at ease.

“hey,” she said, stepping forward and giving you a quick hug. “it’s great to meet you.”

“over here, we’ve got pope,” jj said, nodding to a guy who was leaning over a disassembled engine, his hands covered in grease. “he’s the brains of the operation. technical genius.”

pope looked up, wiping his hands on a rag and offering you a firm handshake. “nice to meet you. you a racer or a mechanic?”

“both,” you said with a small smile.

pope raised an eyebrow, impressed. “good to know. we could use someone with your skills around here.”

“and this is cleo, pope’s girlfriend,” jj said, pointing to a girl with short, dark hair and a sharp, confident demeanor.

“finally, another girl around here,” cleo said with a grin. “it’s a relief, i tell you. what’s your pick?”

before you could answer, jj jumped in. “that’s the best part. she’s not just a racer or a mechanic. her dad, dude? her dad was bullet.” the room fell silent.

“that’s not funny, j,” john b said after a moment, running a hand through his hair in disbelief.

“it’s true,” you said, your voice steady. “he’s the reason i’m here. wanted to honor his name and his legacy.” the weight of your words settled over the group, their expressions shifting from shock to admiration.

kiara, who had been quiet until now, smiled and crossed her arms. “well, it’s a good thing you’re here, then. our cars are busted to hell, and we don’t have enough hands to fix them.”

pope nodded in agreement, his brow furrowed in thought. “think you’re up for it?”

jj scoffed, rolling his eyes. “what kind of question is that? did you see the babe she rolled up in?”

sarah exchanged a glance with pope before turning back to you, curiosity lighting up her eyes. “okay, i have to ask. what do you ride?”

you pointed to the camaro parked outside, its bright orange paint gleaming in the sunlight.

“no way,” john b said, walking to the door to get a better look.

“bless your heart,” sarah said, pulling you into another hug.

the guys crowded around your camaro like kids at a candy store, their voices blending into an excited buzz. they ran their hands over the sleek orange paint, marveling at the flawless bodywork and muttering about its specs. you let them admire it, knowing the car deserved every ounce of awe it was getting. instead, you leaned back against the shop wall, folding your arms as the girls joined you.

“that’s some ride you got there,” kiara said, her tone more genuine than envious. her sharp features softened slightly as she looked between you and the camaro.

“thanks,” you replied, watching the boys from the corner of your eye. “seems like it’s already making an impression.”

she laughed lightly. “you came at the perfect time. we’ve got a big one coming up tonight.”

her words piqued your interest immediately. “big one?” you echoed, tilting your head.

sarah and cleo exchanged knowing glances before sarah leaned in slightly. “the kooks,” she said with a mix of irritation and anticipation. “we’re supposed to race them again tonight.”

you furrowed your brow, intrigued by her tone. “tonight?”

“yup,” kiara answered, a flicker of disdain crossing her face. “they’ve got their shiny cars and their squeaky-clean reputations, but they’re dirty as hell when it comes to racing.”

“they can race up front,” cleo added, nodding toward the shop’s door, “since they’ve got the cops under their thumb. us?” she gestured around dramatically. “we’ve got to be more lowkey. hence the shop.”

your gaze wandered to the garage’s cluttered interior and then back to them. “what’s the winning streak like?”

the girls shared a look that told you everything you needed to know before sarah even said, “not great.”

“not great?” you pressed, arching a brow.

kiara let out a frustrated sigh. “the kooks have everything. better cars, better drivers, and they don’t play fair. we’re lucky if we finish a race without something going wrong.”

“or someone crashing,” cleo added pointedly.

sarah’s expression darkened slightly. “especially when rafe’s involved.”

“rafe?” you repeated.

“my brother,” she admitted reluctantly, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment.

“wait, hold on,” you said, straightening up. “your brother races against you?”

she nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “some people call him crash. others go with crashout. he’s—let’s just say he’s a dirty racer with a good car.”

the nickname didn’t ring any bells for you, and you shook your head. “never heard of him.”

sarah looked both relieved and mortified at the same time. “well, consider yourself lucky. he’s dangerous, and not just on the track.”

“not to mention a total asshole,” cleo muttered under her breath, earning a small laugh from kiara.

“where’s this race happening?” you asked, leaning forward slightly, intrigued.

kiara stepped in to explain. “figure eight. there’s a parking lot on prairie avenue between a few streets. that’s where everyone meets up. people bring their cars, check each other out, and if they’re feeling bold, they race.”

“and the problem?” you asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

“our cars are in the worst shape imaginable,” kiara admitted, her voice heavy with frustration.

you couldn’t help but grin. “well, good thing i’m here.”

the three girls looked at you, surprised by the confidence in your tone. “you’re really gonna help us?” sarah asked, her voice tentative but hopeful.

“yeah,” you said with a small nod, letting your eyes drift back to your camaro. “bring your cars to the shop tomorrow, and i’ll see what i can do.” the relief on their faces was evident, but you weren’t done. you hesitated for just a second, then added with a smirk, “but on one condition.”

cleo raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “what’s that?”

“we race tonight,” you said firmly, your gaze fixed on your camaro as the sun glinted off its polished surface.

the heat was relentless, even as the sun dipped lower, casting an amber glow over the dusty road. you could feel it seeping into every fiber of your clothing, making the denim of your shorts crease uncomfortably against your skin. the humidity clung to you like a second layer, and you tugged at the flap of your tank top, attempting to let even the smallest breath of air cool you down.

your thighs stuck together with every shift of your legs against the seat, and you found yourself leaning forward slightly, hoping the breeze coming through the open window would offer some relief. it didn’t, not really, but you were too focused on the directions pope was giving you to care too much. “left up here, then just keep going straight for a bit,” he said from the backseat, his voice steady and sure.

your hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel as you nodded, your eyes scanning the road ahead. each turn brought you closer to the meeting spot, and the thought of the race waiting for you settled like a heavy weight in your chest. jj sat beside you, his elbow propped against the window as he stared ahead—or at least he was supposed to be staring ahead. instead, his eyes kept darting to you.

he knew he should be focused on what was coming: the race, the cars, the adrenaline of it all. but sitting this close to you, he found himself completely distracted.

the way your tan lines peeked out from under your tank top, hinting at just how much time you’d spent in the sun. the way your shorts seemed to live up to their name, riding up just enough to make his throat dry. and then there was the sheen of sweat on your neck, trickling down to disappear under your shirt, making him lick his lips absentmindedly as he tried to focus on anything but how good you looked. It wasn’t working.

“you sure you’re cool with racing?” sarah’s voice broke through the tension, her words directed at you from the backseat where she leaned comfortably against john b’s chest.

you glanced at her briefly in the rearview mirror before returning your focus to the road. “why wouldn’t i be?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral.

she shrugged, though the concern in her voice remained. “they could put you up against rafe, for all you know. he doesn’t exactly play fair.”

your stomach churned slightly at the thought. you weren’t afraid of racing—not in the slightest. losing didn’t scare you either. but being humiliated by someone like rafe cameron? a dirty racer with too much confidence and too little morality? that was a whole other story. you swallowed the knot forming in your throat and shrugged one shoulder, keeping your gaze firmly ahead as the scenery began to shift. the buildings thinned out, replaced by open stretches of road and the occasional cluster of trees.

“we’ll see,” you said simply, your voice steady despite the unease twisting in your gut. it was all you could manage.

as the city gave way to open roads, you began to notice a shift in the atmosphere. people, crowds. they were scattered along the sides of the road, gathering near the parking lot pope had mentioned. the thrum of engines filled the air, a low hum that vibrated through your chest and sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. there was no turning back now.

the meeting was unlike anything you had imagined. cars were everywhere, of all makes and models, their glossy exteriors illuminated by the flickering streetlights overhead. the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber mixed with the salty tang of the sea breeze, a stark reminder of the island setting. music blasted from several vehicles, creating a chaotic symphony that drowned out the distant crash of waves.

people milled about in groups, leaning against cars or crouching near open hoods, talking shop or simply passing time. they ranged from sun-kissed surfers in board shorts to mechanics with grease-stained hands, and even the occasional tourist drawn in by the allure of rebellion. this wasn’t just a car meet—it was a full-blown spectacle. you had never seen anything like it on such a small island.

guided by pope's directions, you navigated the camaro into an open space, sliding it neatly beside a sleek motorcycle. the rumble of the engine ceased, leaving an almost deafening silence in its absence. you exhaled deeply, your fingers lingering on the steering wheel before glancing over at jj, who was already grinning like he owned the place.

“let’s go, hotshot,” he teased, nudging your shoulder.

with a roll of your eyes, you pushed the door open, stepping out into the crisp night air. it was a relief against your overheated skin, instantly making the effort of the journey feel worth it. you stretched your legs, groaning softly as the ache from sitting too long set in. leaning against the hood, you extended one leg at a time, trying to shake the feeling back into them.

“my legs are killing me,” you muttered, leaning back as you let your body relax against the car’s warm surface.

jj chuckled, already fishing something out of his pocket. a small flick of a lighter revealed the joint he’d pulled free, and he tucked it between his lips with practiced ease. he took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl around his lips before catching the look on your face.

“what?” he asked, his grin lazy. “cops won’t be here for a while. might as well relax.”

you narrowed your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. when he passed the joint to you, you didn’t hesitate, taking it between your fingers and mimicking his earlier drag. the burn was sharp, and the faint haze that followed was just enough to steady your nerves. as you passed it back, you began to notice the shift in attention around you. whispers spread through the crowd, heads turning toward the camaro with curious gazes. it wasn’t just because of the car—it was because of you.

the pogues showing up at a meet like this wasn’t exactly uncommon, but showing up in a ride like this? that was unheard of.

one gaze, in particular, lingered longer than the others. it belonged to a tall, lean man with blond hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow under the streetlights. his stance was rigid, his jaw clenched, and his expression was a mixture of confusion and unbridled fury. you met his gaze head-on, your lips curling into a subtle smirk as you passed the joint back to jj.

“whose ride is it?” the man’s voice rang out, cutting through the chatter like a knife. conversations died instantly, leaving the air heavy with tension. “whose fucking ride is it?”

john b and jj exchanged a glance, both clearly ready to jump in and defend you, but you weren’t about to let anyone fight this battle for you.

“why?” you called back, your tone laced with casual confidence. “you like her?”

the man’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sneer as he stepped closer. “enough to know no damn pogue should be driving her,” he spat.

he stopped just a foot away, his presence looming. the girl clinging to his arm tightened her grip, her gaze flickering nervously between the two of you.

“that might be an issue,” you mused, feigning worry as you stepped away from the car. your smirk only deepened. “she’s all mine.”

the murmurs around you grew louder, and the man’s scowl deepened. he scanned the camaro like it was something out of place, something that didn’t belong—much like you.

“never seen you around before,” he said finally, his tone low and clipped. “yet here you are, driving a car that shouldn’t even be out yet. what’s your game?”

his question hung in the air like a challenge, his blue eyes boring into yours with an intensity that demanded submission. for a split second, you wavered, but then your gaze caught sarah’s in the crowd. her wide eyes and subtle shake of the head told you all you needed to know. that was him. that was rafe cameron.

“i’m here to race,” you said, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach. “what about you?”

gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd, the shock obvious. someone challenging rafe—crash—was a rare sight. doing so with such blatant confidence? absolutely unheard of.

rafe’s smirk returned, cruel and condescending as he turned to glance at his friends. “shit, almost feels mean, y’know?” he drawled. the smirk vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cold, predatory look. “but i guess you’re asking for it, yeah?”

you shrugged, refusing to let him see even a hint of the unease simmering beneath your calm exterior. pulling your wallet from your back pocket, you thumbed through the bills inside before pulling out a neat stack.

“three grand sound okay?”

jj and john b’s heads whipped toward you, their expressions a mix of disbelief and panic. “dude, you sure she’s not a dealer?” john b muttered under his breath, earning a smirk from jj.

rafe’s eyebrows shot up, surprised but clearly pleased by the amount. he reached out to take the cash, his smirk returning. “just kissing your minimum wage money goodbye,” he taunted.

you held his gaze, unflinching as you replied, “we’ll see.”

the moment the crowd began to gather around your camaro, a sense of tension hung in the air, thick and uneasy. every movement you made felt magnified—your every touch, every glance, being scrutinized by dozens of curious eyes. it was as if the crowd held its breath, watching not just the car but the story unfolding before them. some whispered to each other, eyes flicking between you and rafe, while others simply observed, waiting for something to happen.

kiara, standing off to the side, looked at you with concern etched across her face. her usually cool demeanor was cracked with worry. “you don’t have to do this,” she said softly, stepping closer to you, her voice filled with an unmistakable sense of care.

john b, leaning against the door, chimed in, his tone casual but tinged with unease. “yeah, seriously. this could just be a waste of money, and we don’t even know if it’s gonna be worth it.”

you could feel their eyes on you, the quiet insistence that you step back, that maybe this was too much. the worry in their voices almost made you hesitate, but you brushed it off. this wasn’t about money or the risk—it was about proving something. not to them. not to rafe. but to yourself.

without saying another word, you ignored their concerns, focusing on the task ahead. the crowd had thickened around you now, the murmurs of awe growing louder as the sleek camaro stood at the center of attention. it wasn’t just the car; it was you, the girl who’d shown up on the island with something the pogues rarely ever had—something new, something bold. you popped the hood, and the sound of the latch clicking was a signal to the crowd. you stepped forward, your fingers brushing the cold metal of the engine, making subtle adjustments as you moved with practiced ease.

“she’s really good,” sarah said from behind you, her voice laced with admiration.

rafe, standing with his friends and glaring at the scene before him, overheard the comment. he scoffed, trying to mask the flicker of doubt in his eyes. “good? please,” he muttered under his breath. in his mind, this was just another way to put the pogues in their place. if you could make it to the starting line, he figured, you’d be an easy target.

the kooks watched, standing in a small huddle, exchanging glances. but it wasn’t just the kooks you had to worry about. the crowd itself was becoming more animated, murmuring louder with every adjustment you made under the hood. jj, watching closely, exchanged a look with pope, both of them speechless at first. they couldn’t believe it—not in a million years. they thought they knew you, thought they’d seen every side of you. but this?

“you’re kidding, right?” pope said, eyes wide with disbelief. he took a cautious step forward, clearly in awe.

jj exhaled sharply, his eyes locked on what you were doing, his voice low as he tried to comprehend what was unfolding. “that’s good thinking.”

cleo, standing off to the side, seemed confused. she glanced between the three of them, wondering what they were seeing that she wasn’t. “what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice cutting through the noise.

but it wasn’t until you clicked something into place, securing the small device under the hood, that they all saw it. your hands wiped against your thighs, brushing off the excess grease from the engine.

“nitrous oxide,” jj finally spoke, a slow grin creeping onto his face. the pride in his voice was unmistakable, his confidence swelling as he looked at the sleek system you had just attached with ease.

pope's eyes were wide with shock, the realization dawning on him. “nitrous oxide,” he repeated, his tone almost reverent now. “you’ve got nitrous in there.”

jj chuckled, his grin broadening as he leaned back slightly, watching the reactions around him. “told you she was a pro.”

the camaro’s engine thrummed under your fingertips, the steady hum vibrating through your hands as you gripped the wheel tightly. you kept your eyes darting between your friends, who were standing by, watching the tense scene unfold with a mixture of nerves and excitement. each of them looked different, their faces reflecting their worry and disbelief, but they weren’t going to stop you. not now. the three grand, all of it, was in pope’s hands, and you were past the point of no return. then there was rafe.

he sat in the blue skyline beside you, the car that seemed like it was built for something other than street racing—a car that was sleek, dangerous, and made your skin crawl just by being too close to it. the paint job was dark, almost black in the night, with a glossy sheen that made it look like it was alive. the grill at the front, sharp and angular, gave the car an aggressive stance. the rims gleamed under the streetlights, and the custom body work screamed money and power—a car meant for someone who never had to worry about getting caught.

rafe leaned back in the driver’s seat, his smirk irritatingly smug, his eyes gleaming with the confidence of someone who knew he could win. the kooks, standing on the sidelines, weren’t giving him the same level of attention they’d given you. they didn’t see you as a threat, not yet. rafe was everything they believed in—money, power, status.

he rolled down his window and glanced at you, eyes filled with disdain, the condescension oozing from his every movement. “you can still quit, walk away with some dignity,” he called, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. his smirk only deepened as he waited for your response.

you gripped the wheel harder, ignoring the slight tremor in your hands. “i’d rather walk out with three grand,” you shot back, trying to sound steady, your voice not betraying the nervousness you felt in your gut.

rafe’s smirk faltered for a moment before morphing into something darker, more sinister, like a predator sizing up its prey. he didn’t respond. the air between you thickened, charged with the bitter taste of impending tension. you couldn’t back down now.

the countdown began, and the sound of the crowd intensified, murmurs flowing like a wave through the crowd. you adjusted your grip, eyes locking on the red lights ahead, each second stretching on forever. rafe’s skyline revved beside you, his engine purring in a way that sent chills down your spine, the sound of it cutting through the night like a warning.

three.

two.

one.

the lights flickered green.

without hesitation, you slammed your foot on the pedal, the camaro lurching forward as the engine roared to life. your heart hammered against your chest as the world blurred around you, the rush of adrenaline flooding every inch of your body. you didn’t even think—your focus was singular, your vision narrowed to the street ahead of you.

but rafe wasn’t just racing. no, he had something else in mind. he took the lead, his car shooting ahead with the kind of precision that came from years of practice. you could hear the engine of his skyline growling as he sped ahead, his tires gripping the pavement with ease. his technique was flawless—he was smooth, cutting through the curves with a level of control that made it seem like he had done this a hundred times before. but you weren’t out yet.

with a fierce push, you hit the button for the nitrous, the world around you instantly transforming. the sudden surge of speed jerked your body back into the seat, the force of the gas shooting the camaro forward in an explosive burst. the crowd gasped, eyes widening as the car roared past rafe, cutting through the air like a bullet.

the street blurred past in flashes—streetlights, dark corners, distant buildings, all a streak of color and light as you shot forward. the world felt like it was moving in slow motion while your heartbeat raced to match the speed of the camaro. rafe’s skyline was already fading into the distance, his once confident smirk now replaced by the flash of surprise that barely registered before your car overtook him.

you were ahead. you could feel it, the surge of power under the hood, the tight grip of the steering wheel as you maneuvered through the streets with precision. the sounds of tires screeching, engines roaring, the shouts of the crowd—it all felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. you were in the zone. the finish line was in sight. the end was near. but then you heard it. the sirens.

your heart lurched as you glanced in the rearview mirror, your pulse spiking. flashing lights flickered in the distance—red and blue dancing in the rearview mirror. the cops. you dared a glance to the side, your eyes catching rafe’s face. his smirk was back. of course it was. he knew exactly what was coming. the kooks got away with everything. you knew that. they always did, but you? you were just a pogue. the rules didn’t apply to them.

without thinking, you swerved sharply, the tires screeching as you turned hard onto a side street, your hands working the wheel with a frantic precision. you had to get away. you couldn’t be caught. not now. not when the finish line was so close. you pushed the pedal down harder, your foot practically cemented to the accelerator as you raced down the dark streets. the cops were gaining on you, but you couldn’t afford to let them close.

a sharp turn ahead forced you to slide the car sideways, the tires barely catching the slick pavement as you shot through the intersection, narrowly avoiding a crash. the camaro’s rear end fishtailed, and you gritted your teeth, feeling the car fight against you as you struggled to regain control. but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t.

you could hear the sirens growing fainter as you swerved back onto a familiar street, the one where the race had begun. your friends were still there, waiting, watching in shock as you came into view, just barely ahead of rafe, whose skyline was left trailing behind you. you pulled up, the camaro skidding slightly as you came to a stop. your heart was still pounding, but the adrenaline rush was starting to wear off. you barely had time to catch your breath before you yanked the door open, your legs unsteady as you practically fell out of the car.

the sound of sirens was growing distant now, the cops lost in the maze of streets behind you. but you were here. you made it. and you’d won.

the cheers from the crowd echoed in your ears, but they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. you didn’t have time to celebrate, not when the unmistakable wail of sirens grew louder behind you, chasing you down like a relentless predator. the victory you’d earned so hard, the three grand, the rush of taking down rafe—it was all slipping away as quickly as it had come.

“get in!” you shouted, your voice sharp as you cut through the noise of the crowd. you didn’t have to say it twice. kiara was already jumping into the backseat, followed quickly by the others. their faces were a mix of exhilaration and concern, realizing that the win wasn’t enough to guarantee freedom. the sirens were closing in, the lights flashing bright and blinding in your rearview mirror.

the rest of the crowd was scattering now, some of them cheering as they saw the drama unfold, while others realized what was happening and fled in fear of the cops. but you weren’t going to stop. not now. not after everything.

with a quick glance at your friends, you slammed your foot back onto the pedal, the camaro roaring to life as you surged forward, the engine growling under the strain. the car seemed to leap forward, the tires screeching against the pavement as you floored it, the gas pedal an extension of your will.

jj’s voice broke through the hum of the engine, his words barely audible over the chaos. “holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” he repeated, his voice cracking with disbelief as he held onto the door, clutching anything he could find to keep steady. you could feel his body jerking with every sharp turn, the force of the acceleration pulling everyone back into their seats.

none of them had ever felt anything like it. the rush was unlike anything they’d experienced, the car’s power and the nitrous giving them a surge of speed that was intoxicating. the scenery blurred into streaks of light and dark, the world outside narrowing into a tunnel as you pushed the camaro to its limits.

“you won,” kiara said, her voice filled with awe, trying to catch her breath from the sheer force of the ride.

you didn’t respond right away. sweat dripped down your temple, stinging your eyes as you focused on the road ahead, trying to block out the flashing red and blue behind you. it didn’t matter that you’d won. not when rafe had pulled every dirty trick in the book to make sure you wouldn’t get away unscathed.

“he rigged it,” you scoffed through gritted teeth, eyes darting to the rearview mirror again. “called the pigs.”

a heavy silence washed over the group. kiara’s breath hitched in the backseat, and pope’s expression hardened, the weight of the truth sinking in. they all knew what it meant.

“he knew he was gonna lose,” sarah spoke up, her voice tinged with disbelief, though she didn’t sound surprised. she knew how rafe operated. “he called them in advance.”

your fist slammed against the steering wheel, the impact reverberating up your arm as frustration bubbled over. you should’ve seen it. you should’ve known. your victory didn’t count when the police were already on your tail, and the realization stung more than the heat of the engine. you forced yourself to focus, to block out the anger and the regret. you had to get away. the sirens were almost unbearable now, but you couldn’t let them catch you. you needed a plan, a way out.

“where to now, pope?” you asked, your voice sharp but steady, trying to keep the panic from creeping into your tone.

he leaned forward from the backseat, his face illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard. “where they won’t expect it,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension. “tannyhill.”

the sound of loud music and laughter echoed throughout the expansive, chaotic mansion, but inside the game room, a tense silence hung heavily in the air. rafe’s anger was palpable, his fists slamming onto the pool table with such force that the glassware and ashtrays scattered in all directions. his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table, his eyes narrowed in pure frustration, as beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

“dude, what the fuck’s your problem?” topper asked, leaning against the doorframe, his brows furrowed in confusion.

rafe wiped his forehead roughly, trying to shake off the burning anger that seemed to radiate from every part of him. “got the cops on her,” kelce reminded him. “she didn't win.” he could see his friend was losing it, and he wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that rafe had been outsmarted by a pogue, or that he was pissed off enough to go on a rampage.

“nah, man,” rafe growled, his fingers trembling as they pressed against the surface of the pool table. “you don’t get it.” his gaze sharpened, cold and menacing as he continued, his voice low and barely contained. “she's a pogue. shouldn't have had to call the cops in the first place.”

topper and kelce exchanged a concerned look, clearly aware that rafe’s pride had taken a hard hit, but unsure how to deal with it. kelce raised an eyebrow, pushing himself off the chair and giving rafe a sideways glance. “what’d you expect, man?” he asked, his voice carrying a touch of disbelief. “you know who her dad is.”

rafe’s attention snapped to his friend, his eyes darkening as he leaned in. “what’d you say?” his voice was a low growl, every syllable dripping with tension.

kelce didn’t flinch. “her dad, y’know? king of the road. bullet. you know, the one who used to run shit back in the day.” his words were casual, but there was a sense of finality to them. “word travels fast, bro. she came back, opened up her own auto shop, all for her pops.”

rafe froze. his fingers, still trembling, gripped the edge of the pool table, but his attention was now fixed on kelce. “bullet,” he muttered, a cold realization creeping into his voice. his mind began to race, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.

topper and kelce exchanged another glance, this time more wary than before, as they watched the slow burn of recognition in rafe’s eyes. kelce leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly as he clarified. “that bullet. not a different guy, the one you’re thinking of. the same bullet that faced ward twenty years ago.”

he paused, letting the weight of that sentence sink in, “the one who won.”

rafe’s jaw tightened, his muscles visibly tensing as the name echoed in his mind. bullet. his father’s old rival. the man who had humiliated rafe's father in a way that still stung to this day. now, the realization that your father—bullet—was the one behind you, fueling your ambition, was like a slap to the face.

rafe muttered something under his breath, a guttural sound that barely left his lips. the anger that had been boiling over now shifted into something darker, more dangerous. his eyes narrowed to slits as he dug a small bag of white powder from his pocket, the crinkling of the bag sounding too loud in the tense silence. he flipped open the bag, spilling the powder onto the pool table, his hands shaking as he used his black card to cut thin, meticulous lines.

“fuck,” he whispered under his breath as he stared at the lines. his hand trembled slightly as he rolled up a dollar bill, preparing to snort the powder. as he did, his mind began to focus, the fog of rage lifting ever so slightly, replaced by something more methodical. “i think we should,” rafe trailed off, his voice low and still shaky, the tremors not just from the drug but from something far more sinister.

he paused, his eyes fixed on his friends, who were both watching him closely. “well, rafe?” topper asked. “tell us, what's your great idea?”

“i think we should kill them all.”

the bass of the music hit you before you even stepped through the door, the pounding rhythm vibrating through your chest. it was the kind of house party that could only be thrown by someone who had too much money and too little to lose. the walls seemed to pulse with the sound of voices and laughter, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the tang of spilled drinks. people were scattered around, some lounging in the living room, others crowding the kitchen, while a few shady figures lurked in the corners, eyes darting around like they were waiting for something to go wrong.

pope, walking beside you, couldn’t help but notice the way your hands shook. it was subtle, but enough for him to notice. he glanced at you, concern written across his face. “on second thought,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, “i don’t think this is a good idea,” but you didn’t stop. it was too late now, the moment you’d stepped foot into the lion’s den. rafe was here, and the race might’ve been over, but this was far from finished.

jj trailed behind you, already making his way to the cooler in the corner, grabbing a beer. you noticed the smile on his face, the way his lips curled as if he was already relishing the thought of watching rafe squirm.

“what’re you smiling for?” you snapped, trying to steady yourself against the wave of tension that was crawling up your spine.

he shrugged, cracking open his beer. “not every day you get to see rafe cameron lose,” he said, his words carrying a hint of truth, but you knew it didn’t change the fact that rafe had played dirty. he’d made sure the victory didn’t feel real.

you barely had time to dwell on that before you heard a familiar voice. “hey!” john b called out. you turned to see him and sarah standing at the top of the stairs, grinning like they were in on some private joke. he had his arm wrapped around sarah's waist, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

“we’re gonna—well, there’s something i gotta show sarah upstairs,” he said, his voice laced with playful mischief.

jj raised his beer and threw a wink their way. “you crazy kids have fun,” he called out, his voice dripping with enthusiasm.

the two of them disappeared up the stairs, leaving you to continue through the crowd. the house was a mix of people—some familiar, some not. there were a few faces you recognized from the high school halls, kids who never seemed to do much more than party and live off their family’s money. but then there were others, people with sharper eyes, a bit too much grit in their demeanor, lurking in the shadows. you could feel their gaze flicker over you, sizing you up like prey.

but you didn’t stop walking. you pushed forward through the mass of people, not caring if you brushed against anyone. not caring about anything except the feeling of knowing exactly where this was heading. and then you saw him.

he was standing near the back, surrounded by his usual crew—kelce, topper, and a couple of other people you didn’t know. rafe’s eyes met yours the moment you stepped into his line of sight, and for a split second, the room seemed to pause. it was as if everything else faded, and you were the only two people in the house.

you didn’t hesitate. without even a thought, you walked up to him, your steps sure, your anger driving every movement. without warning, you grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward. the world seemed to blur around you as you smacked him across the face, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing in the room. the crowd around you went silent for a split second, but it didn’t matter.

“you stupid, cheating son of a bitch,” you snarled, voice dripping with rage. “hurt that bad losing to a pogue? you had to cheat?”

rafe didn’t flinch. his expression remained cold, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin crawl. his jaw tightened, his lips curling into something cruel. and then, just like that, his hands shot up and wrapped around your neck.

you gasped, struggling against the sudden pressure as his fingers dug into your skin. “don’t you ever call me that again,” he whispered, his voice cold, deadly. you tried to pry his hands away, your vision starting to swim as you fought for air.

“my old man might’ve lost to your dad,” rafe continued, his grip tightening even more. “but i sure as hell won’t lose to a dirty fuckin’ pogue like you.”

and it hit you. the words, the venom in his tone—it wasn’t just about the race. it was about something much deeper. his father had lost to your dad, bullet—the man who had earned his reputation in a way that rafe’s father could never match. the history between the two didnt run deep, but the animosity was thicker than blood.

you struggled harder, but the more you fought, the tighter his grip became, the pressure on your throat making it harder to breathe. your thoughts began to blur, your fingers clawing at his wrists, desperate for freedom.

but then, out of nowhere, you felt rafe being yanked away. jj, who had appeared from the crowd, threw his weight into the pull, dragging rafe off you with force. he stumbled back, hands still twitching as he tried to regain control, but jj wasn’t letting go.

“just you wait, pogue,” rafe called out, his voice hoarse from the force of his own words. “see what happens when you act a fool.”

jj didn’t respond. he didn’t need to. he shoved rafe back, and you staggered away from the chaos, breathing deeply, trying to recover from the shock of it all. as you made your way out of the fray, you glanced back to see rafe sitting back down at the table, his gaze empty. his body trembled slightly, his fingers still shaking. it wasn’t just about the race. it wasn’t even about you. his father didnt think he was good enough, so he wanted to be better.

the next morning, the smell of oil, metal, and grease filled the air as you worked in your shop. sunlight streamed through the garage’s open doors, illuminating the chaos within. it was shaping up to be a long day. your friends had brought their cars in, and calling them “in bad shape” was an understatement. each vehicle had its own set of unique, stubborn problems, from mechanical issues to cosmetic disasters. and on top of all that, jj’s dirt bike sat propped on its stand in the corner, waiting for a fresh coat of paint and some mechanical tlc.

you were perched over jj’s dirt bike, one leg swung lazily over the seat as you carefully sprayed on a bold blue coat of paint. the color shimmered slightly under the sunlight, and you allowed yourself a small moment of satisfaction. jj had insisted on something flashy, claiming he wanted it to “blind anyone he left in the dust.”

nearby, sarah’s car sat on a lift, its underside exposed. it was a sleek white coupe, but the suspension was shot to hell, the front bumper barely hanging on, and there was a mystery rattle that drove her crazy.

“you could do a lot more with it if you had a v8,” came a voice, smooth and cutting through the sound of your wrench.

your heart jumped. tense, you turned slowly, eyes narrowing as they locked onto rafe cameron standing at the edge of your garage. he was dressed in a crisp button-up, shorts, and boat shoes, a golf club casually slung over his shoulder like it belonged there.

“typical boys,” you quipped, recovering quickly, a smirk forming on your lips as you straightened. “always worried about whose engines bigger.”

rafe’s mouth twitched into a wry smile, though his eyes still held that unnerving sharpness. “what’re you doing here?” you added, your tone turning sharp. “came to trash my stash?”

he scoffed, taking a slow step forward, the metal head of the golf club clicking lightly against the cement floor as he walked. “got a garage more expensive than these rides,” he replied coolly, eyes scanning the cars around you. you rolled your eyes and turned back to sarah’s car, wiping your hands on a rag.

“the rumors are true,” rafe continued, a hint of amusement in his tone. “cut’s got its first shop run by a woman.”

you scoffed, glancing over your shoulder at him. “and if you open one, it’ll get its second.”

his smile faltered for a split second, irritation flashing across his face, but it didn’t stick. instead, he stood there, watching you with an expression that was equal parts frustration and intrigue.

“listen, pogue,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you can call me out for calling the cops, but i know about your nos tanks. doesn’t seem fair to me.”

you set your wrench down with a loud clang, turning to face him fully. “any real racer knows you can use as many tanks as you want,” you said, stepping closer to him, your tone unwavering. “if you can handle it. can you handle it, rafe?”

for a moment, his annoyance shifted into something else, something almost predatory. his gaze flicked over you, and he tilted his head slightly, as though trying to figure you out. how could a pogue talk to him like this—fearlessly, no less—after what had happened last night?

“i can handle a lot more than you think,” he responded, a sly grin creeping onto his face as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat stack of bills. “how about you set it up for me? i’ll make it worth your while.” with a sharp motion, you pushed his hand down, forcing him to lower the money.

“bring your ride in and put your money away,” you said, your tone low but steady. “you’ll pay me back with a race. a fair one.”

rafe’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his smirk growing wider. “sounds fair to me,” he countered, his voice dripping with challenge. “if you can handle it. can you handle it, (y/n)?”

you tilted your head slightly, mirroring his grin as you leaned closer. “i can handle a lot more than you think.”

the roar of the skyline’s engine filled your shop as rafe pulled back in, the bright blue paint glinting under the fluorescent lights. the car was immaculate, sleek and modern, with a body that screamed speed and power. you couldn’t help but appreciate it. rafe stepped out, leaning casually against the car, his gaze drifting to the corners of your shop.

“nice place you got here,” he said, his tone almost dismissive, but his eyes were scanning every detail.

“nice car,” you shot back, wiping your hands on a rag as you approached. r34, right? not bad, even for you.”

rafe’s smirk deepened, pleased you knew your stuff. “figured i’d bring her to the best,” he said, his voice dripping with irony.

you didn’t rise to the bait, gesturing for him to follow you. you led him to the closeted section of your shop, a hidden alcove where you kept your stash of tanks. the area was organized chaos—rows of shiny tanks stacked neatly, tools hanging on the walls, and a sturdy metal workbench in the center.

“how’s this shit work?” rafe asked, leaning against the table as he watched you pull a tank from the shelf.

you set it on the bench, grabbed a wrench, and began working. “it’s simple, really,” you said, your tone matter-of-fact. “nitrous oxide gets injected into the engine. gets the oxygen levels up during combustion. more fuel burns, so that means more power. it’s a burst, though—not something you use all the time.”

rafe nodded, his expression unreadable as he watched you work. you moved with precision, attaching the nos lines to the skyline’s engine, ensuring every bolt and connection was secure.

“got a closet full of this shit,” rafe remarked, glancing around.

you shrugged, not looking up from your work. “guess i like it fast.”

he raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “how do i know you’re not screwing me over?”

you straightened, wiping your hands on your shorts with a smirk. “take her for a spin,” you said simply.

he scoffed, crossing his arms as his gaze flicked between you and the car. “yeah, right. and if it blows me up?”

you rolled your eyes, already fed up. without a word, you opened the passenger door and climbed in, settling into the seat next to him. rafe hesitated for a moment, unsure if you were planning something, but eventually slid behind the wheel. you were immediately impressed by the interior—sleek, modern, and meticulously maintained.

he pulled out of the shop and onto the main road, driving casually until you reached a long, empty street.

“how’s it work?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence.

you pointed at a button near the gearshift. “press it,” you said, your tone almost mocking. “unless you’re scared.”

rafe’s gaze snapped to yours, his jaw tightening at the challenge in your voice. he wasn’t going to back down. slowly, deliberately, he pressed the button.

the effect was immediate. the skyline surged forward with a ferocity that pressed you both back into your seats. the engine roared, the world outside becoming a blur as the car rocketed down the street. rafe’s hands gripped the wheel tightly, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“keep your eyes on the road, playboy,” you said, your voice steady despite the speed.

rafe smirked, his knuckles tightening on the wheel. “why? think we’re gonna crash?”

you didn’t blink, your gaze locked on him. “don’t know,” you said calmly. “haven’t decided yet.”

taking that as a challenge, rafe shifted his focus back to you, his blue eyes burning with determination. he kept the car hurtling forward, the engine screaming, his gaze never leaving yours. the tension in the air was evident, every second stretching into eternity as you stared each other down. the red light came into view, and rafe hit the brakes hard. the car skidded to a stop, tires screeching, the force jolting you both forward slightly. but even then, his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“i could’ve killed you,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

you held his gaze, unwavering. “you wouldn’t.”

the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon as you parked the last of your friends’ cars at their usual spot. each vehicle gleamed, repaired and polished. you stepped out, expecting gratitude and maybe a few jokes, but instead, you were met with silence. they were all there, standing stiffly in front of their shop, their expressions grim. you could feel the tension radiating off them as you walked closer, the quiet pressing against your chest.

“guys?” you called out, slipping from the driver’s seat and approaching cautiously. “what’s wrong?”

no one answered. the explanation came into view soon enough.

their shop was a disaster. broken glass littered the ground, the walls were defaced with cruel graffiti, and the door hung off its hinges. the words scrawled across the front made your stomach churn: “pogue trash,” “deadbeats,” “just like your daddy.” your breath caught in your throat as you took in the scene, each insult like a punch to the gut.

“what the fuck happened?” you asked, your voice tight with anger and disbelief.

jj ripped his cap off and hurled it to the ground, his face flushed with fury. “those fuckin’ kooks, man,” he spat at no one in particular. “those fuckin’ kooks.”

you stepped closer, your boots crunching against the broken glass as you stared at the hateful words. the damage was extensive—tools missing, shelves overturned, and a pile of broken parts in the corner.

“they didn’t even try to hide it,” you muttered, your voice shaking.

pope sighed heavily beside you. “don’t take it personal,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t quite believe his own words. “at least they didn’t touch the cars.”

kie nodded, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “yeah, thanks for fixing them for us,” she said softly, though her gratitude was muted by the weight of what had happened.

but their words barely registered as you stepped closer to the shop, your hands curling into fists. “who was it?” you asked, though you feared you already knew the answer.

jj scoffed bitterly. “who do you think?” he shot back, his voice dripping with venom. “rafe and his buddies.”

your stomach sank. you’d gone out of your way to help him, to level the playing field, and this was how he repaid you? it wasn’t even about the shop—it was about principle. he had crossed a line.

without another word, you grabbed a broom and started cleaning. the others joined in silently, the air thick with anger and frustration as you worked together to sweep up the glass, scrub off the graffiti, and salvage what you could. every stroke of the brush, every shove of the mop, only fueled your resolve.

by the time you finished, night had fallen, and exhaustion hung heavy in the air. you handed the broom to jj, your jaw set as you turned and made your way back to your car.

“where’re you going?” sarah called after you, her voice laced with concern.

you didn’t answer, you didn’t need to. the sound of the car door slamming shut was your only response as you started the engine and drove off into the night, your mind racing with one thought: rafe cameron was going to answer for this.

the engine hummed beneath you as you sped toward figure eight, the north side of the island, where the kooks played their games and looked down on people like you. your fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a steady rhythm that betrayed the pounding of your heart. the streets were quiet, eerily so, but you scanned every shadowed alley and empty corner, searching for him. or, more specifically, for his stupid skyline.

your knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, tension coiled in your chest. rafe cameron. of course, it had to be him. the golden boy with a mean streak a mile wide, hiding behind wealth and privilege while wreaking havoc for fun.

as you turned onto another desolate road, your eyes caught the glow of a parking lot up ahead. slowing down, you squinted, scanning the lot as you passed by—and there it was. a skyline, much like his, sat tucked in the farthest corner, its polished body gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

“there you are,” you muttered, a sharp edge in your voice as you pulled into the lot.

you drove straight toward the car, parking directly across from it, headlights glaring like a spotlight. the engine idled as you stepped out, leaving the car on as a statement. across the lot, the driver’s side door of the skyline opened, and out stepped rafe. he didn’t look pleased.

“what the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped, his voice dripping with disdain.

you didn’t answer. Instead, you marched toward him, shoving him hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. “have a busy night, kook?” you spat. “steal some parts? trash some shops?”

rafe scoffed, recovering his footing as he stepped closer. his smirk was infuriating, his air of nonchalance calculated. “you’re out of your mind,” he muttered, but when your hand shot up to slap him, he caught it mid-air, his fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that made you wince.

“what’re you gonna do? arrest me?” he taunted, his voice low and biting. his grip tightened, making you clench your teeth. “you said you liked it fast, but you’re still not up to speed—this is the way things are here, pogue.”

he let go of your wrist, and you shoved him again, this time harder. his reaction was swift, his hands grabbing the front of your top and yanking you forward, slamming you against the hood of his car.

“let go of me, you son of a bitch,” you growled, struggling against him. but then your gaze locked onto his, and your tone turned razor-sharp. “what’re you gonna do next, rafe? choke me again? hit me? gonna hit me, rafe?”

his jaw clenched, his expression darkening as he stared down at you. he knew you were provoking him, pushing him toward the edge—but the hit never came.

instead, it came in the form of cold metal pressed against your temple, sleek and unyielding. your breath hitched as you realized what it was. a pistol, pulled from his waistband, now trembling slightly in his hand.

“come on, rafe,” you murmured, your voice soft but deadly. “do it, pull the trigger. let me see you do it.”

his hand shook, his grip faltering as his body trembled with barely-contained rage. the air between you was electric, charged with tension and unspoken words. finally, with a roar that made you flinch, he pulled back, stepping away as he spun around and shouted into the night, his voice raw and guttural.

“don’t push me,” he hissed, turning back toward you, his expression twisted with anger and something else—something almost like regret. “you know i’ll hurt you.”

you stayed frozen, stunned as he climbed back into his car and slammed the door. the tension still buzzed in the air as you staggered back to your own car, fury boiling in your veins. you didn’t look at him as you started your engine, but you knew he was watching.

as you pulled your car into reverse, you didn’t stop. you turned, aiming your headlights straight at him, and accelerated, tires screeching as you sped toward him. rafe’s eyes widened, but only for a second before his expression hardened, glazed with anger. you could see him mutter something to himself, though you couldn’t hear it over the roar of the engines.

“come on,” he whispered, his voice almost a growl. “see if you have the fucking balls.”

neither of you slowed. the distance between you closed rapidly, your gazes locked, unflinching, as your cars raced toward each other like bullets. it was a game of chicken, and you weren’t about to lose.

at the last second, rafe was the one to swerve, tires screeching as his skyline drifted to the side, narrowly avoiding impact. your own car skidded in the opposite direction, drifting towards the opposite sode, and for a moment, the lot was silent again, save for the low rumble of idling engines.

“i told you you wouldn’t,” you whispered under your breath, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached.

the gym was barely lit, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the space as rafe paced like a caged animal. the heavy bag swung idly, a testament to the beating he had given it earlier, but his fists weren’t satisfied. his knuckles were raw, bloodied, and split, but the rage in his chest burned hotter, untamed.

kelce leaned against the wall, trying to appear nonchalant, but the tension in his posture gave him away. topper sat on one of the benches, a water bottle in hand, his expression hovering between amusement and concern.

“she got you good, man,” kelce said, trying to lighten the mood. “never seen a girl get you this mad.”

rafe didn’t respond. his chest heaved as he muttered to himself, words too quiet for anyone else to catch. his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his entire body taut with frustration.

“hard to find a girl who knows how to drive,” topper chimed in, a smug grin on his face as he leaned back. “but a hot one? needle in a haystack.”

it was the wrong thing to say. rafe’s roar echoed through the gym, a guttural sound that tore through his throat, making both kelce and topper jump. before they could react, rafe’s fist slammed into the wall with a sickening crack, leaving a jagged dent in the drywall. his knuckles followed suit, blood smearing across the pale surface as he pulled back.

“dude, you need to calm down,” kelce said, stepping forward cautiously, his hands half-raised in a placating gesture. he exchanged a nervous glance with topper, who was now sitting upright, the humor gone from his expression.

but rafe wasn’t hearing any of it. his breathing was erratic, his gaze wild as he turned away, pacing again. he ran a trembling hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if the pain might distract him from whatever was boiling inside. what was it with her? how could someone so infuriating, so goddamn pogue, crawl under his skin like this? she was everything he despised—defiant, reckless, unpredictable—and yet she was all he could think about. the way she stared him down, the way she challenged him, dared him even, as if she knew just how far to push before he broke.

was it the hatred that fueled him? the way she made his blood rush, his heart race? lr was it something else, something he couldn’t put into words but that kept him coming back, like a moth to a flame?

“i hate her,” he finally hissed, his voice low but venomous. his chest rose and fell rapidly as he turned to face his friends, his knuckles still dripping red. “i fuckin’ hate her.”

the bonfire blazed brightly against the inky night sky, crackling and sending sparks into the air as the party raged around it. the salty tang of the ocean mixed with the scent of burning wood and the faint whiff of spilled beer. laughter, shouting, and the deep bass of a playlist made the beach feel alive, every corner buzzing with energy. people crowded around coolers, passing drinks, leaning against cars, or dancing to the music. shadows flitted across the sand as groups clustered closer to the fire, the light flickering across their faces.

you pulled into the makeshift parking area, your headlights briefly illuminating the crowd before you cut the engine. the hum of the party immediately filled the car, but you stayed seated, your hands still on the steering wheel. the adrenaline from earlier hadn’t worn off, but it had simmered into something heavier, something confusing.

how could someone be so insufferable? how could he manage to boil your blood and make your pulse race all at once? you hated his entitlement, his smirk, his stupid blue eyes that always seemed to hold a challenge. he wasn’t worth the energy, and yet here you were, your grip tightening on the steering wheel as if trying to ground yourself.

“you okay?” jj’s voice broke through your thoughts.

you turned your head slightly to look at him, his blue eyes filled with concern. he noticed the slight tremble in your hands but didn’t push.

“yeah,” you said quietly, forcing a small smile. “yeah, it’s a party. i’m great.”

he didn’t believe you, not entirely, but he nodded anyway. jj knew when to let things go.

stepping out of the car, you were immediately hit with the cacophony of the party. the bonfire cast an orange glow that danced across the sand, illuminating faces both familiar and unfamiliar. the crowd was thick, packed with kooks and pogues alike, though the latter were clearly outnumbered. as you walked toward the fire, someone approached you, his voice loud and filled with enthusiasm.

“camaro!” he shouted, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “too cold for cameron.”

you blinked at him, startled, unsure how to respond. the race had clearly made an impression, and word had spread faster than you could’ve imagined. it was an uncomfortable kind of notoriety, but jj took it in stride.

“the people love you,” he said with a smirk, grabbing two beers from a nearby cooler and handing one to you. “give the people what they want.”

you rolled your eyes, but the truth was clear. everyone was impressed—almost everyone.

rafe was seated by the fire, his legs stretched out lazily, one arm draped over the shoulders of a girl who was chattering away. her friend sat nearby, giggling at whatever she was saying, but rafe didn’t seem to be paying attention. he didn’t even know her name, not that it mattered. just that he was lonely, and she tasted like tequila. his gaze was locked on you. the tension from earlier wasn’t visible in his expression, but there was something in his eyes. his beer bottle hovered near his lips as he stared, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in the sight of you.

you weren’t wearing your usual gear—no grease-stained shorts, no leather boots. Instead, you’d chosen a white dress, short and flowy, paired with white heels. it was simple, but it transformed you, softening your edges in a way rafe hadn’t expected. he should’ve looked away, should’ve focused on the girl clinging to his arm or the drink in his hand. but he couldn’t.

you noticed his stare and felt the weight of it, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. quickly, you lifted the beer jj had given you and took a long swig.

“thirsty, aren’t you?” he teased, raising an eyebrow.

you exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “sober. way too sober.”

the night dragged on, the bonfire crackling loudly as laughter and chatter mixed with the low thrum of music. jj handed you another beer before motioning toward the campfire. “come on, let’s sit,” he said, his tone light, though his eyes lingered on you, searching for any signs of lingering tension.

you sighed but followed, settling into the sand next to him. the heat from the fire washed over you, much unlike the cool breeze that carried the smell of saltwater. you leaned back slightly, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavily on your shoulders. every muscle ached, and all you wanted was the sweet escape of sleep. but sleep wasn’t an option, not here, not now.

you sipped your beer slowly, savoring each drop as it slid down your throat. across the flames, rafe sat, his arm lazily draped over the girl he had come with. he wasn’t looking at her, not really, but when she leaned in to kiss him, his lips met hers in a display that felt more performative than passionate. your gaze dropped instantly, your stomach churning. you prayed no one had noticed your reaction, but the heat crawling up your neck betrayed you.

“camaro,” topper’s voice cut through the din, dragging your attention back to the group.

you turned your head slightly, your body tense as you met his gaze.

“word on the street says you’re racing our man again,” he said, his tone laced with amusement.

jj glanced at you, his confusion evident. “again?” he asked, but you only shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you popped the cap off another beer.

“street doesn’t lie,” you said simply, taking a swig.

kelce and topper exchanged impressed looks, nodding as if to say they approved. but kelce’s smirk widened as you continued, “even when its racers are dirty cheats.”

the air shifted. rafe’s head snapped toward you, his eyebrows raised in challenge. the firelight reflected in his narrowed eyes, adding to the intensity of his glare.

“called street smarts for a reason, isn’t it?” he said, his smirk sharp.

you rolled your eyes, leaning back against the driftwood bench. “let’s see how smart you are without the cops,” you said, your voice steady, though your pulse hammered in your chest.

rafe opened his mouth, clearly ready to retort, but something stopped him. he clenched his jaw, leaning back in his seat with a forced calmness. his breath came in shallow, frustrated huffs as the firelight danced across his features. the tension in the group was uncomfortable, but the silence didn’t last long. you drained your beer, allowing the alcohol to dull the edge of your exhaustion and frustration. the conversations around you resumed, and for the first time all night, you felt yourself beginning to relax.

rafe, however, wasn’t relaxing. his eyes flicked to you every chance they got, watching as your posture softened, as your lips curled into a small smile at something jj said. he watched as jj leaned in, whispering something into your ear, his hand brushing your shoulder. whatever he said made you laugh, a soft, genuine sound that tugged at something deep within rafe. you made him angry. everything you did made him angry.

jj tipped his beer bottle toward you. “we staying here tonight?” he asked, his tone casual.

“yeah,” you replied, pushing yourself to your feet. “let’s just hope they won’t trash this, too.”

your words carried a pointed weight, and you capped them off with a glance in rafe’s direction, your gaze cool and challenging. it was subtle, but he caught it. he always caught it. you disappeared into the tent jj had set up, leaving the campfire and its occupants behind. rafe’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his beer. everything about you, everything you did, made him mad. and he still couldn’t look away.

the tent was suffocating. you’d been lying there for hours, trying desperately to sleep, but it was impossible. exhaustion clung to your body like a second skin, but no matter how much you tossed, turned, or closed your eyes, rest wouldn’t come. your mind was a storm, thoughts swirling violently around one person.

you hated him—every inch of him. the way he carried himself with arrogant confidence, the way his words dripped with disdain, the way he always seemed to have the upper hand. conceited, rude, filthy rich, and far too smug about it. but worst of all? his mouth. it wasn’t just the venom he spat or the smirks that played on his lips; it was the fact, when it came down to putting his money where his mouth was, his mouth went everywhere. you hated it, hated him.

you sighed heavily, leaning back against the soft wall of the tent. your head rested against your pillow, eyes staring blankly at the fabric above you. the muted sounds of the bonfire party carried through the night, distant but persistent. you closed your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose, but peace still eluded you.

your body stiffened at the sound, the slow, deliberate movement of the tent’s zipper trailing sending a chill down your spine. the tent flaps parted, and he stepped inside. you didn’t react.

“come to kill me?” you asked, your voice flat, devoid of any interest.

he didn’t answer. instead, he moved toward you, his steps slow, purposeful. there was something unnerving about his silence, and it made your stomach twist. your head snapped toward him, your breath catching in your throat.

“rafe,” you said, panic creeping into your voice as you scrambled to your feet. “what are you doing?”

he didn’t respond. you glanced around the small space, frantically searching for something, anything, to defend yourself with, but there was nothing. he noticed.

“defenseless,” he murmured, his voice low, almost mocking.

your heart raced, pounding so loudly in your ears that you thought he could hear it. he stopped in front of you, his broad frame blocking the exit as he loomed over you.

“what do you think is gonna happen next?” he asked, his tone dark and taunting.

you swallowed hard, your palms clammy. “i know this story,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. “this is the part where we hurt each other, right? where we give in and see who’ll really win.”

amusement flickered across his face, but it was fleeting, his expression hardening as his gaze pinned you in place.

“that’s an interesting way to end things,” he murmured. “but i like my ending better.”

before you could respond, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours. the kiss was searing, all teeth and desperation, a clash of emotions too raw to name. hatred morphed into something else entirely as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer. your body reacted on instinct, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back, just as hard, just as rough.

even as your lips moved against his, the fight never stopped. tongues battled for dominance, breaths mingling in the heated space between you. it wasn’t gentle, wasn’t tender—it was a war, and neither of you was willing to surrender, but this time? this time, you would lose.

without breaking the kiss, rafe sank to the ground, pulling you into his lap. his hands roamed, gripping your hips, sliding up your back, under your dress, as though he couldn’t get enough of you. he lay back, bringing you down with him, his body pressing into yours as his lips trailed away from your mouth. his kisses moved to your jaw, then down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin.

“i hate you,” you whispered, the words escaping through a breathless moan.

he groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, “i hate you, too.”

there was something about playing with fire that everybody loved, ranging from the kids that would play with their mothers’ stoves despite warned not to, and the adults who lit their cigarettes despite knowing that it could kill them. despite being so different, every one of those people had one thing in common—they knew a thing or two about getting burned. the closer he was to you, the more you thought about it—playing with fire. you knew it’d hurt you at some point, but pain was fleeting, temporary. the warmth was what counted.

“show me,” you gasped as your fingernails clawed at the back of his neck. “show me how much you hate me.”

he took it as a challenge, he took everything you said as a challenge. just like that, his lips were on yours, his nose grazing your cheek. he tasted like beer—bitter, with a hint of something that you knew would keep you coming back for more. his lips were chapped from the alcohol, but still found a way to melt against yours. his fingers were long, rough as they crept up the back of your neck, sending goosebumps down your body before tangling themselves into your hair, pulling softly.

“look at me,” he whispered, and you’d never heard him so quiet. he pulled your hair downward, forcing your eyes to meet his.

your eyes were hazy, clouded with the same sensation that coursed through his veins. he couldnt have missed it, and he didn’t, a low hum vibrating through his chest as he took in the way you looked at him, unsure if he’d ever get to see it again. he kissed you again, his hips grinding down against yours, eliciting the softest whimper from you as his hard length pressed into the soft flesh of your thigh, separated by the fabric of his shorts.

“feel that?” he whispered, continuously rolling his hips against your thigh, pressing into you, making sure you could feel it—all of it. “that’s how mad you make me.”

you let out a sound, something between a laugh and a moan, biting your lip at the feeling of him like that—so hard, so deluded with lust. “who knew i had such an effect on you?”

rafe’s eyes darkened at your words, a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. his grip on your hair tightened slightly, and his nose brushed against yours as his lips hovered just inches away.

“you’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

you bit your lip, your body betraying you as you arched against him. his lips were on yours again, and this time it was hungrier, rougher, filled with all the pent-up frustration and hatred that had festered between you for so long. he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before his tongue slipped inside, claiming your mouth as his.

his hands roamed your body, one sliding down to grip your waist while the other stayed tangled in your hair. he pulled you impossibly closer, his hips grinding harder against yours. the friction was intoxicating, drawing a soft, breathless moan from your lips that only spurred him on.

“say it again,” he demanded, his lips moving against your neck now, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin.

“say what?” you breathed, your head tilting back as his tongue traced the column of your throat.

“tell me how much you hate me,” he growled, his fingers digging into your waist as he pressed his hips firmly against you.

you let out a shaky laugh, your hands clutching at his shoulders. “i hate you,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction, trembling with desire.

he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes blazing with intensity. “liar,” he murmured, his lips curling into a smirk before capturing yours again.

you fought for dominance, your nails scraping down his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. he hissed at the sensation, his hips bucking against you in response.

“careful,” he warned, his voice husky as he nipped at your jaw. “you’re playing with fire.”

“maybe i like the burn,” you shot back, your voice dripping with defiance.

he chuckled darkly, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your collarbone. “you don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, his tone both teasing and threatening.

“then show me,” you challenged, your hands gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it upward.

he pulled it off in one swift motion, tossing it aside before leaning back over you, his bare chest pressing against yours. his hands roamed freely now, exploring every inch of your body as his mouth claimed yours once again.

“you make me crazy,” he muttered against your lips, his voice filled with raw, unfiltered need. “i can’t think straight when i’m around you.”

“good,” you whispered, your fingers threading through his hair and tugging hard enough to draw a low groan from his throat. “i don’t want you thinking straight.”

you ran your fingers down his chest, unable to stop yourself from admiring just how strong he was, how broad he was. he was so lean, tan, with broad shoulders and big arms that he kept hidden. you bit your lip, keeping yourself from being too brazen, too nice—saying something you knew youd come to regret when the time came.

his touch was gentle, feather-like as his fingers slid your dress down, his eyes never leaving your frame as he did so. he tugged it down your chest, down your hips, until it was completely off. he groaned at the sight—the sight going straight to his shorts. you were beautiful, though he’d never say it out loud. with your white bra, your white panties—you looked like an angel.

“fuck,” was all that he managed to utter, staring down at you the way a predator would eye its prey.

“yeah,” you murmured, propping yourself against your elbows. he watched the way your plush thighs rubbed against one another, legs shuffling softly as you brought a foot up to his chest, sliding it down his chest until it was right where he wanted it. he took your foot in his hand, pressing it into the center of his clothed cock, making sure you could feel just how bad he had it for you.

his eyes stayed on you as you reached back, unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. your tits fell out, sliding out of the comfort of their fabric as rafe tensed up. he leaned forward, bringing an arm around your back as his lips wrapped around one of your hardening buds. cradling his head against your tits, you threw your head back and mewled at his ministrations. he lavished equal attention on each breast, his darkening eyes darting up to take in your face every so often.

you bit back a whimper as your hands travelled up his neck, scratching where you could, leaving red lines he knew would be hard to explain later on. his lips and tongue worked together, travelling down your stomach, past your navel, his hot breath littering goosebumps across your flesh. he grunted, he could practically smell your desire, just inches away from him.

his fingers hooked themselves under the sides of your panties as he looked up at you. you had to bite your tongue, because he's never looked better. his eyes were glossy, drool dripping from his bottom lip as he stared at you from between your legs. and then, he pulled. he pulled until your panties were off, discarded somewhere, anywhere.

rafe only took a second to get a look at you, but it felt like eternity. he couldn’t stop himself from smiling as his fingers trailed down your sopping cunt, over the surface, but never where you needed him to. “rafe,” you sighed with an impatient frown.

“i know, baby,” he murmured, “i know.”

you didn’t get the chance to respond as one of his long, slender fingers slithered into you, curling just right where you needed it, pumping in and out at a slow pace. the cool metal of the ring on his finger grazed your clit each time. you gasped, your hand gripping his shoulder, nails pressing crescent moons into his taught skin. he repeated the motion, suppressing a groan before adding a second finger, much to your delight. his knuckles woulded against you as his fingers bottomed out, the digits sliding out completely, before diving all the way in again. his thumb hovered over your clit, but never made the small reach to press it the way you wanted.

you cried softly, hips moving against his fingers in the same up and down motion as earlier, “rafe, come on.”

“not yet,” he whispered, “not until you surrender, until you beg.”

you shook your head no, head tilting back with your eyes closed.

“bet you beg so pretty,” he murmured as his thumb flicked ever so lightly over your clit, “tell me what you want.”

you had to weigh your options carefully, precisely. you could save what little dignity you had left, and keep you mouth shut, even if it meant losing him—losing the nirvana that was waiting for you. it seemed impossible, especially compared to what you could have, what he could give you. he was so good, so good—and he was gonna show you just how good he was.

“please,” you barely managed to utter. “please, rafe, need you to fuck me.”

it was all he wanted to hear. “that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he murmured, a condescending edge to his tone as he pulled his fingers, coated in your juices, out completely. “take ’em off for me, baby, come on.”

you nodded as you allowed your fingers to slip below the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down as anticipation coursed through your body. his cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach. he was so much bigger than you could’ve guessed, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of his length, his girth. you wrapped a curious, hesitant hand around his dick, before pumping as best as you could. rafe groaned, head tilted back as he bucked up into your hand. he couldn’t get enough of the sight of you, small and defenseless, with a hand around his dick, tracing his pulsing veins with your fingers.

“gonna let me ruin you?” he whispered, his cock aching against your soft fingers. “if you can handle it. can you handle it, baby?”

you nodded, hating how powerless you had really become, as if he had you under some sort of spell. you let go of his cock before lying back down. you watched the way rafe grabbed a hold of his cock, spreading your thighs as he positioned himself with a grunt. you could feel the head of his cock sliding between your folds, lightly teasing against your clit as a moan passed your lips.

“let me hear it again,” he murmured, eliciting another moan from you as his cock brushed against your clit a second time.

“please,” you needed to give in—just this once, “please, fuck me, rafe.”

with that, rafe thrusts his cock forward, and a victorious smile warping his features as he pushed past your wet folds. your walls stretched to their limit, unable to stop the grimace of pain the more of him you took in. you let out a moan as your eyes rolled back, your tight cunt adjusting to his sheer size.

“that’s it, baby. takin’ it so good,” rafe praised through a groan, holding onto your hips and pushing until your clit clashed with base of his cock.

you felt so filled, so dominated, so alive. your nails dug into the sheets, your body writhing beneath him as he began to pump in and out of you. each stroke was brutal, his length stretching your weeping pussy and claiming you in a way that no one else had ever done. your eyes remained closed, focusing on the pleasure-pain as your body fought against the intrusion before succumbing to the delicious feeling of his rhythmic pounding.

the tent grew hazy with the scent of sex and sweat, your breaths coming out in pants and whimpers as he picked up speed. his teeth grazed the side of your neck, making you shiver with every thrust. his tongue flicked against the sensitive skin, tasting your sweetness as he claimed you, making you his. you couldn't help but arch your back, pushing your breasts up, begging for his mouth.

he took the hint, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your neck, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough to make you gasp. he sucked, hard, leaving a bruise that would surely be visible in the morning. his hand moved to play with your clit, the pad of his thumb pressing down and swirling around in a way that made your toes curl and your back arch even more.

the pleasure was building, a wave threatening to crash over you at any time. rafe’s eyes were on yours, watching your pupils dilate and your mouth form silent pleas for more. he smirked, his teeth still digging into your neck, feeling your pulse throb under his teeth. he knew you were close, knew he had you right where he wanted you.

with one final, powerful thrust, he swiped his thumb over your clit one more time, and you shattered around him. your orgasm washed over you in waves, making your body spasm and your legs tighten around his waist. you moaned his name, your nails digging into his back as your pussy clenched around his cock, milking him for all he was worth.

rafe’s eyes rolled back in his head, his own release barreling towards him like a freight train. he pulled his mouth away from your neck with a wet pop, his teeth marks clear on your skin. “gonna cum, baby,” he grunted, his voice strained with effort.

you nodded, your own orgasm still coursing through you as he drove into you one last time, burying his cock to the hilt. he groaned as he came, filling you up with hot, thick ropes of cum, from the inside to your clit.

when it was over, he collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress as you both panted for air. his cock still twitched inside you, releasing the last of his load, making you feel so completely owned. it was a feeling you never knew existed, but one you were now craving with every fiber of your being. he kissed you then, hard and possessive, his tongue claiming your mouth as thoroughly as his cock had claimed your cunt. you could taste the saltiness of your sweat on his lips, feel the stickiness between your legs. it was raw, it was carnal

the first thing you noticed was the warmth. it enveloped you like a heavy blanket, your body pressed against something solid and unyielding. your eyes fluttered open, the dim light of dawn filtering through the thin fabric of the tent, and your heart stopped. rafe was sprawled on top of you, his arm draped possessively around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

the events of the night before came rushing back in flashes: the kisses, the heated whispers, the way his hands felt on your skin, the way he made you forget every ounce of hatred you harbored for him, if only for a moment.

you felt the cool morning air against your bare skin, the absence of fabric a cruel reminder of just how far things had gone. panic set in as you slowly, carefully shifted beneath him, trying not to disturb his steady breathing. you reached for your dress, crumpled on the floor of the tent, and slipped it on as quietly as you could manage. your hands trembled, the fabric catching on your damp skin as you smoothed it over your body.

you paused, your eyes flickering back to him. rafe was still fast asleep, his features softened in a way you’d never seen before. he looked peaceful, almost innocent, but it only made the bile rise in your throat. what the hell had you done?

your thoughts spiraled as you crept out of the tent, each step feeling like a betrayal of yourself. what would your dad say? the man who taught you to stand your ground, to never let anyone—especially someone like rafe—get the better of you? and your friends? jj? god, jj.

you barely made it a few steps before jj’s voice startled you. “what happened?”

he was standing near the campfire, his hair disheveled, a beer bottle still clutched in his hand. his blue eyes bore into you, concern etched across his face.

“nothing,” you muttered, your voice hollow as you brushed past him.

“don’t give me that,” he said, following you as you made a beeline for your car. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

you ignored him, fumbling with your keys as you slid into the driver’s seat. he climbed into the passenger side, his confusion mounting as you started the engine.

“you gonna tell me what’s going on?” he pressed, his tone sharper now.

you gripped the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles turning white as you navigated the dirt road away from the campsite. the weight of what you’d done settled heavily on your chest, making it hard to breathe. then it hit you. you were racing rafe tonight.

your stomach dropped as the realization clawed its way through you. he’d done this on purpose. seduced you, distracted you, gotten into your head—all to throw you off your game. the anger came next, hot and unrelenting, burning away the shame and replacing it with a seething fury. how could you have been so stupid? so careless? you’d let him win, not just last night, but the entire war you’d been waging against him.

“jesus christ,” you whispered under your breath, your grip on the wheel tightening as jj looked at you, more confused than ever.

“what?” he asked, leaning forward to study your face. “what’s going on?”

you didn’t answer, your thoughts a chaotic mess as you sped down the road. tonight wasn’t just about the race anymore. it was about getting your revenge.

the rest of the day felt like a blur of heavy, suffocating silence. you spent most of it sitting in your car, parked in an isolated corner of nowhere, just staring into oblivion. the world outside seemed distant, a place that didn’t matter, didn’t exist for you. thoughts swirled in your mind like a storm you couldn’t escape, each one more troubling than the last. what had you done? what was going to happen now?

you couldn’t bring yourself to cry. not yet. not until you could at least get through tonight, at least finish what you had started. you still had a fighting chance against rafe, didn’t you? the race was everything now. it was the one thing left that you could control, the one thing that would keep him from completely getting under your skin.

jj had asked you what was wrong earlier when you barely spoke to anyone. sarah had asked him too, her voice laced with concern, but he didn’t have any answers. nobody did. you barely had any answers yourself.

the hours passed in a haze, and before you knew it, it was time for the race. the drive to the meeting was dreadfully silent. the engine roared beneath you, but it did nothing to drown out the buzzing in your head. every thought was a needle, and each one pricked at you until you were wound too tight to even think straight. every so often, you'd mutter to yourself, trying to reassure yourself that you were still in control, that you could still handle this. but it wasn’t working. frustration built in you like a pressure cooker, and every so often, your fist collided with the steering wheel in sharp bursts of anger.

jj, who had been quiet the entire drive, kept stealing glances at you, but he didn��t ask any questions. he didn’t need to. you didn’t know how to answer him anyway.

the race was worse. even though the cheers of the crowd should’ve fueled you, you felt nothing but dread, a deep, gnawing sickness in your stomach. you could hear your name being shouted, the excitement of the crowd, but it all felt so distant. when you saw rafe’s face in the crowd, that sickening feeling only intensified. he was there, watching you, his eyes locked onto yours with something that twisted your insides.

and then there was her. the girl rafe had been with the night before. you hadn’t missed her, standing there in the crowd, glaring at you with an expression that made your blood boil. her eyes were cold, calculating, and when she met your gaze, she didn’t flinch.

“take it easy on him tonight,” she said, her voice sweet but laced with venom.

the words crawled under your skin. it was too much. you were already so close to the edge, and that was the final push you needed. before you knew what you were doing, your fist was swinging through the air and colliding with the underside of her jaw. she gasped as she stumbled backward, the crowd around you gasping as well.

for a moment, everything was silent, and you took a step forward, ready to finish what you’d started. but before you could, jj was there, his strong arms pulling you back with surprising force. he didn’t even give you the chance to go for her again.

“easy, easy,” he said, his voice low and urgent as he kept his grip on you. you could feel the heat of his hands on your arms, his breath against the back of your neck. he was trying to calm you down, trying to get you to focus, but it wasn’t working. the only thing you could focus on was the feeling of rafe’s eyes on you, watching everything unfold with a look you hadn’t seen before. sympathy? pity? it almost made you want to puke. you quickly looked away, not wanting to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

“look,” jj said, his voice softening, his tone more serious now. “i don’t know what’s going on with you, but whatever it is, you need to pull it together, okay? we’ve got five grand riding on this. you need to calm down.”

his words hit harder than you expected. five grand. that was all that mattered now, wasn’t it? you couldn’t let everything else get in the way. you nodded, your throat tight. you could feel your eyes threatening to well up, but you forced them to stay dry. you couldn’t break now. not yet. not with everything on the line.

the roar of the crowd still lingered in the air as you took your place at the starting line. your hands gripped the steering wheel, the leather cold beneath your fingers, but the heat from the race, from the tension building in your chest, quickly overpowered everything else. you kept your eyes forward, staring at the road, refusing to let your mind wander to anything else. not to the pit in your stomach, not to the fact that rafe’s car was right next to yours, not to the way you could feel his presence from the corner of your eye.

out of the corner of your vision, you caught him tapping on the window, the sound almost too soft against the chaos of the crowd. his eyes were no longer dark, no longer intense with that gleam of challenge. they were something else, something softer, but you refused to look at him. you wouldn’t. you kept your gaze on the road, your pulse racing, the air thick with the impending start of the race.

the countdown began, and with it, your heartbeat seemed to match the ticking clock until they went off. when they did, they came to life, and the world around you exploded into sound and movement. tires screeched as cars shot forward, speeding down the street, their engines roaring like wild beasts. the world blurred into a haze of color and sound, the air whipping past you, the car humming beneath you, and the rubber of the tires grinding into the asphalt as you pushed forward, faster, faster.

every turn, every maneuver felt like a calculated risk, your body swerving with the weight of the car, the grip of the tires, the thrill of the chase. the engine purred beneath you, urging you to push harder, to find the edge that would leave everyone else behind.

but your mind couldn’t help but flicker to rafe, his car beside yours, his presence there like a shadow, reminding you that something was there. you could feel him pushing, feel his need to win, just as much as you needed it. the sounds of the race around you—the screeching of tires, the hum of engines, the roars of the crowd—faded into the background. all that mattered was the road ahead.

but then, something happened. the way rafe’s car surged forward, the way his engine roared louder, faster, harder—it didn’t feel right. the energy shifted. You saw him from the corner of your eye, pushing his car up a steeper incline, his hands tightening around the wheel, his expression hidden behind the visor. it was the moment when you knew he was going too fast, too reckless. and then, you saw it—the press of the button, the one that activated the tank. the flash of light as it ignited.

you knew exactly what he was doing, and the thought hit you like a freight train. he was pushing it too far.

time seemed to stretch as the car lurched forward, the impact of the tank too much for his control. his car surged into the incline, the tires screeching, the engine roaring in a desperate cry. it was too much. the back end of his car fishtailed, and then, with a terrifying screech of metal against pavement, it veered off course.

your heart skipped a beat as you watched, the crash happening in slow motion. his car slammed into the barrier, the impact deafening as it crumpled like paper, and for a split second, all you could hear was the grinding of metal and the screeching of tires. the crowd’s roar became a distant hum, and your world narrowed down to the wreckage of rafe’s car.

your foot slammed on the brake, and the car skidded to a halt, the tires screaming in protest. you sat there, frozen, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. you could keep going. you could race to the finish line, claim the victory. you’d already beaten him in every other way. but your stomach twisted at the thought. you couldn’t leave him like this.

you were out of the car before you even realized it, your legs moving without thought, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. you ran toward the wreckage, ignoring the shouts of the crowd, the chaos around you. when you reached his car, your heart dropped into your stomach. the car was mangled, unrecognizable, the front crumpled and twisted. smoke poured from the hood, and you could barely see anything through the shattered glass.

he was unconscious, his head lolling to the side. his breathing was shallow, labored, but there. it was enough to make you breathe, though the sight of him—bloody, broken—sent a wave of nausea through your chest. you knelt by his side, your hands trembling as you reached for him, your heart hammering in your chest. the familiar coldness of his hand in yours sent a shock through you. his fingers were stiff, and you could feel the weight of his body, his pulse weak beneath your touch.

“rafe,” you whispered, panic creeping into your voice as you shook his shoulder. no response. “rafe, stay with me.”

you didn’t know what to do, how to fix this. you wanted to scream, to curse, to shake him awake, but all you could do was hold his hand and wait.

“help!” you screamed, your voice breaking through the chaos as you turned toward the crowd, looking for anyone who could help. “get the paramedics! now!”

every second felt like an eternity. time seemed to stand still as you knelt there, your fingers clutching his hand tightly, waiting for someone to come. his breathing was still shallow, but he was alive, and that was the only thing you could hold onto. you could barely think through the panic, through the raw, ugly emotion that twisted in your chest. you hadn’t meant for this to happen. you hadn’t meant for it to go this far. but now, all you could do was wait. wait for the paramedics. wait for the help that you knew was coming, but it felt so far away.

the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, a reminder of the countless times you’d been in a hospital, yet never this way. the last time you had been here, you’d watched your father slip away, his final breath taken in the cold, quiet halls of this place. it felt almost uncanny now, sitting next to rafe, your heart hammering in your chest, as you waited for something—anything—that told you he was going to be okay. the memories of your father’s final days pressed heavily against you, making the sterile whiteness of the room feel suffocating.

you sat in the chair next to his bed, gripping your hands tightly in your lap, your fingers aching from the tension. the beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, a rhythmic pulse that felt too fragile, too tenuous. you kept your eyes trained on the floor, refusing to meet his face. the fear of seeing him in that state—broken, vulnerable—was too much. your mind raced, torn between the reality of the situation and the weight of everything you had just witnessed. and yet, despite all that, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you needed to do something. anything.

then, something shifted. at first, it was so subtle you thought you imagined it. a slight twitch of his hand, the soft rise and fall of his chest. your heart skipped a beat. you leaned forward, unsure if you were imagining the movement, until you saw it again. a small, faint movement.

“what happened?” his words were slurred, barely more than a breath, but they were enough to make your heart tighten.

“you crashed,” you said, my throat thick with emotion. “you pushed too hard. you used the tank too early, rafe. you lost control of the car.”

“you came back for me?” his voice was small, vulnerable, almost childlike in its simplicity.

you nodded, your hand instinctively reaching for his, fingers shaking as you gripped his palm. “someone had to,” you whispered, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

your voice cracked as you spoke, the weight of the situation bearing down on you like a heavy storm cloud. his eyes shifted away from yours, gazing out the window, but there was something in his expression that you couldn’t ignore. the emptiness in the room, the absence of anyone else who cared enough to be there, was impossible to miss. no one had come for him, not even his family. it was just you. just you, sitting there, holding his hand, praying for him to wake up.

“you’re not the villain they think you are, rafe,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “you’re just hurt. you wanted to make your dad proud, didn’t you? you wanted to win for him because you think no one else could be proud of you. but you’re wrong. you act out because you’re scared, rafe. you won’t open up, because you’re scared.”

he turned his head slowly, meeting your gaze again. for the first time since you’d met him, you saw something in his eyes that wasn’t anger or arrogance. it was vulnerability. it was fear. and something else. something softer.

“you win, rafe,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you choked on the words. “if it means anything to you, you win.”

a tear, just one, slid down his cheek. he never cried. not in front of anyone, not in all the time you’d known him. but there it was, a single tear that betrayed everything he had tried so hard to keep hidden.

“i love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the weight of it hit you like a punch to the gut.

his hand was shaky as he placed it over yours, his fingers brushing against your skin with an almost desperate tenderness.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “for everything. i can’t deal with any of this. i’m not strong enough to deal with anything, no matter how awful i act.”

you shook your head, your chest tightening at his words. “don’t act,” you whispered, squeezing his fingers. “you could’ve lost your life tonight, rafe. and then what?”

his eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, there was a small, hesitant smile on his lips. “you could never lose me,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “you know how i know?”

you shook your head, not understanding, but you didn’t press him. you simply waited, your heart heavy in your chest, as he gave my hand another squeeze.

“because you never lose.”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

a/n: ok guys be skibidi plz bc i had to shorten the ending thanks to tumblrs limit that i didnt even know existed

[servicpop]

electric fueled adefemi akinola ( cyberpunk oc ) x racer ! bttm ftm reader

ⓘ a bit more dialogue heavy than I'd want it to be, implied you've been hooking up, unprofessional doctor / medical play(?) , he uses his vibrating fingers , use of pussy and cunt like once or twice

The city of dreams they called it. Nothing short of a dream when you're seeing holograms reach out to you, and people on the streets with metal and wires embedded into their skin. Adefemi was no stranger to it, having one fully cyberware arm himself.

Day and night he ran this little shop, favored by racers who badly beat up their rides on those hellish courses—only the best of the best could make it through without missing at least a bolt or more. People drove their vehicles in and out, scratched and dented for him to fix with a price.

Though, he had one recurring customer he'd always slip in a discount, for whatever reason he could find.

“'Nother crash?” Adefemi chuckled as he saw you duck under the roller, and push your bike towards him.

You'd come almost everytime he was about to switch that open sign closed, everytime the sun lowered it's harsh rays past the horizon and just barely seeping through the cracks of those high rise buildings. Nonetheless, Adefemi had his shop on the outskirts of the city, so there was nothing but desert and maybe a few gas stations out front. It was far enough that the sun could come through without the disturbance of the buildings.

“Yeah,” he hears you sigh, walking out from behind his workbench as he takes a good look at the state of your bike. All battered and bruised like you'd deliberately swung a bat at it just for an excuse to see him again—or so he'd hope you did.

He ran one metallic finger over the flat surface of your bike, running over the jagged edges of metal from concrete slashes. It seemed like you really had a tough time this race.

“I could probably fix her up in a few days,” He concluded, pulling away from the bike as he rose to a stand from his previous squatting position. He glanced down at your back and then back to you, taking that damned face of yours.

“Say, you came here few weeks ago didn't 'cha?” Adefemi tucked one arm under another as he tilted his head slightly to the left, his metal arm glinting in the low light of the shop. “If you just wanted an excuse to see me, just walk in,” he shrugged, his dark eyebrows raising with the rise of his shoulders.

“Before I get to work, any metal needin' fixing for you?” One thing he liked about you was how human you were. You strayed away from bulky cyberware sticking mainly to little enhancements, never anything flashy like a metal spine or a chrome leg. It made Adefemi think of you less like a metal zombie.

“Maybe just a routine check-up will do.” It didn't hurt to get checked up occasionally seeing that you pretty much neglect your metal needs. You didn't have anything flashy enough to constantly take care of, which was good in a way.

Adefemi nods, hand on his hip as he juts his thumb behind him, pointing to the medical recliner chair hidden behind the plastic translucent curtains. It was very much like a medical setting, one you'd find in a hospital if it wasn't so worn out and stacked with metal parts and whatnot.

You climb onto the chair, laying awkwardly down on it. The fabric of the chair sticks to your bare skin as you adjust your position on it to get comfortable.

Adefemi comes in shortly, pulling those plastic curtains around the two of you as if there were people to see—there wasn't. But it undoubtedly sets the "doctor" mood.

He's wearing one blue glove on his hand with flesh and bones while he disinfects his metal one. They're a sort of silicone material for his fingers, but his palm and the rest are full metal. But it always changes, everytime you come Adefemi always has a new set of fingers like he switches them out based on preference.

“Just a regular check-up aye?” He leans on the side of the recliner with one forearm along it before pushing himself off of it to grab a few tools. “How's your eyesight? I could enhance your night vision if that suits your fancy.”

Night vision. Crucial for races in the dark, especially when those other sadistic assholes always push to ride in the night. You were never one to be into that sensory depravation stuff when it comes to races, preferred to know when you're about to hit the curb and total yourself and your bike.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Adefemi doesn't need a verbal confirmation from you, he just knows from that look in your face “This might sting or feel a bit weird but if you need—one—nice, warm hand to hold onto, I can take off my glove.” What a charm.

You almost consider his proposal when the tweezers come dangerously close to your eye; he's already done the necessary calibrating and loosening screws to ease the process but you can never get used to having your eye plucked out of your head.

It's jarring feeling yourself lose vision in just a second, all you could do is hear Adefemi walk around with his heavy boots against stone cold floors. He's talking—which is a relief—about anything just to reassure you that he's still there and he hasn't disappeared.

Your fingers twitch a little when he's slotting your eye back into its socket; a few blinks and everything seems just a tad bit sharper, clearer.

“What a big boy,” He's praising you, but in the way a mother would do to her son, which only slightly offended you, “Didn't need me to hold your hand, so brave.”

His chest puffs out every time he laughs and he's ruffling your hair before moving on. You see his eyes flicker a gentle blue as he scans your whole body in what you guess for any signs of injury. It was common that you'd get at least a few scratches or cuts from your races.

He pauses after seeing a particularly nasty gash running from your hip bone down to your inner thigh. You must've taken quite the fall to get something like that, to have a gash all the way from the side of your hip to your thigh.

“Nasty,” he grimaces, almost as if visualising how you got it. “I gotta get a little close n' personal, hope that's alright,” He raises his palms, holding his hands up in surrender and to show his peace.

He's unbuttoning your pants and sliding it under your legs, folding it neatly and placing it on the table beside him. You can tell he's been raised well, folds your clothes efficiently and neatly, makes you wonder if he's the type of person to have his closets and drawers all tidy like that.

He pushes the bottom of your underwear up to see a little more of that marred skin. He takes a good look at it before grabbing a cotton ball and gently dabbed it along the cut. There were some awkward moments were he had to blindly apply the medication to the gash that was covered by your clothing. The cotton ball was coated in some sort of antiseptic which inevitably stung, and before you could squirm or start kicking him in the face out of pain, Adefemi uses his cold, metal hand to hold you down by your thigh.

“Don't go thrashing your legs like a madman, you'll hurt yourself more than me,” His voice is lazy, almost tired but still has a playful lilt to it. His hand eventually travels to your lower stomach, and he applies a gentle heat to his hand to soothe you—an enhancement he gave himself.

It's a new one, since you've never seen him use it before but it's nice, like a heat pack resting on your tummy.

“New enhancement?” You ask, and momentarily the stinging pain is forgotten.

“Yeah, you like it? I got a few others too,” His eyes are trained on your wound but his mind is focused on your words. A true multi-tasker. He lifts his head to reach for some bandages, before he looks back up at you.

“I'm gonna take off the uh—rest just so I can bandage you properly,” He's sliding down your underwear extremely slowly, giving you enough time to back out and tell him to stop if you ever got uncomfortable. He slides it down your legs and off from your feet, placing it on top of your folded jeans.

He lifts your thigh up just enough for him to roll the bandage under and over the flesh. Both his hands are on you, one metal hand gently cupping the side of your thigh while the other secures the white bandages over your wound. You're staring at his face, gazing at the way his eyes always seem to flicker to one specific spot. It makes you concious to say the least, but you'd trust him with your whole body.

Adefemi seems to notice your darting eyes and he sighs with a small smile, shaking his head as he looks up at you.

“Gettin' nervous are we?” He drawls, his voice a low rumble as if etched with a lack of sleep—or too much, “We can check that up too, If you're up for it.”

You can't bring yourself to say no, it's been awhile since you've really been able to spend time with your good ol' mechanic in that way. Though you're not entirely sure if he genuinely means to check or if he's inviting you to do something else.

“Y'know dysfunction is gettin' real common lately.”

Right.

“Can't hurt to treat it early, can it?”

Right.

You slowly nod, tilting your head to the side mostly out of embarrassment. He's so slow in his movements, gently brushing his fingertips along your folds, using two fingers to push them apart in a V shape. Its a strange feeling, cold metal on the warmest part of your body, it makes you twitch. Adefemi stays in that position, just staring at your flesh, taking note of whatever he's observing.

“Looks good, I'll run a few tests alright?” You know what he's implying with that, and he's taking it a step further by flexing his metallic hand “We can test my new features while we're at it.”

He shifts to stay beside you rather than at your legs, one hand leaning over the table beside your recliner with a pen between his fingers while his other hand rests low on your pelvis.

“At anytime you feel any pain or uncomfort, let me know,” He's using that fake tone of his to make himself sound a little more like a real doctor. More than the back alley mechanic he is.

He's careful with his movements as he slips a finger over your slit, the base of his finger brushes against your clit as he dips the tip into your opening. He hears you gasp a little and you can faintly hear a small chuckle to himself, followed by the scribbles of pen on paper.

He's so slowly rubbing his finger in and out, ensuring everytime he pulls his finger out, he digs the ball of his palm against that sweet nub. The mechanical heat from the rest of his metallic hand on your lower stomach doesn't help either; its almost soothing despite how agonisingly gentle and lazy he's being with you.

Adefemi glances back down at you before speaking, “Don't freak out, yeah? I ain't here to hurt you. It's just a little buzz—it'll feel good in a sec'.”

You feel a soft vibration from his finger, like a slow massage gun. He lets you adjust, getting all your squirms and soft whimpers as you restrain your back from arching up into his hand.

He slots another finger in—his ring finger alongside with his middle—firmly warming his fingers deep within your tight walls before upping the intensity. He arches his hand up from its resting position along your body, pressing his thumb against your clit. Adefemi rubs it in deep circles, observing the way you rake your fingers against his poor chair and hike your knees up to half-assedly alleviate the overwhelming sensation.

“You enjoying yourself?” He snorts at the tremble of your eyelashes and the whines bubbling in your throat, “Feels good don't it? Got it just for seein' pretty boys like you come all unwrapped.”

He pulls his soaked fingers from your cunt, rubbing your aching pussy like a gentle caress before delving his fingers back inside. You would've thought the soft scribbling in the background would drive you insane but its hard to think about what pisses you off more than what pleasures you.

“You gonna come pretty boy?” He teases slowly, the drowsiness of his tone was pretty much hypnotising—the things this man could do with his voice alone. His lazy chuckles were a product of seeing your pre-cum spray out from the frequency of the vibrations his hand was giving off, and the desperate raise of your hips to meet his fingers.

“Hmm... ain't that right?”

He writes down something for one last time before he places the pen down, turning his full attention to you. His free full flesh hand comes down on your head, stroking along the direction your hair sprouts from the crown of your head.

Adefemi's gentle head caresses have a great difference to his other hand. He's taken the responsibility to get you across the edge, curling his fingers agaisnt your sweet spot as he starts thrusting his fingers. It makes an obscene plap noise each time he pounds his thick, metal fingers into you.

With the hand so delicately stroking your hair, he grips it enough to manipulate the angle of your head, tilting it back so he can better hear all those noises spill from your mouth.

As your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut, Adefemi hums softly, watching as you soak his recliner with the evidence of your orgasm. He works you through the after-high tuning down the vibrations and focusing on making it feel comfortable.

“Better than I thought,” He notes, sliding his fingers out before walking over to the sink to wash his hands. He glances back at you, legs shut and your head tilted back as your chest rises and falls from your breaths.

“Nothin' to worry about,” he swivels back around, grabbing your underwear as he wipes your bottom half with a warm cloth, slipping the fabric over your ankles, up your thighs and around your hips.

He reaches over and grabs your pants, helping you put them back on and even doing up your buttons for you.

“Next time though, if you just wanna see me, you don't hafta' crash your bike over it.”

[flux1563]

The Beast Party

Another part of The Best Party

tags : orgy, sex party, squirting, ass and pussy gape, gangbang. 

Words : 11245

On a relaxing afternoon, Kim Minju, a former member of the idol group IZONE, and Kim Chaewon, a current member of LE SSERAFIM and also a former IZONE member, were hanging out together in the heart of Seoul. It had become somewhat of a tradition for the two to catch up whenever their busy schedules allowed — a comforting return to familiarity amidst the whirlwind of their separate lives.

Chaewon, true to form, was a whirlwind of energy, her laughter echoing through the cozy café they had chosen for their meetup. A free spirit with a penchant for spontaneity, she launched into vivid tales of her latest adventures, her eyes gleaming with excitement. Her stories, often filled with late-night escapades and unexpected twists, left Minju both amused and slightly horrified. As Chaewon animatedly shared the latest gossip, her hands moved like a silent film starlet narrating a scandalous drama, drawing laughter and wide-eyed reactions from her old friend.

One evening, as the two friends lounged on the couch, surrounded by takeout boxes and forgotten TV shows, Chaewon's latest idea struck like a bolt of lightning. "Remember that wild party we had?" she began, her voice low and mischievous. "What if we went even wilder? Like, really wild. We could go on vacation and throw a beast party!"

Minju's eyes widened, and she sat up straight, a forgotten chopstick slipping from her fingers. "Africa?" she whispered, her mind racing with the possibilities. The continent was a canvas of adventure, a place where their most daring desires could become reality.

Their conversation grew heated, a tangible excitement charging the air. They scoured the internet, eyes glossing over images of vast savannahs and exotic beasts. They weren't just looking for a party, but a once-in-a-lifetime experience that would blow the doors off their mundane lives.

Their excitement grew with each click, and before they knew it, their dreams of a wild African adventure had crystallized into a plan. They'd leave the concrete jungle behind and immerse themselves in a place where the rules were theirs to rewrite. Little did they know, this journey would be the catalyst for a tale of passion and debauchery that would make their previous escapades seem tame.

Minju and Chaewon took a much-needed break from their frenzied preparations and stepped onto the golden sands of a secluded African beach, the sun setting in a fiery blaze behind them.

The villa they'd rented was a modern marvel, nestled in the embrace of lush palm trees, its gleaming white walls and thatched roof whispering of luxurious secrets. Inside, the cool embrace of air conditioning and the scent of tropical flowers greeted them like a soothing balm. They flopped onto the plush couches in the open-plan living area, their laughter bouncing off the high ceilings.

"Can you believe we're actually here?" Minju said, her eyes wide with wonder. "It's like a dream come true."

Chaewon leaned back, a smug smile playing on her lips. "I told you we could make it happen. Now, let's get down to business. We've got a party to plan!"

But Minju's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the fiery sun melted into the sea. "But we need to take a rest first," she murmured, the fatigue of their travels finally catching up to her.

The next day, they prepared themselves for the ultimate beach day, each donning an erotic bikini that screamed of their daring spirits. Minju's was a simple yet elegant black two-piece that accentuated her curves without revealing too much, while Chaewon opted for a flamboyant red number that barely contained her ample assets. The fabric was so skimpy it was practically a second skin, leaving little to the imagination.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Minju felt a jolt of excitement as she took in Chaewon's reflection. She'd never seen her friend look so... predatory. "You're going to turn heads," she said, her voice thick with desire.

"That's the idea," Chaewon purred, her hands smoothing over her hips. "But we need to make sure everyone's invited. Let's start with the locals. They know how to throw a party like nobody's business."

They spent the next few hours exploring the beach, their eyes peeled for any signs of life. The ocean rolled out before them, a vast, untamed sea that mirrored the wildness they sought. They approached a group of muscular young men playing beach volleyball, their dark skin gleaming with sweat. Chaewon wasted no time, sauntering over with a seductive smile. "Hey, guys," she called out, her voice carrying over the sound of the waves. "You wouldn't happen to know how to throw a party around here, would you?"

The men stopped mid-game, their gazes drawn to the two foreign beauties. The tallest one, a man named Kofi, grinned, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. "We throw the best parties on this coast," he boasted. "But we need more than just us."

Minju and Chaewon exchanged glances, their hearts racing with anticipation. "We want to invite everyone," Minju said. "Make it a week-long celebration. We've got the villa, the drinks, and the stamina. What do you say?"

Kofi's eyes lit up. "Seven days, seven nights of pure madness," he mused, a hint of challenge in his tone. "You're on. But you'd better be ready for what we bring to the table."

The two friends nodded eagerly, their imaginations already running wild with the possibilities. They had eight days to make their wildest fantasies come true, and they were going to use every single moment to its fullest. They returned to the villa, adrenaline pumping through their veins as they set about transforming the serene retreat into a hedonistic playground.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of excitement and preparation. They spent hours on the beach, soaking in the sun's kiss while they discussed party themes and guest lists. They swam in the warm waters, letting the waves crash over them as they laughed and plotted. The local market became their personal treasure trove, as they bought exotic foods and decorations that would make their event the talk of the town.

"This night gonna go wild for us," Chaewon said with a knowing smile, her eyes sparkling like the diamond necklace she'd bought from a street vendor. She lounged on a sunbed, sipping a cocktail that was as vibrant as the setting sun. The alcohol had loosened her inhibitions, and she began to dance to the music playing softly from a nearby radio, her body moving in a way that was both sensual and uninhibited.

Minju watched her friend with a mix of admiration and nervousness. She knew Chaewon's power over men, and she hoped that their plan would not only be successful but also safe. They had spread the word far and wide that their villa was open to any man who sought a night of unbridled pleasure, a promise that had sent whispers through the local community like wildfire.

As night descended upon them, the air grew thick with anticipation. The scent of spicy meat sizzling on a makeshift BBQ mingled with the sweet aroma of tropical flowers, creating an intoxicating bouquet that hung heavy over the partygoers. The DJ, a local talent they had discovered in the market, had set up his decks on the beach, the bass thumping through the sand. The lights from the villa cast a warm glow over the gathering, which grew by the minute.

Minju and Chaewon didn't know how many men had responded to their invitation, but as they surveyed the growing crowd, they realized it was more than they had ever dreamed of. Each one was a potential dance partner, a conversationalist, or perhaps even something more. They felt a thrill of excitement, their hearts pounding in their chests like drums echoing the rhythm of the night.

As the party grew wilder, so did their drinking. The cocktails flowed freely, each one more potent than the last, and the two friends threw caution to the wind, letting the alcohol dissolve their inhibitions like sugar in water. Minju giggled as she sipped from a concoction that changed color with every sip, feeling the warmth spread through her body like a lover's embrace. Chaewon, ever the social butterfly, flitted from group to group, her laughter as potent as the drinks she handed out.

The music grew louder, the beats pulsating through the night like the heart of the jungle itself. The sand beneath their feet vibrated with the rhythm, and before long, the two friends found themselves at the center of the makeshift dance floor, their hips swaying to the hypnotic melody. The men watched them with hungry eyes, their gazes lingering on the way their bikinis barely contained their voluptuous forms.

Suddenly, the DJ couldn't resist the siren's call any longer. He abandoned his decks, leaving the music to play on repeat, and strutted over to Minju and Chaewon. His movements were fluid, almost feline, as he slipped between them, wrapping an arm around each of their waists. They laughed in surprise as he began to grind against them, his muscles flexing with the beat. The other partygoers cheered, creating a circle around the trio, egging them on with whistles and claps.

The air grew electric as the music's tempo increased. The men in the crowd, their eyes glazed with lust and alcohol, began to step closer, reaching out to touch the two friends. Minju felt a hand slip beneath the fabric of her bikini top, and she gasped, her body tensing. But instead of fear, she felt a thrill of excitement. This was what they had come for. Chaewon's eyes met hers, and she saw the same hunger reflected in her friend's gaze.

As if on cue, the DJ reached behind him and untied the string of his board shorts, letting them fall to the sand. He stepped back, revealing a cock that was indeed larger than any they had ever seen. It was thick, with a girth that could easily wrap a fist and a length that seemed to stretch on forever. The men in the crowd murmured in awe, their own desires swelling as they took in the sight.

The DJ's confidence grew with every beat of the music, and soon, more men began to follow his lead. They pulled down their swim trunks, exposing themselves to the warm night air. Each cock was a testament to the raw, unbridled lust that pulsed through the gathering. The sight was overwhelming, a veritable smorgasbord of male virility.

But it was the DJ's member that truly stole the show. With a diameter that could easily wrap a hand and a length that defied belief, it stood proudly before them like a monument to carnality. The crowd's murmurs grew into a dull roar, a primal chant that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath their feet.

The sight was both terrifying and thrilling, and Minju felt her pussy throb in response, wet with a need she hadn't realized she had. Chaewon's eyes widened, and she licked her lips, a wicked smile playing on her face as she took in the display before her. "Looks like we're in for a wild ride," she whispered into Minju's ear, the heat of her breath sending shivers down her spine.

Minju could only nod, her eyes still transfixed on the monstrous cock that seemed to have a life of its own, pulsing in time with the music. The DJ took a step closer, and she could feel the heat radiating from him, the promise of pleasure and pain wrapped up in one delicious package. She knew that she'd never be able to handle something so... substantial, but the thought of trying sent a thrill of excitement through her body.

"All of us are naked now," they murmured in unison, their voices a siren's call that echoed through the night. One by one, the partygoers began to shed their clothing, revealing their own desires for the world to see. The beach became a sea of naked flesh, each body a canvas of wanton need.

Minju's eyes were drawn to one man in particular, his cock a testament to the beauty of the African night. It was as big as her forearm, thick and veiny with a girth that had to be at least three inches in diameter. "Look at that," she whispered to Chaewon, her voice a mix of awe and apprehension. "It's like nothing we've ever seen before."

Chaewon followed her gaze, her pupils dilating with excitement. "Twelve inches lengths and three inches diameter, if it's an inch," she murmured, her hand absently reaching down to caress her own clit. The thought of taking such a monstrous member inside her was both terrifying and exhilarating. "I want to feel it," she breathed, her voice barely audible over the music.

Minju felt a tremor of excitement run through her as the man with the colossal cock approached them, his stride confident and predatory. "You'll get it soon, baby," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate in her very core. His eyes were dark with lust as he looked her over, his cock jutting out before him like a spear.

The other men gathered around, their tongues already out, eager to taste the sweetness that was Minju and Chaewon. They began to lick them, starting at their toes and moving slowly up their legs. The sensation was strange, a mix of tickling and pleasure that made Minju's knees wobble. Chaewon moaned, her eyes rolling back in her head as the men took turns, their tongues dancing over every inch of their skin.

One by one, the men knelt before them, their tongues flicking out to taste the nectar that was their pussies. Minju gasped as the first man's tongue met her clit, sending shockwaves through her body. The sensation was unlike anything she'd ever felt, a symphony of pleasure that had her bucking against the sand. Chaewon's eyes were squeezed shut, her body arched as she rode the waves of pleasure that crashed over her.

Their hands reached out, tentatively at first, to the men surrounding them. They touched, explored, and teased, learning the contours of each cock as if they were sacred artifacts. The men groaned in unison, their hips jerking with every stroke of the girls' soft fingers. The party had become a ritual, a tapestry of desire that wove together the wildness of the jungle with the decadence of civilization.

Minju and Chaewon's tongues danced over the velvety heads of the men's cocks, tasting the salty pre-cum that beaded at their tips. They took turns, each one eager to prove their skill, to show the others what they were capable of. The air was thick with the scent of arousal, a heady perfume that intoxicated them further.

The men groaned in unison, their eyes rolling back in their heads as the two friends worked in tandem, their mouths moving in a rhythm that was as ancient as it was erotic. Chaewon took the lead, her mouth sliding over one cock while her hand stroked another, her movements a symphony of seduction. Minju watched, her own desire spiking as she saw the effect they had on the men.

"Give us all that cock," Chaewon demanded, her voice a sultry purr that sent a shiver down Minju's spine. The words were a declaration of war on their inhibitions, a battle cry for their most primal instincts. The men didn't need any more encouragement. They surged forward, eager to satisfy the hunger in the girls' eyes.

Minju's breath hitched as she felt a cock nudge against her wetness, the tip teasing her swollen clit. It was the DJ, his member so thick it was like a battering ram at her gates. She spread her legs wider, welcoming the intrusion, the anticipation building to a crescendo within her. Chaewon, on the other hand, was surrounded by a group of men, each eager to claim a piece of her for themselves.

The man with the twelve-inch monstrosity didn't waste any time. He grabbed Chaewon's face and forced his cock into her mouth, his grip unyielding. Her eyes watered as she took him in, her throat stretching to accommodate his girth. He began to thrust, the sound of her gagging muffled by the cacophony of the party. Despite the fear and discomfort, she felt a twisted thrill, her body responding to the sheer power and dominance he exuded.

Meanwhile, two more men positioned themselves behind Minju, their cocks standing at attention. She felt the tip of one nudging at her pussy, the other at her ass, both so thick they seemed to be testing the limits of what she could handle. Her heart raced as she looked over at Chaewon, who met her gaze with a look that was a mix of terror and excitement. This was it, the moment of truth.

"Ready?" one of the men murmured in her ear, his breath hot and heavy with desire. Minju nodded, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she braced herself for what was to come. With one swift movement, they entered her, one after the other, filling her completely. She screamed out, the word "fuck" torn from her throat with the force of a tornado. It was more than she'd ever felt, a sensation that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

The man with the colossal cock took his position at the back, his grip firm as he guided himself into her tight, unexplored depths. Minju's eyes rolled back in her head as she felt herself stretched to the limits of endurance, her body trembling with the sheer size of him. Chaewon, on her knees beside her, watched with wide eyes, her own mouth full of another man's cock. She could feel her friend's pain, a mirror to her own, and she reached out to grip her hand, a silent offering of solidarity in their shared debauchery.

The two men inside her began to move in unison, their rhythm a brutal dance that had her body jolting with every thrust. She could feel every vein, every pulse of their cocks as they claimed her, their girth stretching her to the point of agony. Her pussy and ass burned, but amidst the pain was a blossoming flower of pleasure, a sweet agony that had her hips rising to meet them, eager for more.

"Aghh, my pussy and ass stretch so much," Minju groaned, her voice a desperate cry that was swallowed by the roar of the party. Her words were a siren's call, drawing more men to her, eager to claim a piece of the exotic beauty before them. They watched with hungry eyes, stroking themselves as they waited for their turn, the sight of her being used so thoroughly only adding to their arousal.

Chaewon's mouth was a cavern of pleasure around the thick shaft in her mouth, her cheeks hollowed with the effort of taking him in. She could feel his cock pulse with every beat of his heart, his excitement growing as he watched his friends claim Minju. The taste of him was musky, a blend of sweat and lust that she found oddly intoxicating. Despite her own discomfort, she felt a thrill run through her, a heady mix of power and submission.

Minju's eyes rolled back in her head, her body responding to the relentless pounding. She felt her orgasm building, a tsunami that she had no hope of holding back. The man with the colossal cock was a maestro, his strokes deep and sure, hitting a spot inside her that she didn't even know existed. The pressure grew, a tight coil in her belly, until she could bear it no longer.

With a scream that was lost in the din of the party, Minju squirted, the force of her release so intense it drenched the men behind her. Chaewon watched, her eyes glazed with a mix of shock and arousal as her friend's body bucked and writhed in pleasure. The sight of Minju's pussy gushing was a revelation, a display of sexual power that had the men around her stumbling over themselves to get closer.

The man with the massive cock took this as his cue to let go, and with a triumphant roar, he began to pump his seed into Minju's welcoming depths. The sensation of being filled so completely was almost too much for her, and she collapsed onto the sand, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Chaewon felt a wetness spread between her own thighs, the sight of Minju's pleasure triggering a climax of her own. She squirted, her pussy spraying the man who had been fucking her face, her juices mingling with the spit and cum that already coated her features.

As the first round of passion waned, the men withdrew, their cocks slick with the girls' cum and their own. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a heady mix that seemed to intoxicate everyone present. The men looked down at Minju and Chaewon with a mix of awe and lust, their seed spurting from their pussy and ass, painting the sand with a sticky, white trail. The girls lay there, panting and spent, their bodies limp as ragdolls.

"Our dreams come true, Chaewon," Minju murmured, her voice shaky with the aftermath of her climax.

"I think my pussy keep spasming," Chaewon gasped, her breathing still ragged as she leaned against Minju, their bodies sticky with a mix of sweat and cum. The feeling of the cool sand against her back was a stark contrast to the fiery passion that had just consumed her.

"Mine too," Minju agreed, her voice a hoarse whisper. The man who had just filled her to the brim with his seed looked down at her with a smug smile, his eyes lingering on the gaping O her pussy had become. His friends crowded around, their own cocks still erect and glistening with pre-cum, eager to take their turns.

One by one, they stepped up, each taking a moment to admire the sight before them. They were like animals in heat, each more primal than the last, as they claimed Minju's body with a ferocity that was both terrifying and exhilarating. She felt their weight upon her, their cocks sliding into her, stretching her until she thought she would split in two.

The men took turns, their grunts and groans mixing with Minju's cries of pleasure. Each round was a new adventure, a new level of depravity that she had never before experienced. She felt her body respond to their every touch, her pussy contracting around their cocks as if it had been made just for this. Chaewon, not to be outdone, was busy taking on two men at once, her mouth and pussy a never-ending source of pleasure for them.

Their juices flowed freely, mingling with the sweat that coated their bodies. The sight of Minju's pussy, stretched and dripping, was too much for the men to resist. They took turns, each one more eager than the last to feel her squirt around them, to be the one to make her body convulse with pleasure. Her moans grew louder with each round, her voice hoarse from the sheer volume of her passion.

The partygoers watched, their own desires stoked by the sight of Minju and Chaewon being taken so thoroughly. The beach had become a carnival of lust, a place where inhibitions were left at the door and every desire was allowed to roam free. The music continued to play, the bass pounding in time with the rhythm of their hips, as if the very earth was in sync with their carnality.

As the night wore on, the men grew more aggressive, their strokes more frenzied. They were like a pack of wild animals, each fighting for dominance, each eager to leave their mark. Minju felt herself become a part of the landscape, her body a battleground for their desires. Yet, through it all, she never once felt less than the queen of the night.

The men took her to the edge and beyond, pushing her to heights she had never dared dream of. Her squirts grew stronger with each round, her body a fountain of pleasure that seemed to have no end. Chaewon, too, was lost in her own world, her eyes glazed with lust as she took on more and more men.

Ten rounds, then eleven, and still they came. Each man took his turn, each one more vigorous than the last. The beach was a blur of limbs and flesh, a tapestry of desire and debauchery that stretched as far as the eye could see. And through it all, Minju and Chaewon remained the center, their bodies a canvas for the men's pleasure.

Their cries grew louder, their bodies weaker, until finally, with a collective roar, the men released their seed. It spurted into Minju, filling her to the brim until she could take no more. She collapsed, her body trembling with the force of her climax, her pussy pulsing with the aftershocks of pleasure. Chaewon followed suit, her legs giving out as she was drenched in cum.

As the twelfth round came to an end, the crowd erupted into applause. The men, their cocks now sated, stepped back, their chests heaving with exertion. They had given the girls the experience they had craved, and in return, Minju and Chaewon had given them a night they would never forget.

The two friends lay there, panting and exhausted, their bodies slick with sweat and cum. They looked at each other, the reality of what they had just done setting in. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, a moment that had surpassed any party they had ever thrown in Seoul.

Minju's eyes rolled back in her head, her body shaking as she felt another round of pleasure build up inside her. She didn't think it was possible, but her pussy was still pulsing, begging for more. Chaewon, equally spent, leaned into her, their bodies sticking together with the remnants of the men's passion.

Their breathing grew shallow, their hearts racing like wild horses as the men continued to worship them. Each new cock brought with it a fresh wave of sensation, a symphony of pain and pleasure that seemed to never end. It was as if their bodies had been taken over by some primal instinct, a hunger that could never be fully satiated.

With each new round, Minju felt herself slipping further into the abyss, her mind a whirlwind of sensation and emotion. The men's grunts and groans grew fainter, the world around them a blur of color and sound. The only thing that remained clear was the feeling of their cocks inside her, a never-ending dance of dominance and submission.

As the night grew darker and the stars twinkled above them, the men grew bolder. They pushed and pulled at her, their hands roaming over every inch of her flesh as if they could never get enough. Her pussy clenched around them, her ass spasming with each thrust, a silent scream of pleasure that echoed through the night.

The girls' moans grew weaker, their bodies no longer able to keep up with the relentless onslaught. Yet even as they reached their breaking points, the men didn't relent. They had become beasts, driven by a lust that seemed to have no end. Minju felt her vision swim, the world going dark at the edges.

Suddenly, with a gasp, she felt it. Her orgasm hit her like a sledgehammer, her body arching off the sand as she squirted once more, the force of it so intense that it sent shockwaves through the very air. Chaewon's eyes rolled back in her head, her own body responding to the symphony of pleasure.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The men stepped back, their cocks still erect but their eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction and awe. They had taken the two friends to the very brink of their limits and back again.

Their bodies lay still, their breathing ragged and uneven, as the reality of what they had just done set in. They had given themselves over to the night, to the wildness of Africa, and had come out the other side forever changed.

"I think we should stop, it's been fifteen rounds," one of the men spoke up, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the universe. His words hung in the air, a sobering reminder that even the most hedonistic of nights must come to an end.

Minju's body continued to quiver, her pussy and ass clenching around the two cocks still buried inside her. Her squirts had turned into a constant flow, a river of pleasure that seemed to have no end. She could feel her muscles protesting, begging for respite, but the desire was too strong, too all-consuming to ignore.

Chaewon lay beside her, equally spent, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her own climaxes. Her face was a mask of ecstasy, her eyes glazed over as she too succumbed to the relentless pounding. The men had become a blur of skin and muscle, a never-ending stream of cocks that filled her to the brim.

Finally, with a collective groan that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth, the men withdrew. The last of them pulled out of Chaewon's pussy, leaving it gaping and swollen, a testament to the night's excesses. Minju felt a pang of jealousy as she watched the cum dribble out of her friend's tight hole, her own desires flaring up once again.

The beach was silent except for the sound of the waves and the heavy breathing of the exhausted partygoers. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a reminder of the carnival of lust that had unfolded before their very eyes. Minju's body was a map of bruises and bites, a roadmap of pleasure that she would wear proudly for days to come.

Her eyes fluttered open, the world coming into focus slowly. Chaewon lay next to her, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath, her face a mask of exhaustion. The men had moved away, leaving them alone in their post-coital bliss. Minju pushed herself up onto her elbows, her body protesting the movement but her spirit unbroken.

Her eyes traveled down to her pussy, still glistening with cum, and she watched in amazement as it spasmed, releasing another stream of fluid into the night air. It was as if her body hadn't gotten the memo that the party was over, the orgasms still coming in waves even when she thought she had nothing left to give. Chaewon's body seemed to echo her own, her pussy clenching and releasing in a silent symphony of pleasure.

"Done for tonight guys, they got faint," one of the men announced, his voice a mix of concern and satisfaction. The crowd of men around them nodded in agreement, their cocks still hard but their eyes filled with a newfound respect for the two friends who had taken them on a journey they would never forget.

Minju and Chaewon were hoisted up by the strong arms of the beach volleyball players and carried back to the villa, their legs limp and their bodies covered in the sticky residue of the night's festivities. The moon cast a soft glow over the path, lighting their way as they stumbled through the door, their hearts racing from both the exertion and the excitement of the evening.

The girls were brought to a grand floor-to-ceiling bathroom, the white marble gleaming in the dim light. They were laid down gently on the cold, hard surface, their bodies shivering from the sudden change in temperature. The men looked down at them with a mix of lust and affection, their own cocks still standing tall despite the hours of use.

Without a word, one of the men stepped forward and positioned himself between Minju's legs, his cock still slick with her juices. He began to piss, the warm stream hitting her swollen clit and sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. Chaewon watched, her own desire flaring up again as she felt the warmth of another man's urine cascade over her. It was a strange, almost tender act, a communion of bodies that transcended the mere physical.

The men took turns, their golden rivers mingling with the cum and sweat that coated the girls. The scent was pungent, a potent mix of sex and bodily fluids that seemed to fill the room. Minju's body reacted involuntarily, her pussy clenching around the warmth, her squirts joining the stream to create a small pool on the marble. Chaewon moaned, her own pussy spasming as the urine hit her sensitive flesh.

The sensation was oddly soothing, a balm to their abused bodies. They lay there, letting the piss wash over them, cleansing them of the night's excesses. It was as if the very essence of the men was being transferred into them, marking them as their own.

When the last man had emptied himself, they stepped back, their eyes never leaving the girls' prone forms. The music from the party outside grew faint, the night air a gentle caress against their skin. The moment hung in the air, a tableau of desire and submission that neither Minju nor Chaewon would ever forget.

With a nod to each other, the beach volleyball players turned on the jet shower, the powerful stream of water hitting the marble floor with a sharp hiss. The spray arced over the girls' bodies, the water a warm embrace that began to wash away the evidence of their night of unbridled passion. The men stepped aside, leaving them to the mercy of the water, their eyes lingering on the two friends as they retreated from the bathroom.

Minju felt the water hit her face, her eyes still squeezed shut from the intensity of her experiences. She let out a soft moan as the warmth began to soothe her, the pressure of the jets massaging her sore muscles. Her pussy, though still pulsing with need, seemed to have finally found a moment of reprieve. Chaewon lay beside her, equally spent, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

The men had been surprisingly gentle in their aftercare, their rough hands tender as they had helped clean the sticky residue from their bodies. They had worked as a team, wiping away the evidence of their passion with a thoroughness that was almost clinical.

As the last of them left the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click, Minju and Chaewon were left alone. The only sound was the steady drip of water from the showerhead, a gentle reminder of the river of fluids that had flowed between them.

Minju's body was a canvas of ecstasy, her pussy and ass gaping open like a pair of surprised O's, a silent testament to the men's unyielding dominance. Chaewon's legs were sprawled out, her own pussy and ass still pulsing with the aftershocks of their shared experience. They lay there, unmoving, their bodies a testament to the unbridled passion they had just endured.

"Wow, their pussies are still gaping," one of the men said to the others, his voice filled with amazement. The rest of the group chuckled, their laughter a mix of disbelief and admiration. They had never seen anything quite so depraved, and yet, there was something undeniably alluring about the two women's vulnerability.

The night had been a blur of pleasure and pain, a symphony of flesh that had left them all reeling. But as the first light of dawn began to peek over the horizon, the reality of what they had done set in. They had pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable, and the aftermath was both exhilarating and terrifying.

 

Minju and Chaewon lay there, their bodies a tapestry of bruises and bites, their pussies and assholes gaping open like open flowers, begging for more. The cool water from the shower had brought a slight respite, but it was the gentle touch of each other's hands that truly helped to soothe their spirits. They climbed to their feet, their legs wobbly as newborn foals, and stumbled into the massive bathtub that was part of the villa's luxurious bathroom.

The shock of the sperm continuing to ooze out of them was something they had not anticipated. It was as if their bodies were a sponge, soaked in cum and now slowly releasing it back into the world. They giggled to themselves as they slid into the warm embrace of the water, feeling the last remnants of the men's seed slide out of them with a soft plop. The tub filled with a murky white mixture, a silent testament to the marathon of fucking they had just endured.

"Did we go too wild last night?" Chaewon whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming.

Minju chuckled, her body still buzzing from the endless stream of pleasure. "Maybe," she said, her voice equally raspy. "But look at us now. Our pussies are still giving us a standing ovation."

They slid into the tub, the warm water enveloping them like a comforting embrace. It washed over their sore muscles, the jets massaging away the tension of the night. The sperm and piss swirled around their bodies, a bizarre mix that seemed to symbolize the unity they had shared with the men.

As the water grew murkier, Minju reached for the soap, her hand shaking slightly. She began to lather herself up, her movements methodical and precise. Chaewon watched her, a strange sense of awe filling her chest. Despite the pain, she felt a sense of pride at what they had achieved.

They had pushed themselves beyond their limits and come out the other side, forever changed. The soap slid over Minju's bruised skin, bubbles popping as they touched the myriad of bites and scratches that adorned her body. Chaewon followed suit, the foam clinging to her curves as she washed away the remnants of their wild night.

When they could no longer ignore the call of their weary bodies, they stepped out of the tub, the water draining away and revealing their exhausted forms. The plush bathrobes that had been left for them were like a warm embrace, the soft fabric caressing their sensitive skin as they wrapped themselves up in them. Their feet padded softly against the cool marble, leaving wet footprints as they made their way back to the bedroom, the warmth of the robes a stark contrast to the chill of the floor.

The bed was a heavenly sight, the crisp white sheets beckoning to them like a cloud. They collapsed onto it, their bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs. Despite the pain and the stickiness that lingered, they felt a deep sense of satisfaction, a bond that went beyond friendship, forged in the crucible of their shared experience. They lay there for a moment, panting and trembling, their hearts slowly returning to a more normal rhythm.

Then, the knock came.

It was a firm, insistent knock, echoing through the quiet villa, a stark contrast to the symphony of pleasure that had filled it just hours before. Minju's eyes snapped open, her heart racing. Chaewon stirred beside her, a sleepy groan escaping her lips as she too was jolted from the haze of their afterglow. They stared at each other in shock, the reality of their situation crashing down upon them like a tidal wave.

Minju's hand trembled as she reached for the knob. As she pulled the door open, she was met with a sight that was both erotic and intimidating: a sea of naked, aroused men, their eyes hungry with desire.

"We heard it was a week-long party," Kofi, the DJ from the beach, said with a wink. "We didn't want to miss our turn."

Minju and Chaewon shared a look that was half fear, half excitement. They had never intended for things to go this far, but there was something in the air that night, a primal energy that had taken control of everyone involved. With a collective sigh, they allowed their bathrobes to be taken off, their bruised and swollen bodies once again on full display.

The men's eyes were like those of hunters who had just spotted their prey, filled with a mix of awe and greed. They had seen these two women in their most vulnerable state and were eager to claim them once more. The air grew thick with lust as the robes fell away, revealing the two friends' still-dripping pussies and the marks of the previous night's passion.

Minju felt a rush of excitement and fear mingle in her chest. Her body was still raw from the previous night's festivities, but the sight of the men's hard cocks made her stomach flutter. Chaewon, ever the wild one, gave a low, guttural growl, her body visibly responding to the challenge laid before them.

With a grace that seemed almost predatory, the men stepped forward, their bathrobes sliding off their muscular frames to reveal their arousal. The room was filled with the sound of fabric hitting the floor, the gentle thuds echoing in the quiet. Their cocks stood tall and proud, a silent promise of more pleasure to come.

The first man approached Minju, his cock thick and veiny, the head glistening with pre-cum. Without a word, he pushed her onto her back, her legs falling open as if on instinct. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he positioned himself at her entrance. With one swift movement, he plunged into her, filling her up without a moment's hesitation.

"Fuckk, still sore," Chaewon screamed, her voice a mix of pleasure and pain as she was claimed by another man. Her body arched off the bed, her toes curling in ecstasy as he slammed into her, his cock stretching her beyond what she thought possible.

Minju felt a similar wave of sensation as she was taken by Kofi once more, his rhythm relentless and demanding. Despite her exhaustion, she found herself meeting his every thrust, her pussy clenching around him like a vice. Her body had become an instrument of pleasure, a vessel for the men's desires.

The days turned into a blur of sexual excess, each night more intense than the last. The local men took turns with them, their appetites seemingly insatiable. They had become the main attraction of the week-long party, the center of a sexual circus that never stopped. The girls' bodies bore the marks of their encounters, a tapestry of bruises and bites that grew more intricate with each passing hour.

And yet, through it all, there was a strange sense of camaraderie that had developed between them. They had become a team, each one pushing the other to new heights of pleasure, each one eager to explore the depths of their sexuality. They had discovered something within themselves, a power that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

As the week progressed, the men grew more daring in their requests, eager to claim every inch of the two friends. They had become a part of the fabric of the party, a symbol of the unbridled lust that had overtaken the beach villa. The other guests watched with a mix of envy and admiration, their own sexual escapades seemingly tame in comparison to the marathon sessions that Minju and Chaewon endured each night.

The two women had grown to crave the attention, the pain a strange comfort in the sea of pleasure. They had become addicted to the feeling of being used, of being the object of so much desire. And with each new cock that filled them, they grew more confident, more in tune with their own desires.

The days passed in a haze of orgasms and exhaustion, the two friends rarely leaving the bed except to eat or use the bathroom. Their bodies were pushed to the brink, their pussies and assholes gaping and swollen from the constant attention. Yet, they never said no.

On the final night, as the party reached its peak, the men gathered around the bed, their eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and satisfaction. They had saved their best for last, a night that would be talked about for years to come. The girls lay there, their bodies trembling with anticipation, their hearts racing with a mix of fear and excitement.

The last man stepped forward, his cock the largest they had ever seen. Chaewon looked at him with a mix of trepidation and desire, her eyes wide with the knowledge of what was about to happen. Without a word, he positioned himself at her tight, stretched asshole, her pussy already filled to the brim by another man. With one hand, he gripped her hair, pulling her head back, exposing her throat.

With the other, he pushed into her, the head of his cock stretching her open. She screamed, her body bucking against the intrusion, but he didn't relent. Inch by inch, he filled her, his cock claiming her in a way that was both brutal and beautiful.

Minju watched, her own pussy being pounded by a different man, her body a trembling mass of nerves and pleasure. She felt a strange sense of pride as she watched her friend take the final challenge, her body stretched to its limits.

And as the night grew darker and the music grew louder, the two friends reached new heights of ecstasy, their screams mingling with the crash of the waves outside. They had become legends, the center of a sexual odyssey that had changed them forever.

As the last man pulled out, their bodies lay there, spent and used, their eyes glazed over with a look that was half-defeated, half-triumphant. They had done the unthinkable, and in doing so, had discovered something new about themselves. They had become more than just Minju and Chaewon, the roommates and idol from Seoul. They had become the embodiment of desire itself, a living, breathing testament to the power of sexual freedom.

The partygoers erupted into applause once more, their cheers a cacophony that filled the night air. The two friends looked at each other, their bodies slick with cum and sweat, their spirits unbroken despite the relentless onslaught of the past week. They had become the embodiment of sexual endurance, a spectacle that drew both admiration and envy from the crowd.

The men took turns, each one more eager than the last to claim his piece of the two exhausted women. They approached with a hunger that was almost feral, their cocks hard and insistent. The rhythm of their fucking never changed, a steady beat that had become a part of Minju and Chaewon's existence. The pain was a familiar friend now, a constant companion that they welcomed with each new thrust.

Each man took his time, savoring the feel of their tight, abused pussies, pushing deeper and harder as if trying to conquer some unspoken challenge. Minju felt a strange mix of pride and fear as she took each one, her body adapting to the relentless pace, her mind a haze of sensation. Chaewon lay beside her, her body a mirror image of her own, a symphony of pleasure and pain that seemed to have no end.

The night grew wilder, the air thick with lust and the scent of sex. The men grew more aggressive, their movements more primal as they claimed the two friends in every conceivable way. They were no longer individuals; they were a single entity of desire, a living, breathing representation of the human capacity for pleasure.

And through it all, Minju and Chaewon held on, their bodies stretched to the limit, their minds soaring on the wings of ecstasy. They had become one with the night, with the beach, with the very essence of the party. The line between reality and fantasy had blurred, leaving them in a state of perpetual arousal that seemed to have no end.

The final round approached, the air in the villa electric with anticipation. The men had saved their most extreme desires for last, a crescendo of depravity that would leave the girls forever changed. They had pushed them to their limits, and yet they still hungered for more.

The local DJ, Kofi, took the lead, his eyes burning with a hunger that was almost frightening. He pulled Minju onto all fours, her ass in the air, a silent invitation to the men who waited eagerly. One by one, they took her, filling her pussy and ass with their seed, the sounds of their pleasure a symphony of grunts and groans that seemed to shake the very walls.

Chaewon watched, her own body being used by the others, her eyes never leaving her friend's. There was a connection there, a bond that went beyond friendship, beyond any experience they had ever shared. They were in this together, two souls forever linked by the wildness of the night.

The final man stepped up, his cock the largest of all. With a roar that seemed to shake the very earth, he plunged into Minju's gaping asshole, his thrusts brutal and unyielding. She took it all, her body shaking with each powerful stroke, her eyes never leaving Chaewon's.

The tension in the room grew palpable, the men holding their breath as they watched the two friends reach the peak of their endurance. Chaewon's own climax grew closer, her pussy clenching around the cock that filled her. The room was a blur of skin and sweat, a maelstrom of passion that seemed to have no end.

And as the final man reached his climax, filling Minju with his hot cum, the two friends shared a look that was part triumph, part terror. They had survived the week, their bodies a testament to the power of sexual desire. They had become more than mere mortals, they had become goddesses of lust, worshipped by the men who had sought to conquer them.

As the last of the men withdrew, the two friends collapsed onto the bed, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. They lay there, their breathing shallow and uneven, the room silent but for the sound of the waves outside. The party had reached its climax, and as the sun began to rise, casting a soft glow over their bruised and spent forms, they knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

The second night of the week-long party had been just as intense as the first. The local men had once again claimed them, their hunger for the two friends seemingly insatiable. As dawn approached, they had been led into the bathroom, their legs shaking with fatigue. The men had taken turns pissing on them, their warm streams washing over their bodies in a strange ritual that had become a nightly occurrence.

But this time, something was different. The men didn't wait for the shower to be turned on, they didn't watch the water cascade over the girls' bodies, washing away the evidence of their lust. Instead, they simply left, their eyes filled with a mix of respect and awe. The urine grew cold on Minju and Chaewon's skin, a stark reminder of the power dynamics that had been established.

Their bodies continued to spasm, their pussies pulsing with each aftershock of pleasure. They had pushed themselves to the brink and come out the other side, their bodies no longer under their control. The men had used them, claimed them in the most primal of ways, and now they were left to bask in the aftermath.

The silence was deafening as they lay there, their breathing the only sound in the cavernous bathroom. The marble was sticky beneath them, the floor a testament to the night's events. They were alone, their hearts racing from the sheer intensity of their experiences. And yet, there was something exhilarating about it all, a sense of freedom that neither had ever felt before.

Their bodies grew still, the tremors of pleasure subsiding as the last of the men's cum oozed out of them. The bruises and bite marks stood out starkly against their skin, a roadmap of their week of excess. But amidst the pain, there was a sense of accomplishment, a knowing that they had tapped into something deep within themselves.

As the last of the men disappeared from view, Minju reached for Chaewon's hand, their fingers entwined in a silent promise. They had been through hell and back together, and their friendship had emerged stronger than ever. They had become warriors of desire, untouchable and unbreakable.

They lay on the cold marble floor, the stickiness of the cum beneath them a constant reminder of the night's events. Despite the discomfort, exhaustion claimed them, their bodies succumbing to the much-needed reprieve of sleep. Chaewon's breath grew deep and even as she drifted off first, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when they were jolted awake by the acrid scent of urine and the sticky warmth of cum seeping from their overused pussies and assholes. Their eyes snapped open, the harsh reality of the new day assaulting their senses. Minju groaned as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, her body protesting every movement. Chaewon's hand found hers, a silent offering of comfort as they took in the aftermath of their sexual marathon.

"I think... I regret it," Chaewon 

murmured, her voice thick with sleep and pain. The words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the wild cries of pleasure that had filled the villa just hours earlier. Chaewon stirred beside her, her eyes opening to meet her friend's gaze.

Minju looked down at her own pussy, still sticky and bruised from the relentless pounding. A small trickle of cum slipped out, a silent answer to Chaewon's question. "Yeah," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "It still feels... full."

They managed to get to their feet, their legs wobbly and unsteady. The floor felt like it was moving beneath them, a gentle reminder of the waves that had crashed against their bodies the night before. Chaewon reached for the shower handle, her hand trembling with the effort. The water came on with a rush, the steam billowing out to fill the room.

"Come on," she said, her voice still thick with the night's pleasures. "Let's clean up."

They stumbled into the shower, the hot water washing over their bruised bodies like a balm. They stood under the stream, letting the warmth soothe their sore muscles and wash away the stickiness of the night. Minju looked at Chaewon, the question in her eyes. "Did your pussy keep squirting a little bit until now?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of curiosity and concern.

Chaewon nodded, her eyes closed as the water cascaded over her face. "Mine too," she murmured. "It's like it's not finished with us yet."

They stepped out of the shower, the steam clinging to their skin like a lover's embrace. They wrapped themselves in plush towels, the softness a stark contrast to the rough treatment their bodies had endured. The bedroom beckoned, the bed a sanctuary from the world outside.

And, as if by some unspoken agreement, the villa remained pristine, the evidence of their depraved night erased as if by magic. The sheets were fresh, the floor clean, the air faintly scented with the sweet smell of tropical blooms. It was as if the very walls had absorbed their cries of ecstasy, the room a silent witness to their sexual odyssey.

Minju couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude as she looked around the space, her body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure. "We are lucky," she said to Chaewon, her voice filled with wonder. "The guys always clean up the room for us."

Chaewon nodded, her eyes distant. "It's like we're in some kind of twisted fairy tale," she murmured, her fingers tracing the fresh bruises that adorned her breasts. "But instead of a dragon, we have an endless supply of cock."

They climbed into bed, their exhausted bodies sinking into the plush mattress with a sigh of relief. The clean, crisp sheets enveloped them in a cool embrace, a stark contrast to the sticky mess they had left behind. They lay there, side by side, their hearts beating in sync with the gentle pulse of the ocean outside.

Minju closed her eyes, her mind racing with images of the men's faces, the feel of their cocks inside her, the sound of their moans. Despite the pain, she felt a strange sense of satisfaction, a feeling of having conquered something profound. Chaewon's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining as they lay in silence.

The third night of the week-long party had started innocently enough, with the two friends sipping cocktails by the pool as the sun set over the horizon. The local men had been more attentive than ever, their eyes never leaving the girls' bodies as they flitted from guest to guest, ensuring everyone's needs were met. But as darkness fell and the party grew more raucous, the air thick with desire, something within Minju had shifted.

As she lay on the plush bed, her body still sticky from the shower, she felt the mattress dip as the first man of the evening joined them. She didn't even bother to open her eyes, the anticipation of his touch already making her pussy clench with need. But when she felt his cock pushing against her, she was taken aback by the suddenness of it all.

Without a word, without a single gesture of consent, she was filled once again, his thickness stretching her already tender pussy. Chaewon stirred beside her, a soft moan escaping her lips as she too was claimed by another eager participant. They had become so accustomed to the constant intrusion that it almost felt natural now, a part of their daily routine.

"When did you come in?" Minju managed to ask, her voice a hoarse whisper as she felt the weight of the man's body on top of her. "Is it already night?"

Chaewon moaned with a little voice, her eyes still closed, lost in the sensations of the man's rough entry. "I don't know," she murmured, her hips already beginning to rock back to meet his thrusts. "Does it matter?"

The man chuckled, his grip on her hips tightening. "Not at all," he said, his voice a dark rumble. "You're both so beautiful, so open." He leaned down, his teeth grazing her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. "So eager."

Minju felt a strange mix of fear and excitement as she heard the click of cameras, the flashes of light piercing the darkness. She knew they were being watched, their every move recorded for posterity. It was a thrill that she had never experienced before, a heady mix of power and vulnerability. She looked at Chaewon, whose eyes were open now, the same mix of emotions swirling in their depths.

The men took turns, each one eager to leave his mark on their bodies, to claim a piece of the two friends for himself. The cameras rolled, capturing every gasp, every moan, every drop of cum that spurted from their abused holes. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed through the room, a symphony of desire that seemed to have no end.

The night was a blur of cocks, of hands and tongues and teeth, of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. They were drilled in every possible way, their pussies and assholes stretched beyond what they had ever thought possible. The men took turns, their faces a mix of lust and concentration as they sought to outdo one another in their pursuit of pleasure.

And as the gallon of cum filled them, their bodies quivering with each new round, Minju felt something within her shift. It was no longer about the party, the fashion line, or even the money. It was about this, the raw, primal connection between flesh and desire. She had become a conduit for their pleasure, and in doing so, she had discovered something about herself that she never knew existed.

The local men had noticed their lack of vocal response and took it as a challenge. "The video is bad when you two don't moan and speak," one of them said, his voice low and demanding. The words sent a jolt through Minju's body, and she understood what he wanted. The cameras were rolling, the audience eager to hear the sweet sounds of their pleasure.

Chaewon, ever the performer, took the lead, her moans growing louder, more exaggerated with each thrust. Minju followed suit, her voice joining the chorus of passionate cries that filled the room. They spoke to the men, whispered sweet nothings and dirty words that made them growl and pump harder. It was a symphony of lust, each note a declaration of their surrender to the night.

Their lovers grew more aggressive, their strokes more punishing as they sought to elicit the reactions they desired. Minju felt a strange sense of power as she watched the men respond to their cues, their eyes glazed with need as they pushed themselves closer to the edge. She had become a maestro, conducting the symphony of their desires with her voice and her body.

The room grew hotter, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. The men took turns filming and fucking, their phones capturing every moment of the two friends' degradation. And amidst it all, Minju couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of pride. They were the stars of this show, the center of a universe that revolved around their pleasure.

"Again, squirt for us," one of the men ordered, his voice gruff with desire. Chaewon's eyes snapped open, a look of determination crossing her features. She knew what they wanted, knew the power that lay in her ability to perform. With a deep breath, she pushed back against her partner, her pussy contracting around his cock as she forced herself to orgasm once more.

The room erupted in cheers as she squirted, the evidence of her pleasure arcing through the air like a fountain. The man filming her let out a groan, his hand shaking with the effort of capturing the perfect shot. Minju felt a thrill run through her at the sight, her own pussy clenching with envy. She had never felt so alive, so in control.

The third night had started with a ferocity that had taken even Minju by surprise. The local men had wasted no time, their cocks already hard and demanding as they claimed the two friends the moment they had settled into the bed. There was no gentle warm-up, no tender kisses or sweet whispers. It was raw, animalistic, and it was exactly what they needed.

Minju's mouth remained open, a silent scream of pleasure escaping her lips as cock after cock filled her to the brim. Each time she came, the cum of the man before spilled out of her mouth, mixing with her own saliva as she gagged and swallowed. Chaewon, equally lost in the haze of pleasure, had her face buried in the pillow, her cries muffled by the fabric.

The party had become a marathon of lust, and the two friends had become its champions. As the night stretched on, their bodies had become a canvas for the local men's desires, painted with sweat and cum. The air was thick with the scent of sex, a potent cocktail that intoxicated them further. They had transcended the limits of pleasure, each new sensation a revelation of their own carnality.

It was almost 3 AM, and yet the party showed no signs of winding down. The local men, fueled by a mix of alcohol and adrenaline, seemed to have an endless supply of energy. They took turns with Minju and Chaewon, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. The girls had become more than just participants; they were the embodiment of desire itself.

As the night grew later, the rhythm of the music grew more primal, the bass thumping through the floorboards like the pulse of a giant beast. The air grew thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a heady aphrodisiac that only served to drive the men to greater heights of passion. And yet, amidst the chaos, Minju and Chaewon remained the calm center, their bodies accepting each new partner with an almost mechanical grace.

Finally, as the first light of dawn began to seep through the curtains, the men grew satiated. They had taken everything the girls had to offer and then some, leaving them trembling and spent. With a final round of applause, they helped the exhausted duo to their feet, leading them unsteadily back to the bathroom. The cold marble floor was a stark contrast to the heat of the bed, sending a shiver up Minju's spine as she stepped onto it.

Chaewon's legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the floor, her body still quivering with the aftershocks of her last orgasm. The men chuckled, their eyes gleaming with satisfaction as they stepped over her, heading back to the party. Minju leaned against the vanity, her hand shaking as she reached for the shower handle. The water was cold, almost painfully so, but it was exactly what she needed.

The spray hit her body, the chill making her gasp as it washed away the sticky mess of the night. She looked down, her pussy still gaping, the muscles inside spasming with each aftershock. The sight of her own body, so used and abused, only served to heighten her arousal. Chaewon joined her under the spray, her eyes meeting Minju's in the steamy mirror.

They were a mess, cum dripping from their mouths and down their chins, their breasts red and bruised from the rough handling. Yet there was something undeniably erotic about it all, something that made Minju's heart race even as her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.

Chaewon leaned against her, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her own climax. "We can't keep this up,".

Minju nodded, her eyes glazed over with the intensity of the night's events. "We need to rest," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the pounding of the water.

Their legs finally gave out, and they collapsed to the floor, the cool tiles a welcome reprieve from the sticky mess that had been their bed. The water rained down on them, the coldness a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered in their loins. They leaned against each other, their bodies trembling with the effort of standing.

The men had retreated, their laughter echoing through the villa. "After they faint, they can still keep squirting and shaking" one of them said, his words carrying a mix of amazement and contempt. "Such sluts, the two of you."

[cherrypickedchaos]

Grease and Ghosts

A lost love. A shared past. A garage full of memories. Can they race back to each other before it’s too late?

Genre: smut, slow-burn reunion romance, angsty vibes, small-town grit, forbidden-yet-inevitable love, erotic literature, yearning, established relationship, grief, mechanic! f x Oscar.

NSFW warning: 18+... Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink - if you squint.

Inspired by Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan

The garage was warm, but only just. The little space heater hummed somewhere by the desk, struggling against the December cold creeping through the warped garage door. Oil stained the concrete as metal clinked against metal. A faint scent of burnt rubber and coffee lingered in the air, the ghosts of a hundred late nights. In the corner, a battered radio whispered an old song she didn’t really hear, classic rock, just like her dad.

She was halfway under an old Citroën, turning bolts that didn’t want to turn. Her hair was full of dust and a smear of something dark on her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her sleeve and muttered to herself.

"Come on, you stubborn—"

The bell above the garage door jingled once.

She didn’t look up. Customers always came in cold and awkward, like they were afraid they’d catch grime just by standing too close.

"Be right with you," she called, voice muffled.

A beat of silence.

Then a voice.

"Heard a Citroën throwing a tantrum and figured this has to be Sparks’ garage."

Everything in her went still. Not just the voice. The name. No one had called her that in years. Not since…

She slid out from beneath the car slowly, one hand still gripping the wrench. Her heart knocked once against her ribs, then waited. The wrench in her hand suddenly felt too heavy, like it remembered him too.

He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of a coat too clean for this place. Taller than she remembered. Older. His hair was shorter, but his mouth was still a straight line. Same boots. Same dark eyes.

"You’re back," she said. It came out quieter than she intended. Not quite a question, not quite a statement.

"It’s Christmas," Oscar replied, like that explained something.

She nodded. Calm on the surface. Only there.

"You’ve never come back for Christmas before."

He didn’t answer. His eyes wandered the space like he was trying to measure what had changed. Or maybe what hadn’t.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The sun sagged low behind the trees, throwing long shadows across the cracked old kart track. The air stank of petrol, burnt rubber, and over-fried chips from the greasy stand by the entrance. Her dad’s truck was parked nearby, dented and loyal, with tools spilling out the back like it always had something to fix.

She stood stiff in the middle of it all, fourteen, maybe fifteen, swimming in racing gear a size too big. The gloves didn’t fit. The helmet slipped when she moved. She could barely see over the wheel.

Oscar leaned on the fence with his usual smugness, arms crossed, helmet dangling from one hand. He’d already finished his lap, loud and fast, chewing up the track like he owned it.

“Sure you want to do this, Sparks? Not too late to back out and keep your dignity.”

She glared, even if her knees were shaking. “I want to try.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself. Just don’t cry when I lap you.”

Her dad called over, half-amused, half-warning. “Knock it off, Oscar. Let her drive.”

The kart hissed as she climbed in. The seat was cold and unwelcoming. The harness snapped shut with a sound too final. When the engine stuttered to life beneath her, it felt like being strapped to a jackhammer.

She nearly stalled pulling away.

The first lap was a disaster. Jerky acceleration. Clipped a cone. Took the corner like she was aiming to plow through it. She could hear him laughing somewhere behind her.

“You’re not supposed to be good at this!” he yelled as he zipped past.

Her cheeks burned. She tightened her grip on the wheel until her knuckles ached.

“I’m just getting started,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Second lap, smoother. Third, tighter. By the fourth, she wasn’t thinking. She was feeling it. The turn before the back straight. The way the engine kicked up just before it screamed. The little tremble in the left tire she hadn’t noticed before but now anticipated like a sixth sense.

On the fifth lap, she passed him.

She didn’t plan it. She just caught him easing off the gas too early on the final corner, and she surged past, tires screeching, heart thudding so loud she couldn’t hear the engine.

She hit the finish line a full second ahead.

Oscar rolled to a stop beside her, helmet under his arm, sweat in his hair and shock in his grin. He blinked. Then barked out a laugh, the short, sharp kind he did when something actually surprised him.

“Okay,” he said. “That was… not bad.”

She climbed out, helmet under one arm, eyes bright and confused. He was still staring at her.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, just kept smiling.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

That only made him smile wider.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the damp clung to everything, to the air, to the walls, to the soft knock of Oscar’s boots against concrete. He was already there when she arrived the next morning, leaning against the garage door with two coffees and the look of someone pretending not to feel the cold.

She didn’t ask how long he’d been waiting.

“I got the one that isn’t sweet,” he said, holding one out like a peace offering.

She eyed it, then him, then took it without a word. It was the kind of thing you did when you still knew someone’s order. The kind of thing that shouldn’t still be true.

She set the cup down on the workbench without drinking. Then crouched by the rusted-out sedan she’d been fighting with since Tuesday. The front suspension was shot and the bolts refused to move, as if the car had grown roots overnight.

He watched her work, hands in his jacket pockets. She could feel his gaze, light and constant, like static.

“You’re still doing everything yourself?” he asked finally. “No apprentice, no kid from the high school shop class?”

“I don’t like people in my space.”

Oscar gave a small snort. “Yeah. That checks out.”

She didn’t look up. The wrench groaned as she forced it left.

“Jet lag,” he added after a beat. “Didn’t know if you’d be here this early.”

“I usually am.”

He smiled. “Some things really don’t change.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

There was a long pause. She tugged another bolt loose with a satisfying metal shriek. He didn’t flinch.

“Still staying with your mum?” she asked, casual but not careless.

“Yeah. Delaney Road.”

A pause. Then, lighter: “Festive as ever.”

She grunted. “Must be hell.”

“Close enough.”

He didn’t elaborate. She didn’t push.

The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable, not hostile either. Like the aftermath of an argument neither of them ever actually had.

Oscar shifted his weight. His fingers tapped absently against his paper cup.

“Still smells the same,” he murmured. “Grease and instant coffee.”

She glanced up, only briefly. “Guess some things don’t change.”

He didn’t answer, his mouth smirking, drifting through the garage like he was walking through a dream. Slow, deliberate. Hands still in his pockets. His eyes moved from one thing to the next, pausing, like he expected each corner to remember him.

He stopped at the old pegboard above the tool bench, where every socket and spanner had its own chalk outline. A few spots were still labelled in her dad’s handwriting. The paint had faded, but the scrawl was unmistakable.

Oscar leaned closer, squinting at a note scribbled in the corner. “Still sorting by chaos theory, huh?”

She didn’t look up. “It’s efficient if you understand it.”

“Sure, it is,” he muttered. “Just a two-move puzzle. Where the first move is giving up.”

She snorted, quiet and unwilling.

He kept going, fingers brushing the top of the ancient radio, still held together with black electrical tape where the antenna had snapped. He turned the knob slightly, and the volume nudged up, a raspy old voice singing over sharp guitar and muffled drums. Something raw and old-school, all grit and growl.

He smiled faintly. “Still stuck on your dad’s rock station.”

“You’re the only one who ever minded it.”

He glanced over at her. “He never gave me hell for changing it.”

She kept her head down, tugging the hood lower. “That’s because he said it built character.”

Oscar gave a quiet laugh. Not much of one. Just enough.

The old coffee tin was still there too. Half full of washers and screws. He picked it up, shook it gently, then set it down again. Every corner of the place was like that. Alive but still. Like the garage had kept breathing after everyone else had left.

“You looking for something?” she asked finally.

He turned, caught off guard. “No. Just… remembering.”

She gestured toward the rolling cart. “If you want to be useful, sort those by size. The metric ones. Top tray.”

He blinked. Then gave a short, almost theatrical sigh. “You always did know how to delegate.”

But he moved toward the tray and started sorting, bare hands, slow and methodical. She watched him from under the hood, only briefly. He still knew what he was doing. Still worked in silence when it counted.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The music buzzed low. Tools shifted. Somewhere outside, a bird scratched against the sheet metal roof.

It was almost easy.

He was reaching for a socket when he saw it.

Top shelf. Behind a jar of miscellaneous bolts and a rusted tin of copper wire. The frame was angled slightly toward the wall, half-hidden, like it had been set down in a hurry and never moved again.

He froze.

The frame was still the same one. Silvered edges, slightly tarnished. Square and heavy in the hand. He remembered it well. He had seen it a hundred times on the wall near the back office, framed perfectly by light in the late afternoons. Back then, it held a photo of the three of them. Her dad in the middle, grinning under his ball cap. She was maybe thirteen, holding up a tiny trophy with both hands, cheeks red with sun and adrenaline. Oscar stood next to her, making a peace sign with motor oil on his sleeve.

Now it held nothing.

The glass was cracked in one corner. Not shattered, just a fine spiderweb fracture that reached toward the centre like it had been hit once by something small and sudden. The dust around the frame suggested it had been sitting there for a while. But the glass was clean. No smudges, no fingerprints. Like she still touched it sometimes. Like she still moved it. Just not enough.

He picked it up gently.

Behind him, the soft sound of a ratchet stopped.

He turned it slowly in his hands, thumb brushing the crack. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. Not hesitant. Just careful.

“That always been empty?”

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, it was flat. No weight behind it.

“No.”

He didn’t ask what happened to the photo. Didn’t ask why she had taken it out or what it had meant to her to leave the frame behind. She didn’t offer.

He set it back exactly where it had been. Angled toward the wall. Then turned back to the tray of bolts and kept sorting.

She didn’t move for a while after the sound of him setting the frame down. Just stayed crouched beside the car, her hand resting on the axle like she had forgotten what she was doing. The silence had stretched again, but this one felt different. Tighter. Denser. Like the kind you hold between your teeth.

Oscar glanced over but didn’t speak. His fingers worked slowly, sorting washers into neat lines on the tray. It wasn’t about helping anymore. He just needed something to do with his hands. He wanted to ask.

Why here? Why still this place, this building full of ghosts? Why had she taken the photo down but kept the frame like a shrine to something neither of them could name?

She hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little sharper around the eyes. Maybe quieter. But her hands still moved the same way when she worked. Her jaw still clenched when she focused. The way she held herself, stubborn, grounded, full of heat she refused to show, that hadn’t changed at all.

He wondered if she thought about it. About that photo. About the night he left. About what would have happened if she had come with him instead of staying. If they had left this garage together, would she still be reaching for busted bolts with scraped knuckles in the middle of winter?

Would he still be unravelling behind a smile in front of every camera in the paddock?

He looked at her again. Still no eye contact. She hadn’t looked at him properly since he arrived. He tried to say something. Cleared his throat. The words didn’t come.

So, he went back to sorting. One washer at a time. No hurry. When the tray was full, Oscar stood and stretched. His joints cracked louder than they used to.

She was still under the car, but her focus had slipped. The ratchet stayed in her hand. She wasn’t turning it.

He walked past her on the way to toss a rag into the bin. Didn’t stop. Didn’t linger. Just glanced once, on instinct, toward the shelf.

The frame was still there. Still empty. Still cracked.

He hesitated.

Then reached up and gently turned it face down.

The movement made her head lift, just barely. She saw it. She didn’t say anything at first.

Then: “You’re just visiting?”

He stood still for a moment. Like he wasn’t sure what to say. Then nodded once.

“Yeah.” He paused in the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets again. The same posture he’d had yesterday, but it felt different now. “Just visiting.”

The door creaked as he let it shut behind him.

She stayed where she was, eyes on the tray of tools he had left behind. Neatly sorted. Every piece in its place.

She flipped the frame back over a few minutes later.

Didn’t look at it.

Just set it upright, facing forward again.

And kept working.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The sun spilled in through the open garage doors, slicing through the floating dust and laying gold across the concrete. The air smelled like grease, motor oil, and the lemon soap her dad always kept by the sink but never used. Music buzzed from the old radio on the shelf, the volume too high, the bass a little blown out. Something with twang and grit and an unapologetic guitar solo.

Her dad stood by the coffee pot, humming off-key and tapping a socket wrench against his palm like a conductor. His mug was chipped, stained darker on the inside than out. He looked happy.

Oscar was elbow-deep in the side of his kart, legs sprawled, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands stained with oil. The kart should’ve been a quick fix. He had come in early that morning for something simple, throttle lag, or maybe a stubborn plug. Now it was four hours later, and the engine was halfway out, and he hadn’t even tried to leave.

She stood across from him, holding the parts tray. Narrowing her eyes at the mess he was making.

“That’s the wrong socket,” she said.

“It is not,” Oscar shot back, already forcing it.

“It doesn’t even fit.”

“It fits enough.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to the drawer set. “No wonder you break everything.”

“I don’t break everything. I make bold choices.”

“You make poor ones.”

“Bold ones.”

Her dad chuckled without looking. “Same thing at your age.”

Oscar grinned like he had just been handed a medal. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

She passed him the correct socket. He took it, their fingers brushing just barely, and for half a second neither of them said anything. His smile faltered. She looked away too fast.

“Try not to strip the bolt this time,” she said, sharp again.

“Wow. Just when I thought we were bonding.”

“Keep thinking.”

Across the room, her dad shook his head, still smiling. He leaned over the coffee pot and muttered loud enough to be heard, “You two gonna fix the car or stay there long enough to get married under it?”

Oscar’s hands slipped. “What?”

Her head jerked up. “Dad.”

He was already sipping from his mug, totally unfazed. “Nothing. Just making conversation.”

Oscar cleared his throat and went back to work. The tips of his ears had turned pink. She was glaring at her dad like he had committed war crimes. Her dad only raised his eyebrows and wandered off to the back shelf, still humming along with the music. When the guitar solo kicked in, he whistled under it, off-key and enthusiastic.

Oscar swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear and bumped the tray. A wrench clattered to the floor.

“That’s strike three.”

Oscar blinked. “Three? What were the first two?”

“The socket you forced, the bolt you cross-threaded, and now the wrench.”

“That socket fit. Spiritually,” he retorted with a grin on his face.

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m unpaid emotional labour.”

She bent to pick up the wrench and flicked a rag at his face on the way back up.

He caught it. Barely.

“You’re assaulting a teammate,” he said, dramatic.

“You’re not my teammate.”

“Yet.”

She snorted, but there was a smile under it. Her dad caught the sound and shouted from the other end of the garage, “If you two are done flirting, I got brake pipes back here with your names on them.”

Oscar called back, “We are never done flirting.”

She smacked his arm with the rag again.

Her dad cackled, a big laugh, full of breath. The kind of laugh that shook the walls and stayed in the corners long after the noise was gone. The kind of laugh you don’t know you’ll miss until the day it’s not there.

Oscar leaned against the kart, wiping his hands. “So, Sparks, what’s the plan after this? Sandwiches? Cold drinks? A full parade in my honour?”

“You can have the last Tim Tam if you promise to stop talking.”

“I make no such promise.”

She tossed the rag at him again. It landed on his head. He left it there.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, with her dad whistling and the engine guts open like a story waiting to be finished, Oscar looked at her. Not for too long. Just enough.

Enough to know he’d be back next weekend. And the one after that. And probably the one after that too.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage smelled the same. It always did. Like cold metal and worn rubber, with coffee grounds clinging to the corners. But today, something else hung in the air. Thicker than oil. Heavier than exhaust.

Oscar didn’t say anything when he walked in, comfortable now since he’d done it all week. Just raised a hand in greeting, slow and small, like he wasn’t sure if it counted.

She didn’t wave back.

She was working under the hood of a battered Subaru; the same one she’d been pulling apart the day before. Her posture was tight. Focused. More than usual. Like every bolt was an excuse to stay silent. The heater was on, but the place still felt freezing.

Oscar leaned against the wall near the bench, hands in his jacket pockets. He listened for a minute.

“You always let the sad stuff play this loud?”

She didn’t look up. “Didn’t notice.”

He nodded once, even though she couldn’t see him. The music hummed low, her dad’s kind of track. Guitar heavy. Gravel voice. It scraped the silence instead of filling it.

Oscar kicked lightly at a loose washer on the floor. It rolled into the dark under one of the shelves.

“You okay?”

She tightened something that didn’t need it. “Fine.”

“Right.”

Another beat passed. The longest one yet. He moved toward the tool cart and stopped halfway.

“You need help?”

“No.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You sure? I’ve gotten really good at following instructions. Some even said I was trainable.”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a smile. She turned a wrench slow and steady, like she was trying not to let her knuckles shake.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the bench. “Alright. No jokes today.”

Still no answer. He glanced around the garage. Nothing had changed, but it all felt different. Dimmer. He didn’t know why. Not yet. But he felt it. The air was thick with something unspoken. And he was standing in it, same as her. He stayed quiet after that. For a while.

She didn’t tell him to leave, but she didn’t talk either, and in the silence he found himself reaching for something to do.

The rolling cart was low on parts, so he crossed the garage and crouched by the lower drawers, pulling them open one by one. Most were packed with tangled cables, random fittings, a few tools long past their prime. The third drawer stuck halfway, then groaned open with a reluctant scrape.

He reached in for a socket set and paused.

Buried beneath a roll of old sandpaper and a cracked measuring tape was a sketchbook. The edges were warped, the cover smudged and oil streaked. No title, no decoration. Just plain black spiral binding and a corner folded over like it had been jammed back in a hurry.

He hesitated. Then slid it out. She was still under the hood.

Oscar flipped the cover open and felt his breath catch. Page after page of detailed mechanical sketches, clean lines, annotated margins, systems broken down into layered cross-sections. Suspension setups. Chassis tweaks. Engine configurations. Every line purposeful, confident. Sharp handwriting in the corners.

One page showed a kart body rendered from three angles, painted with a stripe of red across the nose and annotations for airflow and weight balance.

At the top, in pencil: “Race Concept: Build One Day”

He turned another page. Then another. Then something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the ground.

A piece of paper, yellowed and creased, like it had been folded and refolded too many times. He picked it up.

An application form. A real one. Addressed to a junior race team: a mechanic development program. He recognized the team. Knew the name. Knew who drove for them now.

The form was filled out, every blank completed in neat pen. Dated two years ago, almost to the day.

His name was written in one of the fields as emergency contact. It had never been sent. He looked up from the paper, toward the car.

She hadn’t moved. But she was no longer working. She was just holding the wrench. Still. Like she already knew what he’d found.

He looks at her, eyes sharp, searching. “Why didn’t you go?”

She freezes for a heartbeat, then lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “Why didn’t I go? You really want to ask that? After all this time?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “I just don’t get it. I thought maybe you’d have left by now.”

Her smile twists, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course you don’t. You left. You ran.”

He shifts, suddenly uncertain. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Then how was it?” She folds her arms, voice low and sharp. “You want me to explain how it feels to stay put while everything you cared about falls apart?”

He swallows. “I’m not blaming you.”

She snorts quietly. “Funny. Feels like you’re blaming me for not packing up and walking out.”

He looks away for a moment, then meets her eyes again. “I guess I thought you might have wanted out.”

Her laugh is harsh, edged with sarcasm. “Wanted out? Maybe. Maybe not. You think it’s that simple? Just wanting something makes it happen?”

He steps closer. “Then why stay?”

She shrugs, but there’s steel beneath the motion. “Because sometimes you don’t get a say. Because life doesn’t pause while you figure your shit out.”

“I’m sorry,” he softens

She bites the inside of her cheek, jaw tight, voice barely above a whisper. “Save it.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and raw.

Finally, she looks back at him, eyes guarded but sharp. “I didn’t stay for you. Not for your memory, your guilt, or your leaving. I stayed because it was the only thing left.”

He nods slowly, swallowing the weight of that.

Her lips press together. “So don’t ask me why I didn’t go. It’s your question, not mine.”

She looks at him, voice low and steady. “Go.”

There’s no lightness this time. No teasing edge. Just the hard line she’s drawn and refuses to cross back over.

He takes a step forward, then stops. His eyes search hers, like he’s trying to find a crack, an opening, something to hold on to.

“I—” he starts, but the words catch somewhere between his throat and the silence.

She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “No. Not today.”

The weight of that is sudden and absolute. He swallows, hesitant, wanting to say sorry, wanting to fix what’s been left broken, but the moment has already passed. Her hand moves, subtle but deliberate, toward the door.

As he turns to leave, his eyes catch something pinned to the wall, a funeral program. Her dad’s name. The date. He had died the day after he left.

He lingers for a moment, the weight of that detail settling over him like a silent accusation.

She doesn’t look back.

Not yet.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The night air was still. Not cold enough to bite, but damp. It clung to her sleeves and settled in her hair like dust. The kind of night that felt stuck between seasons. The kind that didn't know what it was supposed to be.

They were standing outside the garage, in the gravel lot between the back wall and her dad’s truck. The lights inside were off now, except for the lamp in the office window. Its glow leaked out just far enough to stretch across the concrete. Oscar was leaned against the side of the truck, arms crossed, head tilted down like he couldn’t look at her and say it at the same time.

She was hugging herself, not from the cold but because it helped. It helped to press her elbows into her ribs and keep her hands still and hold herself together, because no one else was going to do it. Not right now. She hadn’t spoken in a while. She didn’t need to. He was going to say something. She could feel it in her spine.

He cleared his throat like it hurt.

“I got a call,” he said.

She looked over at him. Not all the way. Just her eyes. “Okay.”

“It’s a development seat. One of the junior programs. They want me in Spain for winter testing. And some training stuff. Sim work. It’s a whole thing.”

There was a pause. She waited. He didn’t keep going.

Then, carefully: “It starts tomorrow.”

Now she turned to face him.

“Tomorrow.”

He nodded once.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Another nod. Barely a movement. She let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “You weren’t even going to tell me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

Her voice stayed calm, but her arms tightened across her stomach. “I’ve been sleeping three hours a night. Helping my mum with the shop books. Packing up Dad’s tools. Keeping my brothers from falling apart. Trying to make it feel normal for them. I haven’t had five seconds to myself, and the second I turn around, you’re gone too?”

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said.

“But it is.”

He looked up. Finally. “I didn’t know if I should say anything. I didn’t want to make things harder.”

She laughed. Not because it was funny. “Congratulations. You did anyway.”

“I thought maybe you’d come.”

“You know I couldn’t.”

He flinched at that. Just a little.

“I know,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want to hear it.”

“So, you waited until the night before?”

“I didn’t know how to say it.”

“You could’ve just said it mattered.”

The air stilled between them.

She let her arms drop. For a second her hands dangled like they didn’t know what to do. She looked at the gravel, then at the dark shape of the garage behind him.

“My dad’s in the hospital. You know that, right? You know what they said today?”

Oscar stayed quiet.

“They said maybe one month. Maybe less.”

Her voice didn’t shake. But her eyes glinted, not from tears, not yet, just the pressure behind them.

“I’m not leaving my family. I’m not getting on a plane and pretending none of this is happening.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you just made sure I didn’t have time to think about it.”

His face fell. The guilt came through then. Not anger. Just the weight of knowing he’d done something too late.

He stepped forward, carefully. Like the space between them had turned fragile.

“If this were different-”

“It’s not.”

“I didn’t want to leave without you.”

“But you are.”

He looked at her, like that was the first time it had fully landed.

“I should’ve asked you,” he said.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracked then. Just a little. “I would’ve said no,” she added. “But it would’ve been nice to be asked.”

He stepped closer again. This time he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like he wanted to hold something that wasn’t his to keep.

Their hands almost touched. Almost.

The porch light from the garage flicked off behind them.

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

She stood there in the hoodie he’d left at the garage weeks ago, the sleeves too long, the hem smudged with grease and threadbare at the cuffs. It still smelled faintly like him. She hadn’t meant to keep it. But she had.

She wiped the corner of one eye with the sleeve and stepped back.

“You should go.”

Oscar didn’t. Not yet. He looked at her a moment longer, and something shifted in his face, something that knew this was a line they wouldn't uncross if he said it. But he said it anyway. Soft. Final.

“I love you.”

She didn’t cry. Not then. She just stepped forward, took his face in her hands, and pressed a kiss to his temple—firm, quiet, devastating. Then she pulled back.

Oscar stood there, rooted. Then he nodded once, and didn’t say goodbye.

He got in the car. The headlights flashed across her as he turned it around, and for a second, their eyes caught through the windshield.

He didn’t wave. She didn’t look away.

And then he was gone. She stayed in the gravel; arms crossed over the hoodie like it might hold her together. The quiet rolled back in like a tide.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The kitchen smelled like toast and old bananas. A cereal box was tipped on its side, spilling onto the table in slow motion while Jackson, twelve now, watched a video on his phone with one elbow in a puddle of orange juice.

“Seriously?” she said.

He blinked up at her. “What?”

She pointed to the box. “That.”

“Oh.”

He righted it lazily, wiped his arm on his hoodie sleeve, and went back to watching. Eli was already half-dressed, hoodie on inside out, socks balled in his hand, standing at the fridge with the door wide open.

“There’s no milk,” he announced like it was a personal betrayal.

“There was yesterday,” their mum said from the hall.

“Well, it walked out, I guess.”

Jackson didn’t look up. “You drank it straight from the bottle again.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Their mum shuffled in, hair still wet from the shower, coffee in a chipped mug she refused to throw out. She sat down at the table without looking.

“Is anyone wearing trousers?”

“I am,” Jackson said.

“I’m not,” Eli said, pulling one sock on and then immediately stepping in the juice puddle.

“Cool,” she muttered, standing to grab a paper towel. “We’re thriving.”

The morning noise bumped along in its usual rhythm, cabinet doors, toast popping, someone humming under their breath. She stood at the sink, staring out the window without really seeing it, arms folded. The dish rack was piled unevenly. One of the mugs had a crack spidering down the handle, but no one ever threw it out. Every part of the room was lived-in, a little worn. Familiar.

Jackson grabbed a granola bar and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Hey, can you tell school I might be late?”

“Nope,” she said. “Tell him yourself.”

Eli was still barefoot, still poking through drawers.

“You’ve had fifteen minutes,” she said.

“I was doing my English reading.”

“Since when is YouTube considered literature?”

“It’s a visual medium,” he said, too proudly.

Their mum finally spoke again, eyes still half-lidded behind her coffee. “Shoes, both of you. Doors. Let’s move.”

Jackson saluted. Eli grumbled. Then the screen door banged shut behind them, leaving the kitchen quieter, a little cooler.

She sat down across from her mum, stealing the other half of her toast without asking.

“They’re growing up fast,” her mum said, staring into her mug.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

She shrugged. “They didn’t match their socks.”

“They never do.”

“And Jackson might actually survive school.”

“Not betting on it.”

They shared a look. The kind built from years of not needing to explain everything. The toast was cold, but she ate it anyway.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The hood was up. The sun wasn’t. Clouds hovered low outside the garage, grey and swollen, flattening the light that came through the open door. Inside, everything smelled like warm metal, damp concrete, and the lingering bite of brake cleaner.

She was half-under the front end of a Volvo, gritting her teeth at a bolt that refused to move. The ratchet clicked and slipped again, the angle too tight, the clearance unforgiving.

“Need a hand?” came a voice from behind her.

She didn’t bother looking. “No.”

Oscar’s boots crossed the floor behind her anyway. She could hear the lazy rhythm of his steps, the smugness practically radiating off them.

“You sure? That bolt sounds scared.”

She exhaled through her nose. “You want to be helpful, go bother the socket tray.”

“I already did. It’s organized. You’re welcome.”

She turned just enough to glare over her shoulder. “You organized it wrong.”

“I organized it alphabetically. It was beautiful.”

She straightened and wiped her hands on a rag, resisting the urge to throw it at him.

“No one organizes sockets alphabetically.”

“Well, now they do.” He was grinning like a man who hadn’t just committed workshop treason. Her arms were sore, her temper was fraying, and still, still, he looked at her like he was enjoying every second of this.

She narrowed her eyes at the bolt again, muttering under her breath. “It’s seized.”

Oscar leaned beside her, arms folded, head tilted toward the engine bay.

“You want the breaker bar?”

“I want it to cooperate.”

“That’s not usually how metal works, Sparks.” He said it easy. Like the nickname belonged to him. Like the years hadn’t scraped that ownership away.

She didn’t answer. He walked off without asking and came back with the bar. She took it without looking at him. Their fingers touched for a second longer than necessary.

He noticed. She pretended she didn’t.

She braced the bar, adjusted her stance, and pulled. The bolt groaned. Gave. She rocked backward a step, breath catching in her throat.

Oscar let out a low whistle. “That was kind of hot.”

She turned, deadpan. “Say that again and I’ll bury you under the parts cart.”

“Romance is dead.”

She handed him the bar. “It never lived.”

He held her gaze for a moment too long, the smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. There was something in his eyes, not just amusement. Something warmer. Something older.

She looked away first.

“Need anything else, boss?” he asked.

She bent back over the car. “Silence would be great.”

He chuckled, quiet and pleased with himself and stayed exactly where he was, just leaned beside her while she worked, offering nothing but presence. That used to be enough. Some weekends, that was all they did, pass tools back and forth and talk about engines like it was a language only they spoke. Now the silence wasn’t comfort. It was pressure.

She reached for a clamp. He passed it to her without asking. Their fingers touched again, briefly, and this time neither of them pretended it didn’t happen.

She cleared her throat. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re loitering with confidence.”

He smiled. “You used to like having me around.”

“You used to know when to back off, you’re breathing down my neck.”

He smiled. “Missed it?”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the engine. He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her shoulder.

“I remember a version of you that smiled more.”

“I remember a version of you that didn’t leave.”

The smile didn’t fade, but it faltered, just for a second. A small drop in the engine’s hum.

“Ouch,” he said, with mock offense.

She tightened the clamp. “Yeah, well. Some of us had shit to do.”

Another pause. She didn’t look at him. “You know. Like bury a parent. Keep a roof over people’s heads. That sort of thing.”

He blinked. Slow. Careful.

“Wow. Was that a joke?”

“Only if you’re laughing.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle, stepped closer again, not enough to touch, but enough that she could feel the air shift.

“Not bad, Sparks. You’re getting sharper in your old age.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’d know.”

He smiled at her then. Not wide. Just that tilt at the corner of his mouth that used to make her forget what she was holding. “I did.”

This time, she looked away first. She passed him the clamp back. “Hold this.”

He did, wordlessly, steady hands in the right place without being told. Muscle memory, maybe. Or something else. She adjusted the seal, her fingers brushing his as she worked, and there it was again, that flicker of heat under her skin. The way her breath caught just slightly off-rhythm.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tightened the last bolt with a sharp click and stepped back fast, wiping her hands hard on her rag.

“Done.”

He stayed still, clamp still in place. Watching her. She met his eyes, just once.

“You want something to do, clean the threads on the rear plugs.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “You okay?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s not what I—”

She cut him off with a look.

“Rear plugs,” she repeated.

Oscar nodded, slow, the smile returning. But softer now. Like he understood. He turned away to grab a brush, and she let herself breathe again, only once he wasn’t looking.

Later, the engine gave a small hiss as she loosened the last bolt, warm air rising from the block and curling against the cold. Oscar was beside her again, leaning into the open hood, his arm brushing hers.

She didn’t move. Not right away.

“You sure you remember how to do this?” she asked, eyes on the housing.

He bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “I’ve done more tracksides rebuilds than you’ve had birthdays.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He reached in to hold the part steady while she rethreaded a line. She leaned in at the same time, and suddenly they were sharing the narrow space under the hood, shoulders pressed, breath warming the metal between them.

She was aware of everything, the sharp scent of engine coolant, the oil under her nails, the sound of his breath when he concentrated.

His head dipped closer, just slightly, voice softer now. “You know what I missed?”

She didn’t answer.

“This. The way you go quiet when you work. The way you talk to engines like they owe you something.”

She kept her hands moving. “They do.”

He smiled. “They listen to you.”

“They behave for me.”

Oscar glanced at her, and she felt it.

“You ever think about what would’ve happened if you came with me?”

She stopped tightening the line. Just for a second.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t back off.

“I think about it,” he said.

“That’s your problem.”

She leaned away, suddenly too warm, grabbing a rag from the cart to clean her hands. The air between them stretched thin, like something pulled tight and trembling.

He straightened, slower this time. “You always used to get like this when you were trying not to punch me.”

“Still do.”

She tossed the rag into the bin. Harder than necessary.

Oscar grinned behind her. “You missed me.”

She turned, looked him dead in the eye and didn’t say a word. He didn’t press. Just stayed there while she wiped down the engine block, her hands precise again, her face unreadable.

Oscar leaned against the edge of the workbench now, like he belonged there. Like this was just another Saturday in the garage. Like they hadn’t gone years without speaking. She felt his eyes on her again. That same kind of watching, patient, sharp, almost fond.

It used to make her feel invincible. Now it made her feel like her skin didn’t fit right.

“You still look at me like that,” she said without turning around.

“Like what?”

“Like nothing changed.” He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t give him long. “Things did,” she added.

“I know.”

She turned, finally. Not all the way, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

“You think flirting makes it easier to come back?”

Oscar shrugged, but it was too slow to be casual. “I think it makes it easier to stay.”

That landed between them, quiet but heavy. She didn’t reply. Instead, she picked up the torque wrench, checked the calibration like it mattered.

“Car’s done,” she said.

Oscar nodded, like that meant something else entirely.

Then, still watching her, softer now: “Thanks for letting me help.”

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

He smiled anyway. And she kept her back turned until he walked out.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The lights above the track buzzed, half the bulbs flickering like they were tired too. Everything else had gone still. The stands were empty, the engine noise long faded, and the air smelled like warm rubber and cooling metal.

He was still in his race suit, unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. She stood by the kart, tools in hand, grease smudged across her wrist, heart still beating out of rhythm from watching him take her build and push it to the edge.

Oscar pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, breathless.

“That was-” he stopped, grinning like an idiot, “-I don’t even know what that was.”

She walked toward him, still holding the torque wrench.

“You hit seventy-four on the back straight.”

His eyes went wide. “No way.”

“I checked the readout twice.”

He let out a breathless laugh and looked back at the kart like it was something holy. “You built that.”

She shrugged. “You drove it.”

“I barely had to. It knew what it was doing.”

She raised a brow. “Machines don’t drive themselves.”

Oscar turned back to her. Still smiling. “Maybe not. But that thing was humming. Every turn, every shift, clean. Like it wanted to win.”

She ducked her head. “It did.”

He stepped closer. She looked up, and that was the moment, quiet, too fast to stop. Oscar still smelled like engine heat and wind. His hand brushed her elbow when he leaned in just a little.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What.”

“That kart moved like it had something to prove.” He paused. “So did I.”

Her voice was low. “And?”

“It did.”

She opened her mouth, probably to say something cutting or smart, but she didn’t. Instead, she just stood there, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, fingers still wrapped around the wrench like it could anchor her. Then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not slow. Just honest. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission because it already knew the answer. Her hands didn’t let go of the wrench. His stayed loose at his sides, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed more.

When they broke apart, she didn’t step back.

“Okay,” she said softly.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

She nodded, still close. “You earned it.”

He smiled, something brighter than his usual smugness, something softer. She finally let go of the wrench.

Oscar’s grin stretched a little wider. “You know, if you keep building karts like that, I might just have to race them all.”

“Oh, you think you can handle it?” She cocked a brow, stepping even closer, the heat between them suddenly sharper than the engine’s roar had been.

He laughed softly; eyes gleaming. “I’m not scared.”

“Good,” she said, voice low and teasing. “Because I’m not just building karts, Oscar. I’m building traps.”

He glanced down at the wrench still in her hands and then back up, his smile turning sly. “Traps, huh? Should I be worried?”

“Depends.” She tapped the wrench lightly against his chest. “How fast can you run?”

His breath hitched just a little. “Faster than you think.”

The silence settled again, but it was different now, charged, expectant. She let her fingers trail a little along the sleeve of his suit, teasing without touching fully.

“Careful,” she murmured, “or I might start thinking you like being caught.”

He leaned in closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I do.”

Their faces were inches apart, the heat from the track mingling with something else, something electric. She glanced down at the wrench again and then back to his eyes, suddenly feeling daring.

“Race me to the garage,” she challenged, stepping back with a playful smirk. “Loser has to wash the kart.”

Oscar’s grin was all challenge now. “You’re on.”

And just like that, the tension broke with a burst of laughter as they took off, feet pounding on the concrete, racing into the night.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

It was the afternoon on a Tuesday. Oscar had been gone all weekend for a race. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t jealous of the sport taking him away, though she wouldn’t tell him that. She certainly wouldn’t admit to quietly cheering him on while cooking Sunday lunch with her mum, or that her mum insisted on having every race playing in the background.

She thought she’d enjoy the quiet. Maybe even need it. But without him, the garage felt less like a sanctuary and more like a shell.

She wiped the grease off her hands and bent back over the hood of an old VW, trying to focus, when the familiar clang of boots echoed through the doors. It was the sound she’d missed more than she wanted to admit.

“Sparks,” he greeted, his voice cutting through the silence, casual but not quite.

She didn’t look up right away. Just kept her head buried under the hood, like she hadn’t been listening for that exact sound all afternoon. “Didn’t know they let losers back through customs.”

Oscar let out a low laugh and leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “Seventh isn’t losing.”

“Tell that to the guy who came sixth,” she muttered, finally straightening up. Her ponytail was a mess, a smear of grease across her cheek. “I had to turn the volume down. Your post-race interview was giving me second-hand embarrassment.”

He raised a brow. “You watched?”

“My mum did.”

He grinned. “So, you just happened to be in the room?”

She didn’t answer. Just grabbed a rag and wiped her hands, more force than necessary.

He looked around, the garage somehow smaller with both of them in it. “Miss me?”

She scoffed. “You leave for two days and come back with a god complex. Impressive.”

“You missed me.”

“In the way you miss a splinter.”

“Sharp. I like it.”

They danced around each other like usual. Tension in every breath, every glance. Neither willing to admit what was obvious to anyone else. She didn’t ask how the race went, and he didn’t offer. Some things they didn’t talk about.

Oscar wandered as she fiddled with a wrench she didn’t need. He stopped by the back corner, drawn by something under the tarp. He glanced at her.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that.”

He looked at her. She didn’t sound playful anymore.

“Seriously. Leave it.”

But he was already lifting the edge. Not enough to see everything, but enough. Welded frame, stripped interior, half an engine. It wasn’t much yet. But it was something. Something important.

When she crossed the garage, she wasn’t stomping. She was silent. Cold.

“You don’t get to look at that.”

Oscar blinked. “I didn’t know it was…”

“You didn’t ask.” Her voice was quiet but sharp, like glass underfoot. “You just went ahead like you always do.”

He stepped back, hands up. “I wasn’t trying to-”

“It’s not about trying.” She was furious, but it wasn’t loud. It was contained, fragile. “That’s mine. You don’t get to touch it. You don’t get to act like you still know me.”

Something in her cracked then, but not in the way he expected. She wasn’t just mad about the car.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. When she didn’t reply he continued, “Don’t say I don’t know you. I do. Sparks I know you.”

She almost laughed, shaking her head. “No. No, Mr F1 hotshot. You don’t know me. You knew me. Me four years ago, before you left. News Flash. I’ve changed.”

He looked at her, jaw clenched like he had something to say but wasn’t sure if he should.

She didn’t give him time to find the words. “The girl you knew,” she said. “She thought the world was gonna wait. Thought people stuck around if they said they would.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but something cracked in it. “Turns out, people leave. Even the ones who promised not to.”

Oscar’s eyes dropped. “I didn’t promise-”

“Exactly,” she snapped, bitter smile flashing. “Smart move.”

He took a breath, slow and heavy. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“Well, congrats. You managed it anyway.”

A beat passed between them. The garage was too still; the weight of silence louder than any engine ever was.

“You act like I didn’t think about you every damn day,” he said finally, voice low. “Like I didn’t watch every message and think- ‘If I go back now, I’ll remember everything I lost, and it’ll be ten times harder to leave again.’ But I still almost did. A dozen times.”

She turned away from him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He took a cautious step forward. “You think I don’t regret it?”

She didn’t look at him. “I think you made the right call. That’s the worst part.”

He blinked. “What?”

She laughed once, no humour in it. “You made it. You left and made it. And you’re good. Really bloody good. I can’t even be mad at that without feeling petty.”

“That’s not-”

“I needed you,” she said, finally facing him. “After Dad, after everything, I needed you. And you weren’t here.”

Her voice cracked at the end of it, barely. Just a hairline fracture. But it was enough. Oscar looked like he wanted to reach for her, say something, fix it. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, like someone watching a fire burn too far to stop.

She shook her head. “You don’t get to come back and act like nothing changed. You don’t get to touch my car or talk like you still know me.”

He glanced toward the half-built machine under the tarp. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Not just a car.”

She didn’t answer.

“You built it without him,” Oscar said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “I built it for me.”

He looked at her, properly now. “You never showed anyone.”

“No,” she said. “Not everything has to be for display.”

Silence again, heavier this time.

“He would’ve been proud.”

Her laugh was sharp, cutting. “Don’t you dare.”

Oscar flinched.

“You don’t get to say that,” she said. “You didn’t even come back. Not once. Not even for the wake. Not for the funeral. Not for me.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said, voice quiet.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” she snapped. “You just had to show up.”

The words hung there. Raw. Final.

Oscar looked like he wanted to argue. Or explain. Or at least try. But whatever words he had fell short. He swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

And she didn’t look at him again.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The sterile hum of the hospital waiting room was punctuated by the quiet murmur of a family trying to hold itself together. At nineteen, she’d always seen her father as her steadfast champion, invincible despite life’s many curves. That afternoon, however, the harsh fluorescent lights revealed the first cracks in that fortress.

She sat on a row of uncomfortable chairs, knees jiggling, the vinyl squeaking beneath every shift. Her mother sat to her right, posture too upright, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded tight in her lap. Her determined smile was brittle. Her eyes had gone glassy and faraway, as if she were staring straight past the walls.

To her left, Eli and Jackson slouched in oversized hoodies, their small limbs tucked in like they'd rather vanish into the fabric. Eli swung his legs restlessly, trainers tapping a dull rhythm against the tile. Jackson hugged a toy car in both hands, a battered Hot Wheels thing, bright blue, its wheels worn from years of races down garage ramps and hallway baseboards.

“Can I get a can of coke?” Jackson asked suddenly, not quite whispering.

“Not now,” she said, automatic.

“I’m thirsty.”

Her mum blinked like she was coming out of a fog. “There’s water in my bag.”

“I don’t like that water.”

Eli elbowed him. “It’s just water, idiot.”

“Don’t call him that,” their mum snapped.

“Sorry,” Eli muttered, quieter.

Oscar stood a few seats away, his hands in his coat pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked out of place in the sterile hallway, too tall, too real, like he’d been dropped into someone else’s tragedy. But he wasn’t a stranger. Not to them. He’d driven them here. He’d held her hand on the walk in, brief, not for show. Jackson had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the wait and Oscar hadn’t moved the whole time.

Now, though, Oscar’s usual fire had dulled to embers. His jaw was set, but his eyes were soft, full of something heavy. He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the boys. Watching their mum. Watching the whole room crack open.

The sound of footsteps drew them all upright. The doctor appeared in the hallway like a verdict, clipboard in hand, expression calm, prepared, devastating.

The words came in carefully measured doses. Aggressive. Treatment options. Time is uncertain. None of it landed cleanly. Her mother’s fingers tightened around the armrest. Jackson squirmed in his seat. Eli looked at her, wide-eyed, waiting for someone else to react first.

She felt Oscar step closer, just behind her now, his presence suddenly grounding against the sterile hum of the corridor. The harsh hospital lighting didn’t soften anything, not the ache in her chest, not the sting behind her eyes, but he did.

“This isn’t how we imagined today,” he murmured, his voice thick with something unspeakable.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves like she could anchor herself to the moment. Still, she was grateful he was there. Grateful he hadn't filled the silence with apologies or promises he couldn't keep.

Then, slowly, she felt it, his hand brushing against hers. Not a grab, not even a touch, really. Just the barest graze of skin, tentative and uncertain. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t respond either. Not at first.

His hand stayed there, barely touching, like he was asking permission without words. Waiting. She exhaled, shakily. Let her fingers unfurl from the fist she hadn’t realised she’d made. And then she let him.

Their hands found each other with aching slowness, fingers threading together like it hurt. His thumb moved once, softly over her skin, a gesture that asked nothing but said everything. She still didn’t look at him. Just stared straight ahead, toward the blank white wall and the door they’d both been too afraid to open.

Her father was just down the hall, behind a closed door. She imagined him lying there, awake now, or not. Breathing easily, or not. She hadn’t seen him since the scan. She’d thought it would be hours still. She wasn’t ready.

Jackson tugged on her sleeve. “Is he gonna come home today?”

Eli gave him a look. “Don’t ask that.”

“I was just-”

“Enough,” she said gently, pulling her arm away. “We don’t know yet.”

Her mum stood, finally, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she needed to keep something inside. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded at the doctor and followed him down the corridor, her steps small, uneven.

The boys stayed on the bench, suddenly quiet. Jackson leaned his head on Eli’s shoulder, and Eli let him. Neither said a word. The toy car slipped from Jackson’s fingers and rolled in a lazy arc under the chairs. Oscar bent to catch it before it disappeared, handed it back without comment.

Jackson took it, nodded. Eli gave his brother’s shoulder the softest nudge. Not rough. Just something that said: I'm still here too. Oscar sat beside them, hands clasped between his knees, eyes forward. The silence pressed in again.

Her own hands were shaking. She shoved them into the pockets of her jacket. Her thoughts spiralled, unfocused. Words caught in her throat like gravel. She didn’t want to go in yet. She didn’t want to see her father like that. Smaller. Dimmer. She didn’t want to hear the quiet way he might say her name. Or not say it at all.

Oscar reached out, quietly, resting one hand on her knee. His thumb moved in a slow, absent motion. Not asking. Just anchoring. She didn’t cry. Not yet. But she let her head drop against his shoulder, just briefly.

Across from them, the hallway light flickered once. Then stayed on.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage smelled like heat again. Not the good kind, not motor heat, not track heat, but the stale kind, the kind that came from a space that hadn’t been aired out in days. The kind that came from silence.

Oscar had been back every day since, but he’d kept his distance. Especially from the corner.

Now, he was sitting on the bench near the old toolbox, elbows on his knees, watching her work like he was waiting for a green light that might never come. She was under the hood of a hatchback she didn’t care about. Tinkering more than fixing. Avoiding.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean to step on anything. I just-” He hesitated. “It was stupid.”

Still, she kept her head down, arms elbow-deep in useless adjustment.

He added, “It’s a hell of a car.”

That earned him a glance. Quick. Neutral.

“You didn’t see all of it.”

“Didn’t need to.”

She tightened a bolt that didn’t need tightening.

“I overreacted,” she said, too casual to sound sincere, too flat to be nothing.

He looked up at that.

She added, “You were just being nosy. You’ve always been nosy.”

“True.”

“And smug.”

He grinned. “Deeply.”

A small beat passed.

Then: “But also right,” he added. “About the car. It’s something.”

She wiped her hands on a rag. “It’s mine.”

“I know.”

She looked at him again. Longer, this time. The light through the windows caught the dust in the air, made it move like smoke.

Then, quiet: “You really want to drive it?”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then tossed the rag onto the bench.

“You can drive it.”

He stood, surprised by how fast she said it.

“But,” she said, already walking toward the tarp, “I’m coming too.”

He smiled. “You don’t trust me?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Not with the car. And definitely not with the wheel.”

Oscar stepped forward, eyes on her. “Where are we taking it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just peeled back the edge of the tarp and looked at the machine beneath, her machine, like it was a secret she was almost ready to show.

Then, softly: “The old track.”

Oscar’s smile softened. “I remember.”

The tarp came off slowly. Like unveiling something holy. Oscar didn’t reach for it. He just watched.

The frame was welded clean, the lines sharp and purposeful. No paint yet, just raw metal and taped notes on the panel seams. The engine was only half assembled, but the wiring loom was already tucked tight, routed with care. It looked like something caught mid-transformation, feral and unfinished.

He let out a breath. “Damn.”

She didn’t smile, but her hands moved with less tension now. She crouched to unlock the jack stands, then handed him a socket without being asked.

“You built this from scratch?” he asked.

“Started with scraps,” she replied. “Salvaged parts. A few things from the old kart.”

Oscar blinked. “Our kart?”

“Some pieces still worked.”

He knelt beside her, checking the front suspension. “Steering feels stiff.”

“Needs adjustment. It's deliberate.”

He glanced up. “You always did like control.”

She gave him a flat look. “You always did need it.”

He laughed softly, then dropped it. The mood didn’t break, but it bent. They kept working. Wheels. Brake lines. Torque checks. They passed tools back and forth with an ease they hadn’t earned back yet. Each movement was a ghost of a hundred Saturdays before it.

“I kept meaning to ask,” he said after a while, his voice softer. “Why that track?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just twisted a wrench a half-turn too far and leaned back.

“I like the corners,” she said eventually.

Oscar gave her a look. “You hate those corners.”

She shrugged. “I like knowing what I’m up against.”

That made him pause. Something in the way she said it, something in the torque she used on that bolt, pulled at a memory. A night. A fight. A version of her standing at this exact distance, arms crossed, words sharp.

He reached for the next tool, but his hand hovered instead. She noticed. Her eyes flicked to his. Everything in the room stilled. Like a scene about to replay itself.

But not yet.

Not yet.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁

The hospital room was dim. A small lamp glowed on the windowsill; the only real light left. Everything else had gone quiet. She sat on the edge of the vinyl chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her knees were pulled up, ankles crossed, eyes fixed on the bed.

Her father looked smaller under the sheets. The kind of small that came from pain and the slow fading of someone who used to fill every room with his laugh.

He stirred, eyes fluttering half-open. “Hey.”

She straightened. “Hey.”

“You’re still here.”

She gave a tired smile. “You think I’d go somewhere better than this?”

His mouth curved weakly. “Could be worse.”

They both knew it already was.

She reached over and adjusted the corner of the blanket, not because it needed fixing, but because she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.

He was quiet for a while. Then, softly: “Your mum’s gonna need help. And the boys.”

She nodded.

“But not forever,” he added. “Don’t let this place trap you.”

“I’m not trapped.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I know how it happens.”

She swallowed hard, blinked up at the ceiling.

“You were gonna go,” he said, eyes still half-lidded. “You and that boy.”

Her throat tightened. “Oscar left.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes clearer now. “What?”

“He got offered something. Overseas. He left yesterday.”

His chest rose slowly, then fell. “I see.”

“He didn’t know… how bad things were.”

“Did you tell him?”

She didn’t answer.

He watched her a long moment. “You should’ve told him.”

“I was tired of people leaving.”

He gave a quiet, painful breath of a chuckle. “Well. Some of us don’t get a choice.”

She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. Then, quieter: “He cared about you. Still does.”

“I liked that kid.”

“He left.”

Her dad reached out. His hand shook, but he managed to place it over hers. “He’s not the only one who’ll want you.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t-”

“Don’t close the door just because he couldn’t walk through it,” he murmured. “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She couldn’t speak. Just stared at their hands. A spasm passed through him, sharper this time. His fingers gripped tighter.

“Hey,” she said, sitting forward. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

He winced. Jaw tight. Trying to fight it.

“Dad-”

“I just want you to be okay,” he whispered, tear falling on his cheek.

“You’ve done that,” she said, voice shaking now. “You said everything. You said it all.”

Another flicker of pain crossed his face. She leaned closer, brushed his hair back like she used to do as a kid.

“If it hurts… you don’t have to stay. I’ll take care of them. I’ll take care of everything.”

His eyes fluttered.

“You can rest now,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

She kept her hand over his until his grip faded, even then, she didn’t move. The monitors didn’t beep. There was no drama to it. Just a quiet kind of ending. The room didn’t feel any different. But she did.

She sat there for a long time, still holding his hand, forehead resting against the edge of the bed. Her shoulders began to shake, no sound, just the sudden, overwhelming collapse of it all.

He was gone.

And she hadn’t cried until now.

The wrenching sobs came fast. She tried to cover her mouth with her sleeve, to stay quiet. But there was no stopping it. Her ribs felt too tight. Her throat raw. Her whole body folding in on itself as the truth landed hard, brutal, final.

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like something she’d say out loud and regret the second it left her mouth. Like if she kept her eyes closed, maybe he’d still be here, asleep and snoring like usual. Just tired.

But when she looked again, the shape of him didn’t move. She sat there until the weight of silence became unbearable.

Then she stood. Wiped her face with both sleeves.

Pulled his blanket back up to his chest. Smoothed the pillow.

Her hands were steady again by the time she stepped into the hallway. The light was harsher out here. More real.

She found her mum curled up on the waiting room couch, arms wrapped around both boys. One asleep, the other blinking groggily at a cartoon on the wall screen. Her mother looked up the second she walked in.

Didn’t speak. Just searched her face.

And her daughter nodded.

Once.

Enough.

Her mum's arms tightened around the boys. Her face collapsed quietly into their shoulders.

She walked over and sat on the floor beside them, legs folded, head leaning against her mother’s knee like she used to when she was little.

No one said anything for a long time. They just held on.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The airport hotel smelled like disinfectant and overripe fruit. The kind of generic comfort that didn't comfort anything. Outside, a Spanish winter pressed cold against the windows, but inside the room it was all fake warmth, dim lighting, beige walls, and the quiet hum of nothing important.

Oscar sat on the floor between the bed and the desk, knees drawn up, one arm hooked over them, still in his base layer from the sim test earlier that morning. His travel bag was unzipped beside him. His race gloves stuck out the top, half-dried, still tacky with sweat.

His phone was in his hand. Her name was on the screen. He hadn’t opened it yet.

He’d stared at it for the last twenty minutes, thumb hovering just over the play icon, heart doing that thing it used to do when she stood at the edge of the track with her arms folded, pretending not to watch his laps. Except now, it wasn’t adrenaline. It was fear. Guilt. That cold pressure behind his ribs that said if you listen to this, you can’t take it back.

He hit play.

"He’s gone."

That was it. Just her voice. Flat, drained, the edges of it frayed in a way he hadn’t heard before. No sobbing. No explanations. No details. Just two words and a pause at the end, like she didn’t know whether to hang up or break down.

Then silence. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. The ceiling above him had a water stain shaped like a continent he didn’t recognize. The laptop on the desk still glowed faint blue. The flight itinerary was open.

He could still make it. If he left now, grabbed his bag, told the team manager he had to go home for a few days, they’d understand. They wouldn’t like it, but they’d understand. He could be there by morning. Stand in the back of the service. Offer some half-version of comfort.

But then what? Walk in with nothing to say? Stand beside a grave he hadn’t helped dig? Try to tell her he was sorry in the same voice he’d used to say goodbye?

He stared at the screen until the gate info blinked up. The room buzzed around him like a distant track on warmup laps, close, but not immediate.

Oscar stood slowly. Walked to the window. Pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

The voicemail played again in his head. He’s gone.

Her dad. The man who handed him wrenches before he was tall enough to reach the pegboard. Who taught him to find torque by feel. Who called him out when he was being cocky and praised him when he shut up and listened. Who let him into that garage like it wasn’t borrowed space.

The man he should’ve come back for. If not for her, then at least for him. Oscar picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over her name.

He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t move.

Instead, he reached for the laptop, closed the lid, and slid the boarding pass into the bin beside the desk. He sat back down on the floor and stared at the blank carpet like it might offer absolution.

It didn’t.

That night, he didn’t sleep. He just lay there, arms crossed over his chest, listening to the hum of the hallway outside, trying to convince himself that leaving things broken was less painful than showing up too late to fix them.

He told himself it wasn’t cowardice. But he never listened to that voicemail again.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The track hadn’t changed. The painted lines were faded, the curbs chipped at the corners, weeds feathering out through the cracks. The stands were empty, half-collapsed in places, and the flag post leaned a little more than it used to, but the smell was the same.

Petrol. Dirt. Rubber. Memory.

The sky was soft grey above them. The kind of morning that held back light like it wasn’t ready to commit. Oscar stood by the driver’s side, helmet tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on the roof of the car like he wasn’t sure he belonged touching it.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just walked around to the passenger side, the soft scuff of her boots on gravel the only sound.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said.

Oscar nodded; jaw tight. He slipped into the seat. She followed. The doors clicked shut. The windows fogged a little at the edges. And then the silence grew loud. She adjusted the harness. Tighter than she needed to.

He looked over at her, helmet already in place. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

She flexed her fingers on her lap. “Adrenaline.”

He didn’t push it.

The ignition clicked. The engine coughed once, then roared to life, raw and eager. She felt it all through her spine.

Oscar glanced at her one last time. She gave him the smallest nod. And they rolled out onto the track.

The car took the first corner like it was born for it. Tight. Clean. No drag. No protest.

She felt every inch of it, the way the rear tucked in just enough, the low hum under her boots, the rumble that wasn’t noise but language. Her hands braced against the dash like she could feel the pulse through the frame.

Oscar didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hands moved with the wheel like he was dancing with it. Confident, but careful. Like he knew she was watching every twitch.

They hit the first straight, and the engine opened up. The sound of it filled the cabin, low and rising, as if the car was proud of itself. She almost laughed. She hadn’t expected that. The thrill. The spark. The joy.

“You feel that?” Oscar shouted over the noise, grinning like a kid behind the visor.

She didn’t shout back. Just nodded. Wide-eyed. Because she did. She felt all of it. Every piece of metal, every wire, every stubborn bolt and long night and skinned knuckle, it all mattered. It all worked.

The car was hers. And it was alive. They hit the back curve faster than she would’ve taken it. Her breath caught, but the car held. So did Oscar.

He wasn’t cocky behind the wheel now. He was grateful. Driving like it meant something.

Mid-lap, she turned to him. No helmet. No mask. Just her.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” she said.

He glanced at her. “Not with this one.” And pushed.

The engine screamed into the next gear, the tires kissing the track edge as they clipped the apex. She leaned into the motion, and for the first time since her dad died, since Oscar left, since the world stopped asking what she wanted, she let herself feel it:

Pride. Freedom. Love.

She looked at the track unfolding ahead of them, the straight stretch, the air vibrating through the shell, and her eyes blurred. And then, Oscar said it.

Quiet. Like it didn’t need to be shouted.

“I thought about this,” he said. “All the time. You. Me. This car. I wanted to believe we’d still make it here.”

Her breath stilled.

“I thought if I saw you again, I’d forget what it felt like to leave.”

He downshifted. Took the next curve.

“But I didn’t forget,” he said. “I never forgot. Not a single day.”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. She looked ahead, blinked hard, and let the tears fall anyway. Not loud. Not messy. Just there.

Because he was right and because she hadn’t let herself believe that anyone, especially him, remembered what she’d lost.

Oscar’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “I loved you back then.”

She looked away, fiddling with the edge of her jacket. “Yeah? I’m not sure you really knew what that meant.” Her tone was light, but the edge was there, sharper than she wanted.

He let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to find the words he didn’t have. “Maybe not. But I never stopped.”

She met his eyes, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and ache. “Me neither. Even if I wanted to.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty, it was full, thick with all the things they never said. The hum of the engine faded into the background, the car still resting beneath them like a quiet witness.

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, fingers tracing the worn leather. “I thought if I came back, everything would be easier. Like we could pick up where we left off.”

She bit her lip, staring out at the cracked asphalt stretching ahead. “I wanted that too. But sometimes, the past isn’t a place you can go back to.”

He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “I was scared. Scared I’d make it worse.”

“By coming back?” Her voice cracked, just for a moment. Then she masked it with a small, bitter laugh. “You walked away when I needed you the most. You weren’t just scared, you were gone.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “I thought it was what you wanted. What you needed.”

She looked down, hands tightening into fists on her lap. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It still does.”

For a long moment, they just sat there, two people tangled up in regrets and love, unsure how to bridge the distance time had made.

Oscar’s voice was quiet, steady. “We’re here now.”

She finally gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Stubborn enough to be here.”

He chuckled, a lightness returning to his tone. “So, what now?”

She shrugged, eyes sparkling despite herself. “I don’t know. But I’m glad you asked.”

And as the morning light finally spilled across the track, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they were ready to find out together.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage smelled like oil, sweat, and something else, something electric, like the air itself was charged just for them.

She lay stretched out on the cold concrete floor, knees bent, arms propped behind her head, watching the underside of the car they’d just finished tweaking. Grease streaked across her collarbone, drying into her skin like a second language. The hum of the overhead fluorescent lights was steady, almost hypnotic, as she caught the faintest scent of Oscar’s aftershave mixed with the grime on his sleeves.

Oscar was crouched beside her, one arm hooked around a suspension spring, head tilted back to study the mechanics, but every so often his eyes flicked down, meeting hers through the shadows.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he said eventually, voice low, the kind that made her heart flip and her cheeks warm.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, elbow nudging his arm. “Says the guy who just tried to convince me the clutch was on backwards.”

He grinned, brushing a hand through his tangled hair. “Details, details. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Barely,” her eyebrow arched. “You nearly reversed us into the hydraulic lift.”

They fell quiet then, the only sounds the occasional drip of oil and their steady breathing. The air between them thickened, charged like a live wire. Without thinking, she shifted closer, her bare arm brushing his sleeve, skin sparking at the contact. He caught the movement, eyes locking with hers through the shadows.

The breath she took felt thick in her lungs.

“Careful,” she whispered. “You’re getting dangerous.”

Oscar’s smile softened, something real behind it now. “Only for you.”

Silence. The kind that knew what it wanted but waited anyway. His hand did not move yet. Hers stayed braced against the floor like it could keep her grounded.

The lights buzzed overhead. A tool dropped somewhere deeper in the garage, loud, then gone. Still, they didn’t speak Then his fingers curled gently around her wrist. Slow. Testing. Not claiming, just asking.

Her breath hitched, the heat in her chest spreading, making her skin tingle in a way the garage grease never could.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured, voice rough, as if the words themselves held a secret promise.

She swallowed, eyes wide and heart racing. “You remembered.”

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist now, rhythmic. Calming or trying to be.

“How could I forget?” He shifted closer, the warmth of his body pressing against hers, sending an electric pulse straight through her.

They were tangled in shadows, the world outside forgotten, the garage a cocoon of scent and whispered promises. His lips brushed her temple, soft but claiming, a contrast to the roughness of his hands as they moved to her waist, pulling her closer, deeper into the quiet heat of the moment.

She arched up against him, breath mingling with his, the sharp tang of motor oil and skin and something dangerously sweet filling her senses.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, voice trembling between a plea and a dare.

His laugh was low and dark, a sound that promised mischief and more. “Oh, I wasn’t planning to.”

Fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his kiss, fierce and slow, a promise that this night was theirs alone, unspoken but understood.

The world narrowed to the press of skin and the rush of heat between them, tangled bodies and whispered names in the dark.

No need for words. Just the quiet, raw language of two people who had waited far too long to let go.

His lips crashed into hers, hungry and deliberate, the taste of him, spearmint and gasoline, flooding her senses. The concrete bit into her back, but she barely noticed, too lost in the way his fingers tangled in her hair, possessive and desperate.

A groan rumbled low in his throat as she nipped at his bottom lip, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his grease-streaked shirt, tracing the taut muscles of his stomach. A wrench clattered somewhere nearby, the sound sharp in the charged silence, but neither of them flinched.

Oscar’s mouth trailed down her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear, and she arched against him with a gasp. His breath was hot against her skin, lips leaving a searing trail down her collarbone as her fingers tightened in his hair.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of sweat and motor oil, but all she could focus on was the rough drag of his calloused hands sliding under the small of her back, lifting her just enough to press her harder against the concrete.

Her top rode higher, the fabric catching on the edge of a bolt they’d dropped earlier, and she shivered as cool metal kissed her skin. His mouth followed the path his fingers had taken, tongue tracing the dark smudge of a grease streak along her hipbone, tasting salt and the sharp tang of engine work. She gasped when his teeth grazed the sensitive dip of her waist, her own fingers leaving prints on his shoulders as she dragged him closer.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of her work trousers, rough knuckles dragging against her overheated skin as he peeled the fabric down in one slow, deliberate motion. The air between them crackled, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the cool garage air hit her bare thighs.

His calloused palms skimmed the curve of her hips, pausing just long enough to catch the edge of her underwear with his thumb, the lace snapping taut before yielding. She lifted her hips in silent permission, the concrete rough beneath her, every scrape and grind of it only heightening the ache building low in her stomach.

The lace gave way with a whisper of fabric, his breath hot against her newly bared skin. She gasped as his mouth found the inside of her thigh, teeth scraping just enough to make her hips jerk off the concrete. His laugh was dark, vibrating against her skin as he pinned her down with one broad hand, the other tracing slow, maddening circles higher, always higher, until her fingers twisted in his hair, desperate. Fluorescent light flickered above them, casting jagged shadows across his shoulders as he dragged his tongue over her in one slow, filthy stroke.

Her back arched off the concrete as his tongue circled her clit, slow and teasing at first, then relentless, the same rhythm he used when polishing chrome, all focused pressure and knowing precision. The wrench lay forgotten nearby, its metal gleaming under the flickering lights, but all she could hear was the slick, filthy sound of his mouth working her, the groan vibrating through his chest when she rocked against him.

His fingers dug into her thighs, holding her open as he dragged his tongue lower, tasting her in slow, deliberate strokes, each one wringing a broken noise from her throat. The scent of motor oil clung to his skin, mingling with sweat and her arousal, thick enough to drown in. Her thighs trembled against his ears as his tongue pressed deeper, the flat of it dragging against her with the same slow precision he used to torque bolts, just shy of too much.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of gasoline and her, the taste of her sharp on his tongue as he curled two fingers inside without warning. Her gasp fractured into a moan, her hips lifting off the concrete only for his free hand to shove her back down, the rough pad of his thumb circling where his tongue had just been.

"Good girl," he rumbled against her skin, the vibration sending another shockwave through her. His tongue slowed to torturous swirls, savouring the way her thighs trembled around him.

His thumb pressed harder, the rough edge of his callus dragging just where she needed it while his tongue flicked mercilessly. "Look at you," he growled, pulling back just enough to watch her clench around his fingers, glistening under the garage lights. "Pretty little thing falling apart on my tongue."

The garage air hummed with the sound of her panting as his tongue curled deeper, the wet heat of his mouth wringing another broken cry from her lips. His fingers twisted inside her, dragging against her walls with the same rough precision he used when threading stubborn bolts, just enough friction to make her toes curl against the concrete.

The scent of her clung to his face, smeared across his lips as he pulled back just long enough to watch her squirm.

"Close," she gasped, her thighs shaking where they framed his shoulders, the muscles in her stomach tightening like coiled wire.

His grin was all teeth, wicked in the flickering light. "Not yet."

His fingers withdrew with a slick sound, leaving her clenching around nothing as he shoved his own trousers down just enough to free himself, thick and flushed, his cock bobbing against her inner thigh.

 "Won't let you finish," he started, dragging the leaking head through her, "not till I’ve felt you." Her breath hitched as he notched himself against her entrance, the blunt pressure just shy of pushing in. The garage air clung to them, thick with oil and sweat and her, his calloused grip bruising her hips as he held her still.

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan that vibrated through her chest. The concrete bit into her shoulders as he pinned her down, every ridge and vein of him carving itself into her walls.

She gasped, half pain, half blinding pleasure, her nails scoring red lines down his sweat-slicked back as he began moving. No finesse now, just the brutal drag of him pulling out until just the head remained before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin drowning out the hum of the garage lights.

 He fucked her like he raced, relentless, precision-guided chaos. Every thrust was a victory lap, every moan a trophy ripped from her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel: the sting of concrete beneath her, the heat of his sweat dripping onto her skin, the way his hand slid between them to circle her clit again, fast and filthy.

"Fuck, you feel-" he bit off the end of the sentence with a groan, his forehead pressed to hers, lips brushing as he moved. "So fucking good, always-"

She tugged him closer, wrapping her legs high around his back, forcing him deeper. Her body arched to meet his every thrust, slick and shameless, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

“Say it,” he panted, voice rough with need. “Tell me this is mine. All of it.”

She sobbed out a “Yes-yours, always-” as he slammed into her, the drag of him too much and never enough. He kissed her then, wild and hungry, tongue tasting every desperate sound she made.

Her orgasm hit like a slammed door, violent, all-consuming, her whole body tightening beneath him as she shattered. She clenched around him, dragging a broken curse from his mouth as he lost rhythm, stuttered, and spilled into her with a low, feral groan.

The air between them hung heavy, buzzing like static. For a long moment, they didn’t move, just breathing hard, tangled in sweat and oil and heat.

Oscar finally let out a shaky laugh, forehead still pressed to hers. “Happy birthday.”

She laughed too, breathless and wrecked, hands still tangled in his hair. “Best gift I’ve ever had.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, lips brushing hers like a secret. Then he pulled back just far enough to look at her, really look at her, his voice rough around the edges. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

She blinked, eyes wide, raw with something that had nothing to do with lust. “I know,” she whispered, pulling him close again. “Me too.”

And in the quiet aftermath, lying there on the cold garage floor, covered in grease and sweat and each other, it felt like the most honest place in the world.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

She was smiling when they rolled to a stop.

The engine ticked quietly as it cooled, metal softening in the hush. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that almost felt calm. Her fingers relaxed; her boots planted steady on the floor. Oscar had already unbuckled, helmet resting in his lap, breath fogging the glass.

And still, she smiled.

Because for a second, for just that heartbeat on the straight, it had felt like before. Like they were invincible again. Like grief had never burned a hole in her chest, like he hadn’t left, like maybe there was still something here worth saving.

Then the smile broke.

She didn’t mean for it to. It cracked, barely, and then her throat tightened. Her hands started to tremble. Not from adrenaline this time.

Oscar noticed. “Hey. You okay?”

She shook her head, wiped her face, and laughed, sharp and wet and wrong. “Why am I crying?”

He reached for her instinctively, but she flinched away, throwing the door open instead. The cold hit first. Then the rain. A slow drizzle that grew fast, soaking into her jacket, her hair, her skin like it was trying to wash something out of her.

Oscar followed, stepping into the gravel and rain, not bothering with a jacket. “Talk to me.”

She spun on him. “About what? About how I finally let myself feel something and it just made me fall apart?”

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

She scoffed. “I’ve been doing it alone for years. You don’t get to waltz in and fix it with a lap and a couple of words.”

His voice was low, but firm. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

That stopped her. Not softened her, stopped her.

She blinked rain from her lashes, jaw tight. “Don’t say that like it’s a promise. You said you loved me back then, too. Right before you left.”

“I had to leave.”

“You didn’t have to leave me.”

The rain picked up, drumming on the roof of the car, filling the silence.

Oscar took a step forward. “I never forgot you.”

“You keep saying that. Like it’s supposed to undo everything.” Her voice rose, frayed and full of ache. “You don’t get to show up now and act like I’m still yours.”

“But you are,” he said, helpless. “You always have been.”

Her breath hitched, too fast. Too shallow. She tried to speak but her chest was collapsing inward, ribs locking up like a vice. Her hands went to her knees, the gravel swaying underfoot.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Oscar knelt beside her, water pooling at their feet. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

She couldn’t. Not properly. Not through the panic or the pressure or the weight of everything she hadn’t let herself feel until today.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t-”

He didn’t touch her, just sat close, voice steady. “In. Out. Match me, alright?”

It took time. Too much of it. But eventually, the air found her again. Rushed in like it had been waiting on the edge. She sat back, soaked and shaking, and didn’t resist when Oscar put his jacket over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she said, small. “I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

He looked at her with something tender and broken. “You don’t have to hold it all together for me.”

Silence again. Then the kiss.

Raw, desperate, teeth and breath and rain. A collision, not a comfort. It didn’t build; it broke.

His hands tangled in her hair like he didn’t know how to let go. Hers fisted in his collar, dragging him down, as if closing the space between them might fill the chasm time had carved open. Their mouths met like a question without an answer, too late, too much, too soon.

It tasted like rain and salt and memory. He kissed her like he was drowning. She kissed him like she was trying to forget. And for a second, just one stolen, selfish second, it felt like maybe that was enough. But it wasn’t.

It could’ve been more. Maybe it was more. But it wasn’t peace. It wasn’t healing. It was fire, not warmth. Burn, not balm.

When they finally tore apart, breathless and shivering, it was with bruised mouths and glassy eyes, and the unmistakable sense that something had broken open between them, something fragile and vital that couldn’t be put back the same way.

He kept his forehead pressed to hers. Their breaths synced. Rain ran between them like blood from a split lip.

“I never stopped,” he said, barely a whisper. “Not for a second.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, really look at him. He looked wrecked. Beautiful and broken in a way that made her ache.

“I know,” she said. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t enough. She looked down at her hands, still trembling. “But we can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. Final.

They stood there for a long moment. Rain washing everything. The air between them thick with what-ifs and never-agains.

Then, slowly, she shrugged off his jacket and held it out to him like a flag of surrender.

He took it. Didn’t speak.

She turned. Walked toward the garage with shoulders squared and spine straight, as if leaving him again didn’t hurt this time. As if it didn’t kill her. Rain slicked her face, cleaned her of everything she didn’t say.

“Don’t go,” he said, voice cracking like thunder in the downpour.

She froze. Just for a second. Just enough for him to catch up.

“I need you,” he said, chest heaving, soaked through. “I need you, and it’s killing me, watching you walk away like I didn’t fight hard enough to stay.”

She didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

“I know I broke something,” he went on. “I know I left you when you needed me most. But I’m here now. I came back. That has to count for something.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “It does,” she whispered. “But not enough.”

“I love you,” he said. “I mean it, you know. I love you, and I’m yours. Forever. Every race, every podium, every win it is all for you”

She turned then. Slowly. Eyes full of grief, not doubt. “I believe you. But I had to grieve you like I grieved him. My dad. You left, and I lost both of you, one after the other, like the world was trying to prove I could survive it.”

He flinched like she’d hit him. Because she had. Just not with her hands.

“I might be able to forgive you someday,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I’ll never forget that I had to learn how to live without you. And I did.”

“I never wanted you to-”

“But I had to.” Her tears ran hot even under the cold rain. “And now I don’t know how to need you without remembering what it cost me.”

They stood there, hearts unravelling in the storm. Then she stepped back. And this time, when she turned away, she didn’t freeze. She didn’t falter.

And even though it tore through her like wreckage, she kept walking.

And this time, he let her go.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage door groaned on its runners as she forced it open, the sound slicing through the morning stillness like it didn’t belong. Dust motes swirled in the streaks of light pouring through the slats, dancing in the quiet. The air was thick with the scent of oil, old rubber, stale sweat, and grief.

She stood at the threshold for a long time. Just… stood. Then she dropped to her knees like the ground had been ripped out from under her.

The first sob tore through her like a jagged knife, raw and ragged, cutting through the silence with brutal force. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a desperate, guttural cry that ripped from deep inside, shaking her whole body. Another burst followed, violent and uncontrollable, wracking her ribs and twisting her insides until she couldn’t catch her breath.

Her hands clawed at the concrete beneath her, scraping at the cold, unforgiving floor as if she could gouge away the pain. Fingers curled tight into the frayed fabric of her hoodie, nails biting into skin, desperate for something real to hold onto.

She convulsed, shoulders trembling violently, chest heaving with sobs that tore at her throat and left her raw, broken, ragged, like a storm tearing through the last shreds of her control.

Her world had shattered.

Her dad was gone. Oscar was gone. And the garage, their garage, was still here.

That felt like the cruellest part.

Eventually, when her body stopped shaking, she sat back on her heels. Wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket. The floor was cold. The silence, colder.

She looked around.

Tools still hung on the pegboard in his careful, labelled rows. Coffee mug, “#1 Race Dad,” still perched on the workbench, crusted with forgotten dregs. The old tarp still half-covered the kart she’d helped him build when she was eleven.

Her chest ached. But she stood.

Slowly, she started tidying. Not because it needed to be clean, but because he would’ve wanted it that way. Bolts sorted into jars. Rags thrown out. The rolling stool finally fixed so it didn’t squeak when you moved.

She moved like a ghost, hands remembering what her heart couldn’t bear to think about. Like how her dad used to whistle off-key while tuning engines. Or how Oscar used to pop in unannounced, grease on his jaw, some half-eaten protein bar in his hand, asking if he could borrow the torque wrench again.

He never returned it. She found it, later, in a box of his old things. She kept it.

After a while, she climbed up on the workbench and pulled the tiny chain that turned on the old boxy TV in the corner. It buzzed to life like it was waking from a coma. She fiddled with the aerial until the image came through. Static. Then a track. Then him.

Oscar. His first F1 race.

Her breath caught in her throat as the commentators rattled off stats and history, as the camera cut to his face in the cockpit. He looked calm. Sharp. So far away.

She remembered that helmet. Remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor while her dad adjusted the chin strap and told him not to let his elbows flare too wide on exit. She remembered Oscar rolling his eyes and doing it anyway and winning.

The lights went out. The engines screamed. The race began. And she… smiled.

Through everything, through the hollow ache in her chest, through the blister of abandonment, through the mess of mourning and oil and dust, she smiled. Because he made it. Because they all did. Once.

She watched in silence as the laps ticked by.

Then the camera cut to the pit wall. A sea of engineers and race staff. And there, in the middle of it, an empty space.

That’s where her dad would’ve stood. Arms crossed. Headset on. Watching his boy.

She reached for the coffee mug on the bench, still half-covered in grease. Held it in both hands.

“Hope you’re watching,” she said quietly. “Because I am.”

And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel quite so empty.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The roar of engines and the bustle of the paddock were a world away from the cracked asphalt and peeling paint of that old garage. The smells had changed too, now a sharp blend of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and polished carbon fibre. It was a different kind of chaos, one polished and precise, but it still made her heartbeat faster.

She moved with a confident grace beneath the towering garages and sprawling hospitality tents, every bolt tightened, every engine checked, every system calibrated. She was no longer the girl who’d broken down on a cold concrete floor, drowning in loss and anger. Now, she was a high-level mechanic for one of the top F1 teams, sharp-eyed and relentless, earning respect in a world that demanded nothing less.

Oscar watched her from the edge of the paddock, the crowd and noise a blur around him. He saw the way she worked, the focused intensity, the flicker of fire in her eyes when the car was ready to roar back to life. She was in her element. Unstoppable.

He remembered the words her dad had once told her, the way they echoed through his own mind now:

“Don’t let this place trap you.” “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She had taken those words to heart. She had carved out her own path, far from the ghosts of their past and the silence left behind in that faded garage. It was both a relief and a sting to see her moving on.

Oscar let out a slow breath, the weight of years pressing down on him. He still held on to a sliver of hope, fragile but persistent, that maybe, someday, she’d come back. Not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. That maybe, after all the pain and distance, there might still be a place for him in her story.

But for now, he watched quietly, proud and aching, knowing that her future was hers alone to claim

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The late summer sun hung low above the track, casting long golden streaks over the tarmac and shimmering off the car’s metalwork. She was crouched by the front wing, grease smudged on her cheek, sleeves rolled to the elbows, completely focused. Her fingers moved confidently, coaxing bolts into place like she was born doing it.

Her dad stood on the overlook, arms crossed, a proud shadow cast behind him. He was pretending to be checking the line through Turn Three, but really, he was watching her.

Oscar came up beside him, hands in his pockets, pretending to watch the track too. They stood in silence for a moment, two generations of men who loved her, in different ways.

“She’s got your stubbornness, you know,” Oscar said, nudging her dad lightly.

Her dad huffed a short laugh. “Poor girl.”

Oscar hesitated. “I’m gonna marry her someday.”

Her dad raised a brow, but didn’t turn.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

Oscar looked down at her, her hair pulled back messily, singing quietly to herself as she worked, utterly in her element.

“Yeah,” he said, simple and firm. “I love her.”

A beat passed.

“She’ll make you work for it.”

Oscar smiled. “I know.”

Below them, she called up, “You two done brooding? Car’s not gonna fix itself.”

Her dad chuckled, then started down toward her. Oscar followed, jogging to catch up.

When they reached her, she stood and wiped her hands on a rag, one brow raised like she already knew they’d been talking about her. Her dad pulled her into a side hug, planting a kiss on the crown of her head, arm strong around her shoulders.

And as she leaned into the embrace, Oscar reached for her hand.

She didn’t hesitate. Their fingers twined together, warm and sure.

And in that moment, with her dad’s arm around her, Oscar’s hand in hers, and the sun dipping behind the track, it felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter thirteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: things end in tragedy.

⤿ warning(s): character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.5k

Jack is too late to stop the fall, but just in time to witness the aftermath.

For an instant that will brand itself forever, the world goes eerily still. He reaches the railing and leans out, and there you are: crumpled on a tangle of construction scaffold two stories below, Dorian’s body twisted beneath you like a grotesque cushion. Sodium floodlights paint everything sepia; the hum of city traffic wafts up as if nothing extraordinary has happened.

You’re not moving.

The sight punches the air from Jack’s lungs. His fingers clamp the cold rail so hard metal creaks. An animal noise claws up his throat, but training strangles it.

He then sucks in freezing air, pivots, and bolts down the service stairwell three steps at a time. On the landing he nearly collides with a pair of ICU nurses already hauling a backboard. Words crash out of him—“She’s on the scaffolding, eighth-floor façade”—before he vaults past, feet barely touching concrete.

On the seventh floor he bursts onto the scaffold walkway—the world roaring back to motion. The two nurses scramble at your side, desperate hands feeling for pulses.

Jack drops to his knees, palms skidding on grit, and braces your head between shaking hands. Tears blur his vision for half a heartbeat, but then the old medic clicks on: airway, breathing, circulation. Your chest rises in ragged little gasps; a pulse flutters at your neck—the faintest drum, but there.

“C-spine!” Jack barks. Robby is suddenly at his side—face blanched, hands steady—sliding the rigid collar beneath your jaw while a night-shift nurse anchors your skull. Jack’s fingers quake, but his voice stays level, murmuring between commands: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

Just a yard away, Dorian’s body lies where it landed—arms splayed, eyes fixed on the blank sky. No one spares him more than a glance; purpose funnels toward the living. An ESU tech tosses a silver casualty blanket over the corpse—an afterthought glittering under flood-lights—then hurries back to help Robby steady the backboard.

Straps cinch tight; splints cradle your ruined arm; IV lines snake from bruised veins. The moment the stretcher locks and lifts—your weight finally secured—Jack’s composure splinters, a raw, half-voiced sob ripping free before duty slams the door on it. Robby is there, bracing a steady hand between Jack’s shoulder blades—an unspoken stand fast, brother—and the lance of grief folds back into purpose.

Robby’s hand stays planted between Jack’s shoulders as they seize the stretcher handles—Jack with one hand steadying the dripping saline, Robby matching his grip on the opposite rail. Together with the team they surge for the stairwell. Behind them the scaffold creaks; wind rattles the foil over Dorian’s abandoned corpse. Ahead, sirens and shouted clearances funnel toward the harsh, saving brightness of Trauma-bay lights.

The freight elevator bangs open onto the surgical floor, and the gurney rockets out into a corridor already cleared to disaster footing. OR 3’s doors stand wide, lights blazing like a white-hot maw. Your stretcher rolls past stacked crash carts, through teams who yank instrument trays from sterile wrappers with frantic precision.

“Prep time is blood time—move!” Dr. Walsh barks, snapping fresh gloves on. She jerks her head toward Dr. Garcia and Dr. Miller—both technically off shift, both refusing to leave. Garcia yanks on a fresh sterile coat, while Miller chases the circulating nurse for a vascular tray, face chalk-pale beneath exhaustion but set like stone.

Jack jogs beside the rail, one hand on the IV hub, the other cradling your barely-there pulse. Your face, normally lit with sunrise jokes, is gray as surgical steel; respirations hitch against the vent. The monitors scream—heart 140, pressure free-falling despite pressors. Blood oozes past the chest-tube dressing, runs in black rivulets along the mattress seam. For one lurching second Jack thinks he can see your sternum move independently—flail segment snapping like a broken birdcage whenever the bag squeezes a breath.

Inside the suite, an anesthesiologist slams the vent into the wall gas. “ETCO₂ tanking—she’s blowing off nothing. Tubing clear, switching to pressure control.” A tech sponges the brown spill of gastric contents from your cheek where the fall forced bile up your throat.

Before Jack can take another step forward, Walsh is there to plant a palm on his chest. “Line of departure,” her tone’s a scalpel but her eyes flicker with something fragile. “You watching through glass keeps me honest. Get there.”

Jack’s knees try to root themselves to the floor—leaving feels like desertion—but he obeys, stumbling back to the anteroom. Robby drags him aside, shouldering a silent barricade, as the scrub nurse slaps a No-Entry sign across the doors.

Inside OR 3 chaos becomes choreography. Dr. Garcia slides an ultrasound wand over the upper-right side of your stomach; the screen blooms black—blood drowning your liver. “Big tear—she’s bleeding out,” she calls.

“Get every unit of blood we have!” Walsh fires back. A tech slams thawed plasma onto the rapid infuser; Fin, sleeves soaked crimson, races in with more O-negative.

Miller squeezes the breathing bag with one hand while reading the monitor with the other. “Blood pressure sixty, heart racing, oxygen crashing,” he warns. His glance to Walsh is clear: we’re losing her.

Walsh answers by drawing a long line down your belly with the scalpel. Metal meets skin; bright red floods the drapes. Suction roars as Garcia stuffs sponge after sponge inside, trying to keep pace with the tide.

From behind the glass, Jack sees it all in slow motion: Walsh’s hands diving into the wound, fresh crimson soaking gauze, Miller’s shoulders knotting as he forces each breath into your lungs. Alarm tones layer over each other—howling that time is almost gone. Robby’s fist clenches Jack’s scrubs, tethering him. Dana appears beside them, tears sliding unchecked.

Inside, Garcia’s shout fractures the moment. “Heart’s out of rhythm—paddles, now!” Gel slaps your chest; your body jerks under the jolt, then flattens. The screen still scribbles chaos. Another shock. A beat… another… the wavering line steadies at 40 beats a minute.

Walsh never looks up. “Clamp that liver,” she mutters. Miller drops a clamp into her waiting hand; her fingers disappear into the bloody cavity. Seconds crawl. Then—a sharp, certain “Got it.” The suction pitch drops; the gush slows. Your pressure inches up—seventy, then eighty.

Jack’s knees buckle with relief so bitter it tastes like metal. Only now does he notice he’s biting his lip so hard its started to crack and bleed, Robby’s arm still the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside the glass, the storm quiets but doesn’t clear. Garcia calls sponge counts, Miller pushes life back through IV syringes, Walsh asks for closing stitches. The spleen still has to be checked, your arm is splintered, your head injury lurks unseen—but the bleeding that wanted your life is finally caged.

Walsh lifts her gaze to the gallery. Her nod to Jack is small—barely a tremor of her chin—but louder than every alarm. She’s still here.

Jack presses his palm to the pane, breath fogging the glass—an unspoken promise to the broken figure on the table: I’m still here, too.

The last suture goes in at 03:17 a.m.

Walsh’s shoulders hunch, her cap soaked through, but the wound is finally closed and the bleeding quiet. You’re wheeled straight to the Surgical ICU under a tower of pumps: blood, antibiotics, pain drips, vasopressors. A ventilator sighs at your bedside; a padded brace keeps your shattered arm aligned; your leg is already swaddled for the ortho plate you’ll need tomorrow—if your numbers hold.

They don’t hold for long.

03:42 – Your blood pressure nosedives. Garcia—still in the same stained coat—bolts a syringe of epinephrine to the line. “Come on,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the monitor until the numbers claw back into the 80s.

04:19 – You spike a jagged heart rhythm. Miller arrives with the crash cart; two shocks later the sinus beat staggers upright like a boxer on the ninth round. He leaves without a word, too tired to make a joke, too relieved to curse fate.

05:05 – A neuro resident slips in, pupils your eyes, frowns at the sluggish response, and orders another CT scan. The porter wheels you out; every corridor looks bruised by night-shift fluorescence, the hush broken only by the rattle of your ventilator.

Everyone is on overtime on Surgical. Jules runs sponge counts from muscle memory, Fin brews coffee that tastes like burnt hope, and Margot prowls the quiet bays, snapping gloves just to keep her nerves from screaming. And Jack never sits; he circles the ICU glass, charting every tiny rise in your blood pressure like it’s a sunrise.

Downstairs, the lobby still glows with crime-scene klieg lights. Police techs comb the pathology lab where Dorian Moylan worked. Detective Patel—hair pulled into a weary knot—is giving Gloria and Security Chief Ramirez the bullet points:

Moylan had quietly transferred between three hospitals in five years, each move following a “personality conflict.”

He spent night breaks pulling unused visitor badges from shredders, soldering chips to clone them.

Two weeks ago he piggy-backed a vendor to the roof and wedged the alarm sensor with a folded coffee stirrer—so small maintenance chalked it up to wind malfunction.

His apartment wall is plastered with photos of you: cafeteria line, parking deck, charity fun-run. Thread between the prints spells an obsession bigger than anger, almost devotional.

“How did he know shift rosters?” Gloria snaps, exhaustion sharpening her words.

Patel taps her tablet. “Key-logger on a volunteer computer in the HR nook. He read every schedule change the moment you clicked Save.”

Ramirez blows out a breath. “He made our cameras blind with coffee stirrers and still waited a month. Why?”

“Because Jack Abbot was on nights,” Patel answers. “Our profile says Moylan wouldn’t act while a protective figure was consistently present. Abbot’s single day off became the window.”

Gloria’s jaw tightens, grief shading into rage.

Upstairs, at 06:12—the ventilator alarm yelps; your chest tube kicks out a dark surge. Garcia dashes in, adjusts suction, sighs when the numbers settle. Jack hovers behind her. She glances back, voice hoarse. “Go breathe, Abbot. She’s stable enough for twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head. “Was supposed to meet her on the roof at sunrise. I owe her the view.”

Garcia’s tired eyes soften just a fraction, her usual bite gone. “Then save it. There’s another dawn coming.”

He grips your badge, his nail playing with the edge of the freshly pressed scalpe sticker, the plastic warm from his sweat, and watches the steady pump of the ventilator. There he sits—until pale daylight begins to leak along the ICU windows.

Your vitals bob in a fragile rhythm. Odds still tilt against you, but each beeping heartbeat writes a promise: not finished yet. And for everyone gathered—surgeons running on caffeine fumes, detectives piecing together the how of horror, friends refusing to blink—the night becomes a vigil, a shared refusal to let the dark have the last line.

Down the corridor a clock clicks to 07:00. Shift change. Another dawn Jack will never see from the roof—but he glances at you, bruised and breathing, and decides this sunrise is happening right here, in the hush between monitors.

. . .

Darkness feels solid, almost architectural—an endless corridor of closed doors. You float somewhere in its center, weightless but not free, a body suspended by medicine while your mind paces on its own.

The first door cracks open, and you are twelve again, kneeling on your bedroom floor with a shoebox of mismatched screws. Other kids build forts; you sort hardware by length, head-type, finish—order blooming under your fingers. The quiet thrill of finding the system beneath the mess settles into your bones like a blueprint. If everything has a place, nothing feels out of control.

Another door: high-school cafeteria. A friend’s asthma attack sends panicked teenagers scattering. You don’t run—you kneel, prop her shoulders, count her breaths, coach her through the wheeze until the nurse arrives. That same thrum of purpose swells in your chest, louder than fear. Method birthed into mercy: There is always something you can steady.

Door three: nursing school, surgical rotation. You memorize clamp sizes the way others memorize song lyrics. Surgeons bark, but your trays are flawless. Patients bleed, but your hands don’t shake. Every precise motion says the same thing: Chaos can’t own me if I meet it with order.

The corridor bends. Lights dim. A door creaks that you don’t remember installing. You push through, and the air shifts—sterile at first, then sour. Cell-phone glow reveals walls papered with photos of you: walking to the parking deck, laughing in the staff lounge, rooftop at dawn. Each image is neatly labeled in handwriting that isn’t yours.

Your limbs feel heavy, dream-slow. Footsteps echo behind you—soft, deliberate. You turn, but the visitor stays just beyond peripheral vision, voice drifting like breath in your ear. “I watched you keep everyone else safe. Even him. But who keeps you safe?”

A glint—a scalpel tip catches the thin light.

Panic splinters the method. You reach for old anchors—breath counts, mental checklists—but the floor tilts, photos sliding like loose tiles. One after another the earlier doors slam shut, trapping you in this room of obsessive order twisted into threat.

You run, but the corridor loops back. Same door, same photos, same voice. “Don’t run,” it coax-pleads, as though worry and menace share the same mouth. Shadows swallow your hands, steal your capacity to sort, label, fix. Pulse hammers your ribs; breath snags.

Darkness thickens until it’s syrup in your lungs.

Monitors far away chirp frantic warnings—yet they feel foreign, as if wired to someone else. In here, time is a wheel rut: your methodical past feeding the stalker’s meticulous terror, spinning, spinning.

You try to scream for Jack, but medication drags the sound to the floor. Only a thin exhale leaves your lips in the real world—just enough for the ventilator to notice.

In the black corridor, you press your back to the wall, palms bleeding invisible splinters. There must be a place for this, you think, wild and desperate. Even nightmares obey some order. Your mind claws for a schema, some way to sort fear as you once sorted screws, but the photos multiply, falling like snow, until every scrap of vision is your own image, your own vulnerability catalogued.

The voice fades into a hiss—tireless, self-justifying—yet beneath it, softer vibrations reach you: the steady pump of a ventilator, the ripple of an IV, a distant heartbeat stronger than your own. You can’t see Jack, but the memory of his hand on your pulse thrums like a beacon. It isn’t method—it’s devotion—and for the first time in this loop you feel something stronger than dread.

Somewhere outside the morphine fog, voices pledge that dawn is coming, that hands stand ready to guide you back. But here, in the induced night, you walk the length of your own history—methodical footfalls echoing against walls lined with fear—searching for a door that leads forward instead of back.

divider credit

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, graphic violence, injuries, physical torture, Guns, ❗ some graphic harm happens to reader so read with caution❗ dreykov needs his own warning, possible ooc,

Part 22: bandaids don’t fix

🔹🔹🔹

it’s been seven hours according to your guestimate since you were taken.

you’d been sleeping not so peacefully in the bunks with the others when they’d come, one moment the bunker was relatively quiet. only the sound of mountain wind howling outside and the occasional shuffling of sheets. the next, shots were being fired into the dark room.

you don’t have time to fight back, you don’t even have time to kick the sheets off your body or pull on the shackles keeping you locked to the bed when something slams into the side of your head and something sharp jams painfully into your under arm pulse point.

now after gradually coming to and realizing you’re somewhere unknown, grey concrete everything, floor, walls, ceiling. The only things in the room are a metal table against one wall covered in a sheet, the bolted down rusty steel chair you're occupying, and yourself. No sound at all except your haggard breathing and the occasional groan of aged steel walls shifting in the wind. you’ve tried to take stock of yourself. blurred vision, trailing spots as your head turns, so a concussion. blood trickles and sticks in your shirt uncomfortably from the needle piercing your skin too roughly, your wrists and ankles are tied to the chair so tightly that you know you’ll suffer nerve damage if you live through this much longer, you could lose something If you make it through the day.

A dim light sways ever so slightly overhead, the yellow circle of light around you swirling in a maddening dance that's just distracting enough to keep you aware of the passing time. The light flickers ever so slightly before the rusted steel door swings open with a loud grinding creak. The bottom of it scraping against the floor as four masked people walk in, all of them armed and focused on you.

”How's your head feeling? You took a solid blow.” one speaks- his Russian thick and over pronounced- you can hear the satisfied curl in his upper lip as he mocks you.

You say nothing, only stare at them as they circle you like wolves.

The one behind you leans over your back, chest pressing against the back of your neck uncomfortably as he slowly grabs one of your fingers, your ring finger, and then jerks his hand back. The hand you thought you'd lost feeling in buzzes with heat and sparks of sharp pain crawl up your wrist like fire ants as he breaks your finger.

”You were asked a question, red devil.”

You bite your own tongue hard enough to draw blood but still, no sound escapes you as the man steps back, they all watch, expectant, pissed.

The programs been compromised, and now they want what you have, information. They're going to attempt to wring it out of you until you die like the weak trainees or you crack, both will end in your death at someone's hand.

At your continued silence the first one who spoke crosses the room, his boots clicking against the concrete before pausing, he slowly pulls the white sheet off the steel table and you get a look at what exactly is on it. Even in the dim light you can see the handles, blades probably, but your stomach doesn't drop until he picks up a vial of liquid and shakes it at you tauntingly, his other hand finds a needle and your pulse soars in your ears as he slowly draws out half a syringe of a pinkish tinted liquid.

You don't know how long it's been now, they come and go. Sometimes leaving you in complete darkness, sometimes setting a water drip over your head from the small water pipe you hadn't noticed before. Everything feels right now, the the bruises, burns, shocks, it feels worse after whatever they'd injected you with. Your nerves alight like fire was injected under your skin, like mercury was in your blood veins.

Whatever it was made every little slap feel like you were covered in tarantula wasps, you've probably sweat so much you're at risk of dying to dehydration by now.

And Still you've remained quiet.

Even as they pressed the barrel of a gun against your head, the cold metal reminding you of a childhood spent in the mountains. What an odd thing to find comfort in as they pull the trigger.

The empty click confuses you, you shouldn't have heard anything at all…you slowly glance up at their makes faces while they all seem to blur in your vision under the yellowed light.

Your bleary eyes squint as the door swings open, you don't even have it in you to react when he walks in.

Dreykov.

All you can manage to rasp out is a quiet “A test?”

He smiles thinly, looking over your brutalized form as if you were made of something precious. Looking at each bruise like it's an award being presented to him personally. He's never looked at you like that before, it's unsettling as much as you pathetically find comfort in it.

“A success. You did as expected. Prep them for the ceremony.”

he gestures over his shoulder and the very same men that'd just tortured you near-to-death stroll over and start removing your bindings like nothing happened, one of them even whistles as he begins to wipe blood off the instruments.

The normalcy hurts near as much as your limbs do when the blood slowly returns, your broken fingers ache so much worse as it does, like glass crawling through your fingertips. You can hardly breathe, animalistic panic at just their presence nearly topples you. But you don't move at all until they start to lift you out of that chair by your biceps.

You wanted to beg him for time, time to heal and process and maybe even to tell the soldier…something, to hear a voice that wasn't demanding secrets and blood of you. But you bite your tongue. They'll see you used for organs before they let you question their orders.

The surgery awaits you.

🔹🔹🔹

you wake up panting like a dog and covered in sweat, your vision blurred as your body aches weirdly, you’re both numb and feeling like you’re laying on a live wire. dull sparks of pain shoot up your body sporadically, dulled by something not quite strong enough.

For a terrible, terrible moment you're still there. They're about to put the knife to you and you're about to get your first suit, barely able to even try it on due to the pain of something being removed from you.

But you're not.

Looking around you recognize the plain walls of the guest room you've claimed as your own at Wayne manor, moonlight streams in the window between the gaps in the curtain and illuminates the sparse furniture and decor, the tray full of medical tools on the bedside table is new.

You slide the covers off and try to sit up when you realize how stiff you are, looking down you notice bandages across your chest, your hands, your legs, what?

Oh, Gotham City. The car, the fires, Batman, the near-explosion, your….Your head falls into your hands as another wave of nausea hits you for a moment, you could throw up if you moved too fast right now…

The bedroom room door creaks open.

You whirl around so fast you almost gag, your hand covers your mouth as your eyes squeeze shut at the uncomfortable feeling. When you eventually peel them back open you can make out an outline in the dark, is that Bruce?

“….I thought you might still be asleep.” His voice is careful, forcedly soft as he fills out the doorway with one hand resting on the door handle, you can't see him well enough to read him.

“…. Weird dreams, what happened?….” You murmur quietly, throat raw as if you've drank everclear. Was it the gas fumes? Or were you out for that long? You don't have it in you to ask just yet.

Bruce slowly steps into the room, sliding the door shut with a quiet little click before crossing the room to stand at the foot of the bed. The dim light streaming in only illuminates half his face, one blue eye visibly locked on you.

“You wanna tell me?” he grunts out, tense, oh…he's angry.

You lean back against the headboard slowly, body still protesting your every action. You've had worse though. “I'm assuming you know I went into the city with Tim and Alfred….”

“Oh, do I?” He doesn't move at all, but you have the feeling you'd see a clenched jaw if the light was flicked on.

What's he playing at here? Is he trying to scold a confession out of you like you were a runaway teen who snuck back in? Your hand balls up under the sheet as you reign yourself back in.

“Bruce.” You huff tiredly, he picked a horrible moment to catch you for whatever this is. Couldn't he have waited until tomorrow morning?

“(Name). Don't start this, not like last week again.” He crosses his arms over his chest and you get a peek at bandages poking out from under his sleeve, what?

You mirror his body language, your arms settle across your chest and dig into the soft fabric covering your body, bandages press into cuts you'd forgotten you'd received on your chest but you don't move an inch after that. “I'm not, you're acting very odd considering the circumstance of things.”

“And what's your circumstance? A victim of your own success, your own reckless actions?”

He pauses, taking a deep breath and holding it before exhaling. You pick up on the slightest tremor in him before he meets your eye with his one visible one.

Anger bleeds into you at his words, a scowl tugging at your lips. And here he was the one saying not to pick back up that argument you'd never finished.

“Sorry I wound up in the middle of a pyromaniac attack while trying to pick two children up from school, Bruce. Next time I'll just sit on my ass at home, would that make you feel better about yourself?”

“No, but at least I wouldn't have to wonder if you're beating someone to death in front of one of those said kids. Or is garroting your new favorite one?”

Any chance of this remaining civil is out the window, clearly since you're both getting worked up. Your nails dig into the fabric of your shirt hard enough that you can feel them scraping skin, and he's clearly tense even in the tiny bit of him visible to you. “Is that what this is about? That man tried to burn me to death, and then tried to make a car bomb next to those vigilantes.”

He nearly snarls as he replies quickly to that.

“So you think killing is the best way to stop a killer? If you'd have failed you'd have been blown up right after killing a man, could you really die with that in your conscience (name)? After everything your children have watched you go through, is being a murderer the memory you want to leave behind?”

Something in you aches as he says that, Natalia's horrified green eyes flashing through your mind, the last thing you focused on before you died. You don't know what compels you to stand, but you find yourself face to face with Bruce.

“yes. I'd rather die knowing I tried and failed than sat back and just watched others die like I did. At least I know I can fucking handle it unlike some people in this shithole of a city.”

His response is like a splash of cold water to the face. “Like you did?”

His question nearly knocks the anger right out of you, but you roll your eyes and roll with it. “The gala, I feel like I died there and woke up something different. I'm not afraid of this anymore.”

He stares, stares hard enough you wonder if he even heard you at all. “Maybe you should be.”

Again he's thrown you for a loop, what the hell does that mean?

“What, afraid? Of Gotham? Myself? What the fuck are you on about now!?”

You hate that he sees you angry, it feels too much like he's seeing you. The version of yourself that feels, that revels and savors, the ugliest side of the real you.

“I think you know, I think you're playing dumb with me right now just like you have been all this time.” The snarls gone from his face, but the tensions still there, the tense jaw, the tightly crossed arms, the wide stance…. Does Bruce think you're a threat?

“I'm…What?” this isn't right, none of this is right. It's like he's on the verge of busting down a door you thought you'd locked and bolted. He's navigating too close to dangerous waters.

He continues on in that same, gruff accusing tone. The eye contact is quickly becoming unsettling as he presses on. “Have we ever had an honest conversation, just you and I as people?”

You roll your eyes in a bluff, feigning annoyance when all you feel is panic twisting behind your ribs, forcing your blood through your veins uncomfortably fast.

“I think the fact you married me says yes.” You force snark and vitriol into your voice that you're not currently feeling at the moment, the bubbling piss and vinegar from just moments ago has all burned off in the face of his line of questions and snarled statements. Being so close to him, you get a close up of the distrust in the furrow of his brow and the pulled thin lips.

“I'm talking about you and I.”

The silence that falls over the bedroom is sudden and heavy, You could just about suffocate under his stare as you blank out. That one statement knocked the wind right out of your sails, your heart pounds so hard you can feel it behind your eyes, can he hear it?

“…. Bruce, you sound crazy right now. You know that right? How did an argument about me doing something idiotic turn into this?”

You uncross your arms and set your hands on your hips, trying to look mildly annoyed when right now you're thinking of ways to escape this room quickly if things turn for the worse. How'd you get to this point!?

He tilts his head as he studies you, for a split second you catch sight of something on his lip before he speaks again- “the (name) I know doesn't act this erratically. doesn't shoot people. Or make case files to hide in their room. Or know how to remove spyware from phones. So how do you.”

the dark room feels too small, too stuffy, is this your icarus moment? you’ve flown too close to the sun in your comfort, you’d grown into the body you woke up in and now you feel too seen. Like he'd sliced your skin open to see the rot between your ribs and now there's nothing you can do to make him unsee it.

“You say that like I'm somebody else, am i a body double, switched at the hospital with another person with amnesia? Did you forget that I remember the gala? I remember the ballet shoes in my pocket that I carried for Cassandra! I remember watching Damian get grabbed by two men! I remember the gun slamming into my head and the gas canister spraying under my face! I'm them Bruce!”

Your voice rises in pitch just a touch as you step back away from him, escaping his accusation. You just need a moment, a second to think rationally before this completely escapes your crumbling control.

He doesn't allow you the space, stepping after you just as quickly as you stumble away on unsteady legs and cornering you, you're boxed in in-between the bed and the wall and his knowing stare. “Don't you mean you're you.”

He sounds so accusatory, so certain of himself every time he wrings something from your words, it's almost sickening how astute he actually is. He's the calm one here while you're…. You know there's no twisting this in your favor now, but you'll be damned twice over before you give in willingly.

“…I am, even if you don't trust the new me I'm the one who's here now.” Your voice goes completely flat, going from near hysterical anger to lacking any bite at all. you're past anger and panic now, slipping into the embrace of numbness just like when that gun was against your head all those years ago.

For a moment he goes silent as the dead, his head tilting just slightly as he assesses the shift in you. Stepping close enough that you can see the lines of his face in the moonlight.“…that sounds like a confession, (name)…. Do I call you that?”

That gets a genuine eye roll out of you, the vitriol in his voice does nothing but squash what little hope you had of salvaging your cover. You're surprised he's not calling someone.

“there's no convincing you when you're fucking insane. My name is (name), and it has always been, I….” something catches your eye on his face, his lip specifically…

Bruce has a split lip, it looks just like…

“….I hit Batman in that same spot with a gun.”

You hear Bruce's breath audibly hitch, the room falls dead silent again as that little nugget sinks into your conscience. Neither of you move, neither of you even blink, silently daring the other to make a move first. He doesn't deny a thing, instead he just slowly steps back, eyes still locked on your form like you might jump him at any moment and…. Well you know what he thinks of your more violent tendencies.

Eventually he speaks, voice thick with unknown emotion. “…. This conversation isn't over, don't go out.”

There's a lot of unspoken words in that sentence alone, the ‘if you run you're admitting guilt.’ isn't said but is heard loud and clear. An order you're expected to obey.

You nod slowly, finally feeling like you can breathe as you sag your weight back against the wall. “Understood.”

It's not a lie, after all…. You didn't say you agreed to stay.

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: *dodges rocks* don't hate me! I know y'all wanted a good action scene or a group reveal, (I did too I promise) but I honestly think this moment needed to happen just between these two. A crowd would make this look very different. 😿💔

Taglist: @cxcilla @mercuryathens @dind1n @redsakura101 @ninihrtss @let-me-dance @ladykamos @one-piecelover @cuntiesweet @omnivirgo @shirp-collector-of-fixations @spidermanluvr444 @br33zy-blizzardz @lunarapple @findingjaxx @4rachn3 @buckturd @tsxukikami @paastaboi @duskeras @ibelyss @1abi @that-creepy-girl-000 @kaylaphantomhive @viilan @karmaxq

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚠 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎

Chat noir!reader

Summary || now as a classified asset, you got more than you bargained for.

Note // YAYYY, part 2—RAGHHH

You heard the shift in air pressure before you heard the sound.

A low, pulsing thrum—the kind that tickles the back of your neck, makes your instincts sit up and pay attention. Plagg’s ears twitched, his chewing slowed, and he glanced upward.

You sat up slowly, not transforming. Not yet.

Then the silhouette dropped into view.

A soft impact. Boots on concrete. Not loud. But deliberate.

You blinked, heart skipping a beat.

It was Invincible.

Not in full battle mode—just his suit, not a scratch on it tonight. His posture was relaxed, arms loosely crossed, but his eyes were focused.

“You’re Cat Noir,” he said, voice quiet but firm.

You didn’t move. “You’re… later than I expected.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Expected?”

You stood, brushing off your jeans. “Yeah. GDA's golden boy. Figured they’d send you eventually. To talk. Or spy. Or recruit me again.”

Mark shook his head. “Cecil didn’t send me. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Plagg hovered warily behind you, muttering, “Okay, I vote we bolt. Like, right now.”

But you didn’t move. You waited.

Mark finally spoke again. “I saw your file. Just… caught my eye. A kid who doesn’t want to be a hero but won’t stop saving people anyway.”

“…So what, you’re here to give me the pep talk?”

He smiled faintly. “Nah. I hate pep talks. I just… wanted to meet you. On my own terms.”

You crossed your arms, sizing him up.

“You ever get tired of it?” you asked. “Of everyone expecting you to fix the world when you’re just trying to survive it?”

Mark looked at the stars for a moment before answering. “Yeah. All the time.”

The silence between you stretched—not awkward, but heavy. Like two sides of a cracked mirror staring at each other.

He finally stepped closer, his voice softer now.

“You’ve lost things. So have I. And the GDA… they don’t really teach you how to live with that. They just give you more missions.”

You said nothing.

“But if you ever need someone who gets it,” Mark added, “I’m around. Not as a handler. Not as a teammate. Just… someone who understands what it feels like to carry power that doesn’t always feel like yours.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then—just barely—you nodded.

Mark turned to leave, but paused mid-hover.

“Oh, and… if you ever wanna spar sometime? No claws.”

You smirked. “No flying.”

He laughed, then vanished into the sky.

Plagg floated back to your shoulder, chewing the last of his cheese. “Well. That was weirdly wholesome.”

You sighed and dropped back onto the rooftop.

“Yeah,” you murmured.

“But for once… maybe I needed it.”

It was less than an hour after Invincible left.

The stars were still out. Your rooftop had just started to feel like yours again. You were lying on your back, thinking about maybe sleeping under the sky for once instead of in a bed that never really felt like home.

Then—your ring pulsed.

A sickly green flicker, like your heart skipped a beat.

Plagg jolted upright. “That’s not normal.”

You sat up fast.

Your phone lit up. Encrypted message. GDA code. Not from Cecil this time—this one was from Donald Ferguson. His name barely meant anything to you, but you remembered the file: GDA assistant, often seen in Cecil’s shadow. Quiet. Dangerous in the way chess players are dangerous.

The message was short.

“Field-level emergency. Midtown. Coordinates pinged. Immediate response authorized. Level-3 clearance granted. You’re closest.”

You didn’t hesitate.

"Plagg, claws out."

The transformation slammed through you like a lightning bolt. Fur, leather, power. That sharp weightless moment between being human and being more. Your boots hit the rooftop like thunder, staff clicking to your back as your mask tightened around your face.

Plagg vanished inside the ring. “I hope this emergency involves cheese. Or something easy to hit.”

You sprinted and vaulted off the roof.

Midtown was chaos.

Not Lizard League chaos. Not purse-snatching or bank-robbing. This was bad. You landed atop a flickering streetlight and stared down at the scene.

A biotech transport truck had flipped—split down the middle.

Black, silver-cored ooze leaked from the shattered containment tanks. People were running, some screaming, some stuck in place, frozen with fear.

The real problem?

A man—no, a thing—made of living metal stood in the center of it all.

Tall. Shifting. A humanoid body coated in plates of black-chrome steel, constantly reconfiguring itself. His arms were blades, his face a blank polished mask. His movements were too smooth. Too intentional.

He wasn’t rampaging.

He was hunting.

And you had a terrible feeling you’d just found what he was hunting for.

A GDA drone zipped by overhead, scanning, and pinged your comms line.

“Target confirmed: Codename METALLIK. Rogue cyborg from failed D.A. Sinclair prototype batch. Experimental mind-machine merge. Extremely hostile. Objective unclear.”

You muttered, “Fantastic.”

Then he turned and looked right at you.

A whir of gears. His chest split slightly—revealing something pulsing inside. A heartbeat made of wires. A targeting system.

Plagg’s voice buzzed in your ear. “You’ve got maybe six seconds before this turns into a real problem.”

You leapt down from the light, landing hard on the cracked pavement, claws flexing, tail sweeping behind you.

“Guess we’re skipping round two with Invincible,” you muttered, eyes narrowing.

“Time to dance, tin man.”

You charged.

The second your boots hit the pavement, Metallik’s head snapped to track your movement—smooth, fluid, unnatural. His body spun into motion like a weapon system waking up, every movement calculated. But you were already closing the distance.

Staff in hand, claws out.

The first hit was meant to test him—a fast jab to the midsection.

It bounced.

The impact rippled across his metal plating like it was absorbing the blow, rerouting the force through joints and rebar-like tendons. He didn't even flinch.

“Okay, cool cool cool,” you muttered, flipping back just as his blade-arm slashed through the air where your face had been. “He’s made of cheat codes.”

Plagg’s voice echoed in your mind. "Those joints! Under the plating—look for weak spots. Think spider legs."

You dove forward low—sliding under a second sweeping strike—and jammed your staff into the crook of his knee, claws slicing under the shifting armor.

That one landed.

He staggered, just for a moment, and snarled—not with a voice, but with sound—a distorted digital screech that grated like bad feedback and metal twisting inside your skull.

He reconfigured.

His arm turned into a cannon. A literal cannon.

You flipped sideways midair as it discharged—a blast of plasma heat carving a molten gash into the asphalt behind you. The shockwave knocked you into a parked car, but you landed in a crouch, panting.

You couldn’t just fight him. You needed to know why he was here.

And you needed to know fast.

Your eyes scanned the wreckage around him—broken biotech crates, fluid leaking, scattered containment tags.

One fluttered nearby, charred but mostly intact.

You lunged, grabbed it mid-roll, and skidded behind a flipped van.

Barcode… subject ID… name—

‘Subject: SCION.’

Your blood ran cold. Plagg whispered in your mind. “That’s not just a name.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a failsafe designation. Genetic anomalies. Power potential flagged off the charts. GDA has a habit of locking those away.”

You glanced over the edge of the van at Metallik. He wasn’t here for the tech.

He was here for whoever—or whatever—Scion is.

And now?

He turned. Sensors glowing red.

He saw you holding the file tag.

A new sound came from his chest—something like language, half-garbled through static:

“…Asset… defective… replace…”

And then he charged. You barely got your staff up in time.

The impact threw you through the van like tissue paper. The sound of your bell echoed in your ears as you hit the pavement and rolled, armor scuffed, body aching.

He was above you now, blade raised—ready to carve you in half.

You caught it. Just barely.

Claws against steel. Sparks flying. Your ring glowing like fire.

You gritted your teeth. “You’re not replacing anyone.”

With a twist and a roar, you drove your feet into his chest and launched him skyward.

He flipped midair—machine grace—and landed in a crouch.

But something flickered behind his head.

A shadow.

Not yours.

Another figure was on the field now. Small. Frightened. Leaning against a broken crate.

A kid. Maybe ten. Pale, glowing veins beneath their skin. Eyes bright as your ring.

They locked eyes with you. And suddenly—you knew.

Scion wasn’t a weapon.

Scion was a person.

And Metallik had come to claim them.

Plagg whispered, low and deadly. “We have to get to the kid before he does.”

You stood, cracked your neck, and twirled your staff into a ready stance, tail lashing.

“Then let’s finish this.”

Round Two didn’t start with a punch.

It started with a bell—your bell.

You reached up, unclipped it from your collar, and whispered, “Plagg, give me a little show.”

Plagg emerged with a flicker, a grin forming around his fang. “Oh, I love this part.”

You hurled the bell high into the air. With a burst of green energy and a low hum of Kwami trickery, it split mid-flight into a dozen glowing projections—each one a perfect illusion of you.

Metallik's optics flared.

He scanned. And twitched. Confused.

“Target… multiple… anomaly…”

You didn’t wait.

In the blur of flickering Cat Noirs, you sprinted for the kid—Scion—your staff contracting back into a baton so you could scoop the kid up in one arm.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, voice low, trying to stay calm.

They looked at you, eyes glowing faint green. “I heard him in my head,” they whispered. “He says I’m broken.”

“You’re not,” you said firmly, hooking your staff to your back. “You’re just new.”

The illusions danced—taunting, dodging, mirroring every one of your fight patterns.

Metallik roared and launched a blade into one. It flickered, then vanished in a pop of green light.

You were already leaping over cars, sprinting through alleys, putting distance between Metallik and Scion.

You ducked into a construction site two blocks over. Quiet. High ground. Steel frame, unfinished walls—a temporary battlefield.

You set Scion down and knelt, gripping their shoulders. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t glow.”

Their lip trembled, but they nodded, eyes wide.

Then they surprised you.

“You’re not afraid of him.”

You paused.

“Not enough to run.”

You smiled faintly. “No. I’m just smart enough to pick the right ground to finish a fight.”

And then the steel beams began to quake.

You turned slowly—just as Metallik tore through the concrete wall like paper.

His blades glinted in the dark. The plating along his arms twisted, reshaping into spears, tendrils of tech snaking behind him like extra limbs.

But now?

You were ready.

The confined space would limit his range. The height gave you options. And the silence?

That was yours.

“Let’s finish it,” you muttered, claws extending, stance low.

Plagg’s voice echoed in your mind. “For once, I think he’s the one out of his depth.”

You launched forward—fast, precise—claws sparking against his armor, each strike aimed for the joints, the gears, the soft parts.

Metallik swung wide with a blade—you ducked and drove your baton into the base of his spine. The lights on his chest flickered.

He shrieked in digital rage and stabbed—you caught it between both claws and twisted, snapping the blade’s edge.

You saw an opening. A core, beneath his chest plate. Glowing. Beating. A heart made of stolen power.

You leapt high, spun mid-air.

And drove your staff into it with every ounce of strength you had.

BOOM.

A pulse of green light exploded outward.

Metallik convulsed—his limbs spasming, metal shrieking against itself, body folding inward. The core shattered, sparks flying in every direction. His voice glitched, static screeching—

“BROKEN—BROK—BROK—”

Then silence.

His body collapsed, steaming.

You landed hard, panting, ring dimming as Plagg’s voice rasped, “Okay, now I need cheese. A wheel.”

You walked slowly back to Scion, who hadn’t moved.

They looked up at you. “You didn’t kill him.”

You shrugged, claws retracting. “Not my job. I’m not the reaper. I’m the cat who protects the people monsters hunt.”

Scion nodded slowly. “…You’re not like the others.”

You smiled, exhausted but steady. “You either.”

Mission complete. One saved. One shut down. One step deeper into a world of secrets.

You didn’t go back through the front door.

You dropped in through the window.

Boots silent on hardwood, adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The city was quieter now—Metallik was down, the kid was safe (for now), and the only thing left to do was wait for the inevitable.

You hadn’t even fully de-transformed yet.

The shadows in your apartment moved before the light did. That faint distortion, like heat off asphalt. The flicker of teleport tech.

Then—Cecil.

He stood near your table, hands behind his back, eyes like quiet knives. No expression. No preamble. Just—

“You kept the kid alive.”

You nodded, cautious. “Scion’s not what you thought they were.”

“We weren’t sure what they were,” Cecil said flatly. “The file was redacted above my clearance. I had a feeling this might be something… unique.”

You crossed your arms. “So you used me.”

“No,” he said. “I tested you.”

You frowned. “Tested me?”

Cecil stepped forward, just once. His voice stayed low. “We’ve had our eye on you since the Lizard League. But we needed to know what kind of player you are. A weapon? A wildcard? A liability?”

“And?”

His eyes narrowed—almost approval. “You saved the kid. Neutralized a failed experiment without leaving collateral damage. Protected a civilian asset without orders. You made your own call, and it was the right one.”

You looked away, jaw tight. “So what, you want a thank-you?”

“No,” Cecil said. “I want you to understand something.”

He took out a small device, placed it gently on your table.

“You’re in this now. Not officially. Not publicly. But you’ve stepped into the game. And this? This game doesn’t have sidelines.”

You stared at the device—black, palm-sized, blinking faintly.

“What is it?” you asked.

“A line,” Cecil said. “Between you and me. Use it when the world stops playing fair.”

He turned to go—then paused at the window.

“One more thing.”

You looked up.

“Scion,” he said quietly. “Don’t try to find out where they are. Trust me when I say… you don’t want to know.”

And then, without a sound, he was gone.

You de-transformed slowly, skin crawling with residual charge.

Plagg floated out, tired and cheese-hungry.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You picked up the device. Rolled it between your fingers. The blinking light was steady, constant, like a heartbeat.

And for the first time all day… you felt completely alone.

Not because no one was around. But because you were in it now.

Officially unofficial.

Cat Noir… agent of nothing. And maybe, just maybe, protector of something bigger than you can see.

Night falls. The city breathes.

The world isn’t saved.

But it’s safe—for now.

The next morning came without sirens.

No calls. No explosions. No GDA pings or secret files or bleeding-edge murder machines stalking city streets.

Just the sound of birds outside your window and the gentle hum of morning traffic.

A sunrise that wasn’t backlit by fire or debris.

You cracked one eye open.

Plagg was snoring on top of your chest, curled up like an actual cat. A tiny bit of camembert clung to his mouth like a dream he'd never left.

You blinked up at the ceiling.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks…

You didn’t feel like Cat Noir.

You felt like… you.

You took your time that day.

No suit. No transformation. Just your hoodie, headphones, and beat-up sneakers.

You grabbed a scarf on your way out—not to hide your identity, just because it was chilly and kind of matched your vibe.

You got your favorite açaí bowl from that little shop on 5th. The one with the bored barista who now knew your order by heart but still pretended like they didn’t.

You sat by the fountain, spoon in one hand, sunlight in your face. Watching people walk by. Laugh. Talk.

Be normal.

No one looked twice at you.

No glowing ring. No claws. Just a kid with messed-up hair and a tired kind of peace behind their eyes.

It felt… good.

Later, you walked into a comic shop. The dusty kind. Old posters, creaky floors, the smell of ink and nostalgia baked into the walls.

The owner gave you a nod. Didn’t recognize you. Didn’t care.

You thumbed through the bins in silence.

Pulled out a well-worn issue of Silver Claw #14.

One of your favorites.

The hero loses, hard. Spends the whole issue figuring out how to pick himself back up.

You bought it. Left with it tucked under your arm like something sacred.

The bell above the comic shop door jingled as you stepped out, bag tucked under your arm, that faint musty ink smell still clinging to your hoodie. The Silver Claw issue was resting easy against your ribs—like a quiet anchor to something simpler.

You were halfway down the block when you felt it.

That subtle shift in the air.

Like the oxygen itself went taut. A ripple just beyond sight, like something about the world had blinked wrong for a second.

Then came the sound.

BOOM.

Not distant—right around the corner.

You stopped. Turned.

Just in time to see a man flying backward through a glass window, shattering it like paper. He hit a parked car, dented it, and slid off with a groan.

And above the wreckage?

Titan.

Muscles like concrete, fists like wrecking balls. Covered in his signature armor-skin—cracked and steaming, like he’d taken a hit.

You knew him. Not well, but enough.

A hero trying to turn over a new leaf. Used to run with crime. Now he ran toward it.

Someone you’d quietly admired.

But he wasn’t alone.

Hovering above him, flickering in and out of view like a glitch in a game, was Phantom Slash.

A low-tier villain, but dangerous. Hard-light blades. Cloaking. Ex-military with a grudge. Loved collateral.

Civilians screamed, scattering.

Titan pushed up off the car, blood at the corner of his mouth.

"You really don't know when to quit, huh?" he growled.

Phantom Slash hissed, voice glitchy through his visor. “I was trained not to.”

Another blade flicked out of nowhere. Titan barely blocked it—ripped a parking meter out of the ground and used it like a club.

They fought right there on the street.

Power against precision. Brute strength against sharp edges and flickers of invisibility.

And you?

You just stood there, watching.

Not frozen. Just… choosing.

Because today, you weren’t Cat Noir.

And this? This was someone else’s fight.

You slipped back into the crowd. Not out of fear—but out of trust. Titan was holding his own. And you? You weren’t needed this time.

Sometimes, being a hero meant knowing when to stand down.

Later, hours later—after the noise had died down and the cleanup had started—you pulled out the comic book again, back on your rooftop.

Silver Claw #14.

Your eyes drifted to a single panel.

The hero sits on a bench, watching another hero save the day. A little girl asks him, “Why aren’t you helping?”

He says, “Because sometimes the world doesn’t need my claws. It just needs me to believe in someone else.”

You closed the comic.

And for the first time in a long while, you smiled to yourself—because maybe, just maybe, you were learning how to do that too.

As the sun started to dip again, you found yourself on the same rooftop you always came back to. Your spot.

You didn’t suit up. You just sat there.

Feet dangling over the edge. Hoodie pulled tight. Head leaned back.

No missions. No pressure. Just… sky.

Plagg floated up beside you, a piece of gouda in hand.

“You know,” he said around a bite, “you could’ve transformed. We could be doing flips off cranes or shadow boxing against satellites.”

You smirked. “Nah. Today’s a ‘me’ day.”

He paused, then nodded.

“…Good call.”

And the two of you sat there.

A kid and his chaos spirit. Watching the world turn quietly for once. You weren’t Cat Noir today.

You were just you. And it was enough.

However, there was a time that sentiment didn’t seem to ring as loud. Where you were even smaller, smaller than you are now. Your mind faded away to memory lane.

It starts with rain.

Not the heavy kind that pounds windows or floods streets—but the soft kind. Gentle. Constant. The kind that slips between tree branches and fogs up café windows.

You were maybe ten. Maybe eleven.

Still small enough to lose your hoodie sleeves in your fists. Still young enough to believe everything would work out, even when it didn’t make sense.

And you were waiting.

On a bench outside a tall glass building, shoes wet, comic book pressed tight against your chest to keep it from wrinkling.

You’d been there a while, waiting for your dad.

Again.

The receptionist had told you, in that polite-customer-service tone you would come to resent, “He’s in a meeting.”

Said it like it was an apology.

Said it like it mattered.

But you’d waited. Because he said, “I’ll be there, kiddo. Just give me an hour.”

It had been three.

You remember watching the umbrellas pass by. The different colors. The strange rhythm of grown-ups walking fast like they were all late for something important.

And then—someone sat down beside you.

You didn’t look at them at first. You were focused on your comic. Something familiar.

But then a voice broke the silence.

“You know, Silver Claw doesn’t get enough credit. Most people just think he’s all edge and no heart.”

You blinked, looked up.

The guy was older. Not old, just… tired in a way that felt permanent. Leather jacket. Stubbly chin. A bandage on one knuckle.

He smiled a little when he saw your surprise.

“Don’t worry, not a creep. I just know a good comic when I see one.”

You looked at your issue, then back at him. “He’s not my favorite.”

“Oh yeah? Who is?”

You hesitated. “Honestly? I don’t know yet.”

The man nodded like that made perfect sense.

“That’s fair. You got time. But for what it’s worth…”

He pointed at the cover. “This one’s a good pick. It’s not about winning the fight. It’s about what you do after you lose one.”

You looked at him again—really looked.

There was something in his eyes. Not pity. Not concern.

Just… familiarity.

Like maybe he knew what it was like to wait on that bench, too.

He didn’t ask where your parents were.

Didn’t ask why you were alone.

He just pulled something out of his jacket pocket. A granola bar. Slightly squished.

“Trade you,” he said, holding it out. “That issue for the snack.”

You smirked. “Not a chance. First print.”

He laughed. “Smart kid.”

He stood up. Patted your shoulder once—light, careful—and then walked off into the rain, vanishing between umbrellas like a ghost.

You never knew who he was.

But that comic? You still have it.

Taped-up spine. Faded cover. A corner bent from where it got caught in your backpack zipper.

It’s the one you were reading the day your ring found you. And maybe that’s not a coincidence. Because deep down?

That was the day you realized something: Heroes don’t always wear masks.

Sometimes, they just sit down next to you on a rainy bench and remind you that you matter.

Even when no one else shows up.

The next memory rings in mind, the first time you met Plagg. Admittedly you weren’t very proud of your self for the way you acted; embarrassed about the thought even.

You weren’t expecting magic that day.

Just a really weird ring.

You found it in your dad’s office—long after the meetings had stopped, long after his phone calls had grown shorter and his eyes colder.

It was sitting in a velvet box, shoved behind old contracts and dusty plaques.

Jet black. Smooth. Like obsidian but light as air. With a strange green paw print on its face.

You tried it on out of boredom.

It clicked onto your finger like it belonged there.

And the moment it did—Everything changed.

Your vision blurred with green static. Your pulse hit double-time. You stumbled back against the desk—papers scattering, heart pounding, something hot and ancient flickering behind your eyes.

Then—light.

Not blinding. But alive.

And from that light… a floating black cat.

No—smaller. Stranger.

A Kwami.

Eyes glowing. Body light as smoke. A grin carved by centuries of chaos.

"Finally," the creature said, stretching like it had been napping for a decade. “Took you long enough.”

You screamed.

Okay, not screamed. But like—yelled in the awkward, choked, panicked way only a kid caught stealing something can yell.

You stumbled back and hit the desk again. “W-what are you—what is this—what are you?!”

The little creature blinked, then yawned. Then floated right up into your face. “Name’s Plagg. Kwami of destruction. You’re my new holder. Congrats.”

You blinked. “Of… destruction?”

“Yep.”

“Like… boom destruction?”

“Boom. Chaos. Ruin. The usual.”

You looked down at the ring on your finger. It pulsed faintly.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

Plagg shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You put the ring on. That’s the bond. Fate’s weird like that.”

You sank into your dad’s office chair, breath shaky.

“But I’m just a kid.”

Plagg looked at you, and for the first time… he didn’t smile. “Exactly,” he said. “That’s why it matters.”

The rest of the day was a blur.

Plagg tried to explain the Miraculous. The history. The responsibility. The power.

You only half-listened—still staring at your hand, wondering how the world got bigger while you stayed so small. But by nightfall?

You stood in the mirror. Ring on your hand. Hoodie hanging loose. And whispered, “Claws out.”

The green light swallowed you. And when it faded? You weren’t just a kid anymore. You were something else.

Something fast. Something strong. Something hidden behind shadows and bell chimes and a smirk that barely hid the ache beneath it.

Cat Noir had been born.

But you—

you were still figuring out what that meant.

Morning light crept into your apartment like it was sneaking a peek, not quite brave enough to wake you up fully.

You sat up slowly. Shoulders sore from the fight with Metallik, mind heavier from the kid—Scion—and everything Cecil didn’t say.

Plagg hovered near the fridge, stuffing his face with aged gouda. “You know, for a guy who got tossed through two cars and punched in the kidneys by a living tank, you’re moving pretty well.”

You stretched, wincing. “Pain builds character.”

“Yeah? I’d like to return some of mine.”

By noon, you were back at the GDA facility.

Unmasked. Hood up. Ring hidden under a glove.

Cecil had left no instructions, just a one-line message on your encrypted line:

“Be here. 12 sharp.”

As usual, the building felt like something out of a clean future nightmare. Glass, steel, corridors that whispered secrets even when no one was talking. You passed guards. Scientists. Some of them glanced at you, then looked away like you were a loaded gun.

You were almost at the elevator to the upper debriefing levels when—

“Hey. Alley Cat.”

The voice was rough around the edges. Young, but carrying weight. You turned.

There she was.

Amanda. Monster Girl.

Her hair was pulled into a messy braid, tied with what looked like a sparkly pink hair tie that didn’t match anything else she was wearing. Green shirt, cargo pants. A scowl she’d probably been born with.

She crossed her arms. “You’re the new maybe-prodigy Cecil’s got whispering through back channels. Didn’t expect you to look like…”

She trailed off, giving you a slow once-over.

“…well, like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like a kid trying to cosplay ‘brooding.’”

You smirked. “Says the lady built like a Funko Pop who could crush me into drywall.”

Amanda didn’t laugh—but the corner of her mouth almost twitched.

She stepped closer, voice dropping just a notch.

“You good? After the Metallik thing?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’m breathing. That counts.”

“Yeah. It does.”

She looked at you a beat longer, her expression unreadable. “If you need someone who’s been through Cecil’s wringer and lived to complain about it… I’m around.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to say thanks, maybe something dumber—but then a door hissed open beside you both.

A cold GDA voice echoed: “The Director will see you now.”

Amanda gave you a nod, then turned to head down her own hallway “Good luck, Alley Cat,” she called over her shoulder.

“Try not to get used to the quiet.”

You stepped into Cecil’s office and the doors slid shut behind you with a metallic hiss.

And just like that—Playtime was over.

Cecil’s office was cold.

Not physically—though the sleek metal and black glass didn’t exactly scream warmth—but cold in that clinical, calculating way that said nothing in this room is an accident.

He was already waiting, leaning on his desk like he’d been there for hours, arms folded and scar lit by the thin beam of light coming from the holographic interface at his side.

“Cat Noir,” he said without looking up, his voice gruff, dry, and too calm for your liking.

You stepped inside, hands in your hoodie pockets. “You always this dramatic, or is it just for me?”

Cecil smirked faintly, then tapped something on the panel. A hologram sparked to life in the air between you—blue and flickering. A planet. Not Earth.

“Tell me what you know about the Coalition of Planets.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “Not much. Intergalactic alliance. Tries to keep Viltrumites in check.”

“And failing,” he muttered. “Badly.”

He waved a hand and the hologram zoomed in on a specific system. Three planets. One dark and scorched, one bustling with city lights, and the third—green and gold, covered in jungle.

“That last one is called Velthar. One of our deep-space listening outposts picked up a garbled signal from a scout. It didn’t last long. But the few words we decrypted…” He tapped again.

The audio played, crackly and broken, but clear enough:

“Viltrumite… not alone… weapon—no, host—”

static.

“—black ring, green eyes—he’s here—”

Then nothing.

Your heart started hammering before you could even process why. Cecil turned toward you, his gaze sharp. “Sound familiar?”

“…You think that has something to do with me?”

“I think someone out there just described you.”

You stared at the image of Velthar. Dense. Alien. Untamed.

Cecil continued. “We’re sending a stealth probe to collect hard data. But the Coalition’s too bogged down in internal conflict to move quickly. So until then…” He looked at you.

You already knew what he was going to say.

“I want you ready to move.”

You raised a brow. “So what, you think there’s another ring out there?”

“I think there’s something older than the Miraculous system whispering through the cracks of space. And I think if there’s a link between you and whatever’s waiting on Velthar, we can’t afford to wait for it to come here.”

Silence fell for a beat. Then Cecil added, quieter, “And if it is another like you… you might be the only one who can stop them. Or talk to them.”

Your throat felt dry. “…When do I leave?”

Cecil smiled grimly. “You don’t. Not yet.”

He tapped the screen again, bringing up a different file.

“Before that, you’re heading into a joint training op. Earthside. Amanda will brief you. Some old-school Guardians, a few new recruits. I need to know how you really work with a team before I drop you into deep space.”

You sighed, half relief, half tension. “So a warm-up lap before the apocalypse. Cool.”

Cecil looked back at the star map. “That kid—Scion. Metallik. They weren’t random. Something’s shifting. You feel it too, don’t you?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.” And in your gut, something twisted. Like a storm on the edge of your senses. Something big was coming.

And your claws?

They might not be enough.

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

FIXDEX Concrete screws all size large quantity with best price

[rathod-24]

Anchor Bolt Fixing Services in Maharashtra | Chemical Anchor 9923437177

SB Demolition Offers Professional Anchor Bolt Fixing Concrete Services In Maharashtra. Ensure Secure And Precise Installation For Your Construction And Structural Needs.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Phrogging. Or... Spider-ing?

A/N: Ignore the dumbass title I couldn't think of anything more captivating; Missed my love for driders-- I wish spiders were real 💔

Synopsis: You move into an old, but enticing fixer-upper of a house. While doing your general, you know, fixing-upping, you come face to face with the cause of the bumps in the night you’ve been plagued by. 

CW: Spiders, attempts at intimidation, fear, GN Reader

You know that skittering you hear while laying in bed sometimes? Little 'tic tic tics' behind your headboard as you try to sleep at night, or muffled bumps under the old hardwood floor creating flurries of dust as the thumping moves to another side of the room. Yeah, not always the most comforting feeling, especially when you're busy plastering white paint on old, cobwebbed walls at eleven at night, in a home built decades before you were born. 

Eggshell-colored sludge covered your elbows and cheeks, small speckles crusted over the dust on your ‘new’ floors and painting sheet. The bumps were a constant source of annoyance, especially tonight while you yourself, were making a bit of a ruckus. You didn't dare move while listening to the sound, a large roller still held rigidly in your dominant hand, dripping white onto the floor. Another thump resounded, creating small tornadoes of dust. And then another. They were farther away this time, to the south of your damp, italianate-style home. Ghosts and goblins weren't your forte-- even with the near century-old two-story you've been blessed to snatch off the market in time, you thought the cobwebs and oddly spacious basement were just remnants of the old owners, creaking with age and dim with use-- not the presence of the otherworldly. 

But these little tip-taps and deep grunts from below were by no means just a product of old wood and concrete-- they were... intentional. The roar of the incinerator was recognizable, separate from the sound of disturbing bangs from below.

The thump moved again, this time your paint roller falling into its wet bucket of a home as your legs shake, falling asleep from use; painting around the baseboards of your new suite (a dream bedroom-- even if it was caked in a layer of mouse droppings) was no easy feat, on you or your joints. 

Underneath a box of old sheets the thump went to disrupt the floor again, the box jumping a quarter inch off the ground. 

Your queasy legs rise to investigate. 

Down the hall and to the ground level, you avoid several caved-in steps as you leave the second floor. The shimmer of dust particles in the air makes you sniffle, rubbing your nose raw as you make it down. The basement door, only a few feet on the wall to your left, sat slightly ajar. 

The door bolt lays unused and slightly clanking against the rotting wood. A foul smell wafts from the open crack, a stench you have yet to get rid of even long after scrubbing the stairs with bleach from top to bottom. Perhaps the wood is starting to mold. 

They're damp when you rest on the first basement step with your socked foot, deadbolt still clinking as you watch the darkness. Nothing stirs, besides dust particles mixed with the smell of petrichor. 

Racing to the bottom of the staircase you rapidly search for the lightswitch, nearly tripping in the oncoming darkness.

Flipping one of them on and off again as the musty odor creeps closer, you can sense the movement of unseen creatures; blindly feeling for the second lightswitch, a dreary yellow from above finally bursts in the cavern of decade-old belongings, along with the sound of a whirring ceiling fan on the brink of falling out of the old cement.

Nothing seemed out of place, old dusted boxes lying against one another with wet stuff seeping from their rotten corners. A quiet ‘drip drip’ came from somewhere. 

A small sigh escaped from your dry mouth, corners of your lips sticking together from lack of use in anything other than swallowing your sandpapering tongue.

You scanned the room, all dawned in yellow except the deep corners of the basement. It read as usual, giving off the same historic, uncomfortably wet aura. But your eyes stopped, either out of a disruption in the moldy pattern, or an instinctual fear that was trying to warn you. 

Slender and black, it looked almost frozen, except for some wrongful twitching at its tip; you might’ve ignored it as a large crack in the wall, or perhaps dripping sewage from the upstairs bathroom if it had stayed still. But it curled, just slightly bent and sticking out like an appendage. It was aggregate with notches like a finger, jointed. It seemed to notice your staring, creating a creaking tap before it disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling beams and rotted corner to your right. 

Horror was slow to dawn on your face, exhaustion making your skin droop where wrinkles would show in only a matter of time. You had seen that, right? It wasn’t just your brain making things up because it was way past your self-mandated bed time?

The panic causing your heart to speed three times faster than the original lethargic beats was real, though. And that was enough for you to believe you were more than hallucinating. Blindly you search your back pockets for your phone, not daring to take your eyes away from the now empty, peeling corner. 

You hadn’t noticed the drumming that harassed you while painting had stopped-- until it started again. This time it came from above, dancing on the ceiling beams where you couldn’t see, sounding as if it was coming directly for you. When you were upstairs it was almost aimless, moving around like a cat with its head stuck in a box.

 You pressed a hand in front of your mouth, trying not to scream; it would do no good to wake the elderly neighbors, who already seemed prepared to destroy an outsider like you through the homeowners association. Well, what good would that be if you were dead!

Whatever the leg belonged to, it must have sensed your urgency as you tried to shuffle back up the stairs, your body pressed against the back wall to keep your eyes on the basement. The unclosable door upstairs had gently gone shut, the door bolt swinging against the splintered wood as if it too didn’t understand what had closed the door so simply. 

It had distracted you from your real fear, the thing you took your eyes away from. 

“Hello, there.” 

Wide-eyed and shaking, you drew yourself to look back at the dark corner, but the voice was far too close to come from so far away. 

“Up here, simpleton.”

Your paint-dried fingernails dug into the split wood from behind, begging for some stability besides the wet stairs beneath your soggy feet. 

Stuttering breaths ran throughout the groaning, mildew beast of the basement. You prepped for the worst, for some kind of phrogger or decaying corpse that found a way to haunt you. Burning tears tugged at the sides of your eyes, falling asbestos egging on your terror.

But what you found was a… young man; the kind of man you wouldn’t expect to be living in your basement, nonetheless hanging from the exposed beams of your basement. His eyes glowed with a round, edgeless face, oval and smooth like glass. His features were darkened by the shadows from above, the yellow lightbulb bathing him in a dark black and flaxen.

“What-- who are you,” You swallowed your fear, now that you knew for sure it was just some freak hiding out down here, rather than some supernatural entity. “Why are you in my house?”

Your voice grew stern, angry with the exhaustion this adventure had put you in. 

“Your house?” He scoffed, the thumping following him as a black mass from underneath his face carried him to another beam, this time closer to you and the railing of the stairs. 

You stomped down to the cold last step of the basement stairs, wondering if you should go as far as to find a broom and start pushing him out with it. 

“As far as I was aware, this was free territory, since.. Oh well, I don’t know. But it’s been over a decade since a beast like you had attempted to enter my home.” 

You nearly scoffed back, his home?

But the mockery was taken away from you as the long, slender appendage was made visible again. It slowly lowered itself from between the beams, the man from above moving with it. Another had shown itself, and then another. The man fell to the floor, black limbs and mass breaking his fall. 

The human upper half raised itself far above you, the long, obsidian spindles of his hair a tangled mess as his head nearly touched the beams from above. He barely fit in the ground floor of the basement, the ‘legs’ of his lower half grazing against damp boxes and an old piano shoved at the corner. The softness of his jaw was deceiving; humanly. However the darkness and creasing of his eyes showed his true nature, his antiquity. From the fullness of his flesh to small black freckles and his square nose, he displayed the range of features most humans would have; and yet, he was terrifyingly un-human. 

He towered in a menacing stance, hands to his side and shoulders slightly raised, as if he would come at you with his arms swinging if he sensed threat. 

You looked down to the part that confused your mind, dark legs taping inconsistently, and yet in a calculated pattern as each leg followed one another. Below its torso, where you prayed a pair of cargo pants or torn jeans would be, instead held the teardrop shaped abdomen you would see on one of the many spiders you’ve killed since you’ve been here. The legs were an extension of its beautifully horrific lower-half, black and sheening as a thin layer of shiny, spiked hairs were standing on end. 

You looked back up to see its face, horror engulfing in your own as you waited for the rest of the monster to turn into what it depicted. You almost jumped as the closed black lines you took for wrinkles or dust on its face opened up, a variety of blackened eyes glistening to stare at you. You didn’t have the sense to count, taken aback at what your mind had conjured in front of you. 

“You-- it--” Clutching at your heart you tried to stop the squeezing that held you frozen. “This isn’t real...”

“I suggest if you don’t want a roommate, or rather-- don’t want me to eat you, you abandon this residence, immediately.” 

You sucked in a raspy breath, again pushing yourself against the rotting wall to create distance from the towering, spider-like man.

“It’s my house..” You whispered, waiting for him to open his jaws like a snake and aim for your neck. He looked confused only for a moment, a clear tension of rage bubbling up in his pinched expression. “It’s my house.” You said louder, clearing your throat. 

At this, he just stared. What you took as anger was rather an inability to form a response on his end. 

“And what makes this yours? Your presence, your belongings?”

“My name is on the deed; I forked out thousands, there’s even a loan in my name, if you’d like to see that.” 

“Deed…” He repeated, unsure what to make of it. “I don’t know what the ‘deed’ is that you speak of, or the methods you have taken to try and gain ownership, but I assure you this land is claimed.”

You still clutched at your chest against the stairs, waiting for a move to be made. This was not something you had ever encountered before-- you didn’t even know who to contact, as you were certain the real-estate agent who handed you the keys wouldn’t be of any assistance. Any foreclosed homes’ problems were the new owner’s responsibility to handle, whether it be mold or a seven-foot creature residing in the basement. 

Do you call animal control? That can’t be right, he speaks, he’s even telling you to leave your own home. 

There had to be some kind of compromise to be made. You gather the courage to speak again, taking a deep breath to avoid stuttering.

“Well… no one needs to leave, just yet. Right? We can.. Figure this out somehow. We’re both reasonable here, there can be some arrangement to be made?”

It sounded as if you were asking him for permission, the farthest thing from the truth. All this hard work in renovating and you were going to give it up to some basement-dwelling beast? No way, you’d fight him off if you had to, even if you trembled while doing so. 

The creature was hesitant, bringing a hand up to grab onto the ceiling beam. His eyes cast down in thought, thin eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty. 

“Humans don’t do well for very long here, I assure you.” He gave a grimace, trying to avoid the obviousness of how he stared up, and down at your curled-in form, clearly frightened and trying to keep your distance like a cornered animal. “But I suppose it's the only option, if you don’t intend on leaving.” 

“So…” You swallowed the dryness of your mouth, close to heaving. “You’re not going to try eating me right now, or while I sleep or something?”

He tried to prevent an amused grin from pulling up the right side of his face, but a small dimple couldn’t hide it.

“No. I was bluffing, in the hopes that you’d run away. I’ve never tried human, and don’t plan on it; much too coarse.” He let go of the beam, seeming to shrink down as his attack stance became less of an assurance. “Doesn’t mean I’m unwilling if the opportunity arises, however.” 

“You almost instinctively relaxed as you watched him do so, trying to slow your sporadic heart that was still running at full speed. 

“But, aren’t you-- at least, part-human in some sort?” You wondered if this was the right time to be asking questions seeing as this creature-- who was certainly by no means harmless-- was only a few feet away from you and clearly distrusting.

“Getting into the family history before even knowing my name? That’s not particularly kind of an intruder.” He smiles outwardly this time, a creepy grin showing underneath the heavy hair curtaining around his face; it was starting to appear more gaunt the farther he stepped into the light. “But yes, arachnid’s have some human traits; I just appear less frightening to your eyes than my friends.”

As he speaks he lifts up a thin, lengthy arm, watching as something black crawls from behind him and across his wrist. Squinting your eyes and unconsciously lifting closer you see its a spider, a thick, long-legged creature that looked like the father of all the other spiders you had been killing since you moved in. 

You almost seemed to lower your shoulders at realizing he was part human. That you weren’t witnessing some kind of demon or underworld spawn that could rip you apart with just its mind; he had a fair set of weaknesses, too. 

“Don’t relax just yet, human,” He spat the word like it was derogatory, letting the spider walking across his arm reach the beam to his left as he was growing into something fearful. “Just because I won’t kill you doesn’t mean you are safe.”

Even with the hardened glaze of his eyes, the look of sheer disturbance deadened into his lips and expression-- it was a relief to know you would live to see another day. 

“Why should I be afraid if you’re just going to sit here like an unpaying roommate? I’d rather you not be here, but if you’re going to leave me alive than I can deal with boarding off the basement, Mr. Spider.”

You challenge his shadowed face, watching how he leans back in a reclusive manner and goes still, save for one of his left legs tapping. 

Like clockwork, that creepy, unnervingly toothy smile curls open again as his hands rise forward, claw-like. 

You had gotten the courage to stand straight, ignoring the pounding of your chest as you watched him. But with two steps he was across the stair railing, using his legs to entrap you against the peeling wallpaper. 

His narrow arms shot out to claw against the wall next to your head, digging into it with thick nails as his face got close. 

“It’s Seir; don’t insult me with such an absurd name,” Anger tinged the edge of his tone, looking down at you with the abundance of his eyes; you could see they had a reddish ring around them, a dark crimson you would have never noticed otherwise. “I have seen more history than you have read about in your lifetime, more death and destruction than you will ever witness.” 

He watched your face drain in color, eyes wide at seeing him close; what he saw as fear, was partly fascination that tightened your lips. Not to say you weren’t terrified, of course. 

“I like your fear-- I relish it. It means you aren’t going to be blind and stupid, that you will obey, and be frightened. And for as long as you stay here, you will not know peace.” The wallpaper crumbles as he brings a chalky hand to your jaw, placing a delicate thumb to the curve below your ear. “A night will not go by where I won’t attempt to destroy any sense of safety you have. I will be in every corner, a million eyes watching so that you are never, never left alone.” He grows closer, lowering his elongated neck to see eye to eye with you, close enough to touch your nose with his own if he dared. “Are you prepared for these consequences of staying in my territory, of being utterly feasted on by me in every way besides your vessel?” 

Seir’s finger traces down your jaw to your neck, trying to invoke the fearful goosebumps most humans would have by the touch of a creature by him. Rarely did he take measures to touch a human in order to cause fear, but it was clear you would need more than the occasional hissing and view of his presence to run away and leave him to his solitude.

You look away, almost blinded by the unconventional handsomeness he portrayed if one looked deep enough; with a bath, a sheet above his spidered body, and maybe a haircut-- he would be no different than one of the well-dressed guys in finance who sped-walk past the cafe that you people-watched at, pretending to look for a job on your laptop. Well, the eight eyes decorating his face kind of destroyed the illusion.

The intimidation tactic he carried out was less frightening than when he was standing ominously in the middle of the basement, leaving his attempt almost campy. You huff, a little irritated and tired now that you were no longer in fight or flight mode. 

 “…It was just a nickname, geez. I didn’t know spiders could be so sensitive.” 

[eclipixels]

Melon Milk

Kim Namjoon x Reader

Content: You bother a K-pop idol, but he accidentally ends up falling for you

Requested by @nichiyadraw

[700]

      Your palms sting from wiping your face too roughly, your eyes swollen and sore. It’s past midnight. The Seoul street is mostly quiet. Neon convenience store lights flicker above you, and the buzz of a nearby streetlamp is the only company you expect.

      Until someone crouches beside you.

      “You okay?”

      You flinch. You hadn’t heard anyone approach.

      When you glance over, you see a man, tall, broad-shouldered, in a plain black hoodie pulled halfway up his face. Despite the mask, you can see his eyes. Warm. A little worried.

      You blink, clearing your vision. “I’m—fine.”

      You’re not. Your voice cracks on the lie. He doesn’t call you out on it. Just shifts slightly and holds something out to you. Melon milk. You stare at it.

      “I—I already have one,” you say, lifting the bottle in your hand. It’s unopened.

      The stranger’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Then you can have two. It’s the superior flavor anyway.”

      You sniff, let out a broken laugh. “Debatable. Strawberry supremacy.”

      That earns a low chuckle. He finally sits beside you on the low concrete edge, setting the second milk down between you. The two of you are quiet for a while.

      You wipe at your eyes one last time. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”

      He shrugs, voice soft. “Everyone gets to be a mess sometimes.”

      You’re still holding the first bottle when you finally speak again. “My boyfriend broke up with me.”

      The words fall out like glass, still sharp.

      “Ah,” he says gently. “The crying makes sense then.”

      You glance at him. “Do you always offer melon milk to sobbing girls outside convenience stores?”

      “Only the ones sitting alone in the dark,” he says. Then he adds, almost sheepishly: “And only if I have enough for myself.”

      You smile. It’s small, but real. It takes a while, but your breath eventually evens. You both sit in silence, watching late-night taxis roll by. The kind of quiet that feels safe. Solid. Like he’s not trying to fix anything, just letting you exist.

      You sneak another glance at him. He still hasn’t taken off the mask or the hoodie, but that voice… deep, calm. Familiar.

      Is that…? No, there’s no way. It hits you like a lightning bolt. Your heart skips. Kim Namjoon.

      Your eyes widen slightly. Your brain races through every video you’ve ever made, the reaction videos, the ‘he’s so fine, I can’t function’ compilations your subscribers clipped from your livestreams.

      God. If he knew.

      You look away quickly, clutching the melon milk. “You don’t know who I am, right?”

      He blinks. “Should I?”

      “No,” you say way too fast. “Absolutely not.”

      That earns another soft chuckle. “Noted.”

      The moment stretches again.

      Finally, he turns toward you slightly. “Do you want to talk about him?”

      You shake your head. “Not tonight.”

      He nods, like he understands. After a long pause, he says, “I don’t know what happened, but if he let you go, I think he’s an idiot.”

      You suck in a breath. Your eyes sting again, not from sadness, this time, but from the quiet sincerity in his voice.

      “I think,” Namjoon continues, fingers fidgeting slightly with his bottle cap, “some people don’t know how to hold something good when they have it. Doesn’t mean you’re any less worth holding.”

      You exhale shakily, tears falling again, quieter this time. He lets you cry. No questions. No awkward advice. Just melon milk and moonlight and the most unexpected comfort from the very person you thought was untouchable.

      When you finally stand, he does too.

      “Thanks for…” You gesture vaguely. “All of this.”

      He nods. “Sometimes, strangers are easier than friends.”

      You open your mouth, hesitate. “Would it be weird if I asked to see you again?”

      He studies you, then offers a gentle smile.

      “I think I’d like that.”

[frostdayz]

Same mission pt. 1

Bucky Barnes x reader

Genre: enemies to lovers

Summary: Forced to partner up for a high-stakes operation, the tension between you ignites into a complicated dance of rivalry, respect, and something dangerously close to attraction.

A/N: WOOP! Im back!!! I promise not to take long with pt.2!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Rain fell on Prague as if the sky itself had a vengeance. The target moved with the chaotic speed of a cornered rat, swerving through the neon-lit alleyways. From my high vantage point on top of an apartment building, I could see the panic in his steps and hear his breathing. I lifted up the rifle in my hand ready to shoot- 

Crack!

The bullet flew by his head and lodged itself only inches from his head in the brick wall. The sole sniper assignment on this mission had been mine. I furrowed my eyes in confusion, tuned to look at the nearby rooftop and recognized him. James Barnes. Rifle still up, half smirking, perched on the other building like an arrogant hawk.

I swore into my radio as felt my hands tightened around my rifle's stock. "You have got to be kidding me,"

"Whats wrong?" Responded the agent on the other side of the comm device. Before I could respond I look back down to see my target has left and is now running around a corner.

"Nice shot" I hear him mutter in that frustratingly composed voice, as if this had simply been a game.

"That was my target and you knew that."   I jumped to my feet and ran across the roof. I will admit I was oblivious to the slick concrete caused by the rain. But none of it mattered, I was seeing red.

Bucky said, "Our intel overlapped," casually. "I figured you could use the help." He shrugged while running with that stupid smirk still on his face. 

I did not answer. I had no control to keep from screaming. Ignoring him I jumped down to street level and began to sprint towards my target. "keep ignoring him" i kept repeating in my head, I will not let some 90 plus year old man distract me from my job.

Bucky dropped in behind you seconds later, his heavy boots splashing through puddles as he kept stride with maddening ease.

"You know a thank you goes a long way." He says in between huffs of air.

"Like I said, my target. Mine." The ignoring didn't last long.

"Then why’d you miss?"

im sorry?? He can't be serious right now.

I stopped dead in my tracks and whirled on him, my soaked jacket whipping behind me. "Because someone fired a split-second early! You ruined the shot

He shrugged, completely unfazed. "Or maybe I saved the day. Again."

The tension between you could’ve lit up the entire city block.

Before I could say more, the target bolted onto a canal bridge, desperate to escape. He scrambled onto the side railings, ready to drop into the dark waters below.

I reached for your tranq gun but of course Bucky was already moving. One fluid, brutal motion, he lunged forward and tackled the man into the concrete. The target dropped with a grunt and didn’t move.

I stared at him. Bucky, crouched over the unconscious man like he was some goddamn war trophy.

"You’re welcome," he said again, and this time he had a full grin on his face.

"Didn't ask for any help." I say as I clench my left hand into a fist. God, he's annoying

---

The jet ride back to HQ was silent, but the air between the both of us was thick. I sat as far apart as the cabin allowed. I didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Not because I didn’t want to. Because if I did, I'd say something I couldn’t take back.

He, of course, sat with his arms folded, head tilted back, eyes closed like he hadn’t just sabotaged your mission and made me look incompetent.

What made it worse was that deep down, a part of you feared he had saved the mission. That maybe—just maybe—I had been a minute too slow.

And that thought made me sick.

Bucky Barnes being better than me.

--

The jet’s engines hummed beneath my seat as we touched down, but I barely noticed. I kept my gaze fixed on the closed door at the end of the jetway, where Director Maria Hill waited like a storm ready to break.

When the door swung open, there she was — her posture carved from steel, her eyes sharp enough to cut through anything. Without a word, she motioned for us to follow her.

My jaw tightened. Behind me, I heard Bucky’s boots hit the floor, steady and unbothered, like he hadn’t just sabotaged my mission.

Inside her office, the atmosphere was suffocating. Hill stood with arms crossed, pinning us both with a glare that brooked no excuses.

“Would either of you care to explain why I had two of my top agents nearly shooting each other over an unauthorized joint extraction?” she demanded.

I didn’t hesitate. “He interfered,” I said, voice sharp and trembling with anger. “This was my mission. I had the perimeter, the intel, the target. Everything was under control until he showed up and ruined it.”

Bucky’s voice cut in, calm as ever, dripping with that infuriating certainty. “She was compromised. Hesitated at the shot.”

I whipped around, fury blazing in my chest. “I did not hesitate.”

“Yes, you did,” he shot back without missing a beat. “You were off by half a second enough time for the target to slip away.”

“Because you distracted me!” My voice cracked with frustration, the heat inside me threatening to burn me alive.

Hill’s voice rose, commanding, “Enough!”

For a moment, the room went silent. We both stood frozen, the weight of her words sinking in.

“You want to act like reckless rookies? Fine. You’ll be treated like rookies.” Her eyes burned into us. “You’re being paired for the Berlin operation. Two weeks. Deep infiltration. Joint intel, joint decision-making. You succeed or fail as a team.”

My body stiffened. “Director—”

“Non-negotiable,” Hill cut me off. “You screw this up like New York, and you’re both off rotation for a month.”

New York.. I wanted to scream. To shout at the injustice of being punished and punished with him. I shot Bucky a look so cold it could freeze fire.

“Hope you like sleeping with one eye open,” I hissed.

His eyes met mine, deadpan, unbothered. “I always do.”

Hill dismissed us with a wave, and I stormed out of her office, the taste of defeat bitter in my mouth

The hallway outside was cold and empty except for us. I shoved past him trying to walk away, heat radiating from my skin.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” I spat. Walking to the direction of the exit.

His voice and foot steps followed, calm and sharp, “I didn’t realize catching the target was such a problem.”

“It is a problem when you undermine me. In the field. In front of surveillance.”

I hear his footsteps come to a stop, I slightly turn my head to where I can faintly see an outline of his body.

Voice dropping low, dripping with disdain. “You think I care about showing you up? This isn’t high school, sweetheart.” He says, eyes shooting arrows at me.

The word hit me like a slap. I spun to fully face him, chest heaving, eyes burning. “Don’t call me that.”

He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the rain beading on his dark hair, his jaw clenched so tightly it twitched like he was barely holding himself together.

“Fine. Agent. Partner. Enemy. Take your pick,” he said, voice rough. “Just don’t get in my way.”

I wanted to say something — anything — but my throat was tight, the rage inside me tangled with something far worse. Because beneath the irritation and hatred, I knew one terrible truth:

This infuriating, insufferable, broken man was the only one who’d ever truly challenged me. The only one who made me want to be better — even if all I felt was anger.

So I turned and walked away, my heart pounding loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

And even then, I felt his eyes burning into my back.

The war between us had officially begun.

_____________________

pt 2!!! -> same mission pt2

[thatnightlamp]

warning: English is not my first language, I am very bad at writing in English so I will use everything I can to translate from my mother tongue to English.

You don’t remember when the letters started coming more frequently - maybe a few weeks after that night in the abandoned building. The days blur together, too many crime scenes and sleepless nights. But you do remember how they changed.

At first, they were short. Taunts and observations, always written in that same shaking script. No fingerprints, no clues - just words. But over time, they grew longer, more… personal.

The last one was a long sentence, folded neatly and slipped into your apartment mailbox. You’d stared at it for an hour before even breaking the seal, telling yourself you didn’t care what he had to say. But of course, you did.

"You looked tired last night, detective. You should be careful. The city is a dangerous place for those who try to save it."

You crushed the paper between shaking fingers, telling yourself the heat on your face was anger. But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was the way his words lingered. How they seemed to coil around your thoughts, tight and possessive.

More than once, you caught yourself staring at the letters before shoving them into a drawer, fingers brushing the edges like they might burn. He was taunting you. Trying to get into your head. You knew that.

And yet…

Some nights, when the darkness pressed in and exhaustion blurred the lines between right and wrong, you couldn’t help but read them again. Not for the clues - those were always too subtle, too wrapped in riddles—but for the strange, twisted familiarity in his words. Almost as if he knew you well.

Or worse - understood you.

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

It’s raining again the night they come for you. The downpour turns the city streets into rivers of black and neon, and the coffee in your hand is already cold by the time you get to the parking lot. You’re too tired to notice the dark van until it’s too late - until gloved hands grab you from behind, and something sharp presses into your neck.

You fight, elbow jamming back into someone’s ribs. A grunt - then another pair of hands, heavier this time, slamming you into the concrete. Stars burst behind your eyes, and you taste blood.

You kick, curse, bite, but there are too many of them. Rope cuts into your wrists, a hood yanks over your head, and the ground sways beneath you. There’s a roaring in your ears - panic, pain, or the van’s engine, you can’t tell.

You try to count turns. Left, right, right again - your mind is foggy, but you cling to it like a lifeline. The smell of gasoline. The muffled voices, one higher-pitched, excited. Another - deeper, steadier.

"Night Haunter will reward us," one of them breathes, almost reverent. "He’s chosen us."

Your stomach twists. Fanatics.

There had been rumors - a cult, they called it. People obsessed with the Night Haunter, with his message of punishment and judgment. Conspiracy theories on late-night forums, witness reports dismissed as crackpot delusions. You’d thought they were crazy.

But you’d been wrong.

You’re half-conscious when they drag you out, boots scraping against concrete. Your head feels split in two, each breath a struggle. There’s a faint light, hazy through the hood, and the smell of rust and oil. An old warehouse, maybe, or a factory.

Someone rips the hood off, and the world tilts sickeningly.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering in and out. Concrete walls, stained dark. A chair - steel and bolted to the ground - stands at the center of a chalk circle, symbols smeared in red. The ropes dig into your wrists, and you’re shoved into the chair, vision swimming.

A man steps forward, hooded, eyes bright with zealotry. He’s young -twenties, maybe. A knife glints in his hand.

"You don’t understand," he hisses. "You’re tainting him. Leading him astray. But we can fix that."

He raises the knife, and you brace yourself for the pain-

But the lights cut out, plunging the room into darkness.

There’s a scream - short, choked off with a wet crunch. Then another, gurgling, and a heavy thud. Blood sprays warm across your cheek, and the knife clatters to the floor.

You blink, vision blurring. Shapes move in the dark, swift and lethal. The sound of flesh meeting flesh - bones snapping like dry branches. A wet gasp, then silence.

The emergency lights flicker on, crimson and dim.

And you see him.

Konrad Curze. The Night Haunter himself.

He stands amid the carnage, bathed in red. He is no longer stay in the dark, but his presence is the same - towering, gaunt yet powerful, draped in a long black coat that sweeps the ground. His hair falls in dark strands around a face as pale and sharp as a blade, eyes like chips of ice. Even half-conscious, you can’t mistake the darkness that clings to him, a shadow given form.

He turns, and those eyes fix on you.

For a moment, you can’t breathe.

He steps forward, movements eerily smooth. The bodies of his supposed followers lie broken at his feet, throats torn apart. Blood drips from his gloves, black in the emergency lights.

But his expression is almost… soft.

You flinch when he reaches out, fingers ghosting over the rope binding your wrists. His touch is ice, but gentle, careful not to brush bruises already blooming beneath your skin.

"You shouldn’t have been here," he murmurs, voice low and cold but edged with something raw. Almost regretful. "They were never meant to touch you."

You try to speak, but the words catch, your throat raw and aching. You settle for glaring, though it lacks conviction.

He huffs something like a sigh, cutting the ropes with a flick of a knife. Your arms fall limp, wrists throbbing. The room tilts, and he catches you before you hit the ground, his arm around your shoulders, holding you upright.

The closeness is suffocating. You can feel the cold press of his chest, the faint scent of copper and something rotten. You should shove him away, fight, anything-

But your limbs won’t obey, too heavy and numb.

"Rest," he murmurs, almost… soothing. "They can’t hurt you now."

You should hate him for this. Should spit curses and claw at the monster who’s haunted your every waking thought for years. But your eyes are already sliding shut, the fight bleeding out of you with each rasping breath.

The last thing you feel is the brush of cold fingers, careful and reverent, smoothing your blood-matted hair from your face. A voice, low and distant, almost gentle.

"Sleep, detective. I’ll keep them away."

And for the first time in weeks, you let the darkness take you.

[chericos]

SHUT UP AND DRIVE CHAPTER ONE: gear up

masterlist. || 2.2k

The scent of gasoline filled the garage. Sunlight streams through the oversized glass doors, pooling onto the polished concrete floor and glinting off the sleek frame of your car. Your pride and joy—a beast of a machine with a matte black finish and deep pink accents—sits waiting for your attention. Tools are scattered across the workbench nearby, a chaotic mix of wrenches, sockets, and screwdrivers, each coated in a fine sheen of oil.  

Hunched over the open engine bay, you work with the kind of precision that comes from both necessity and obsession. Your hands move deftly, tightening a bolt here, testing the throttle there. The faint purr of the engine vibrates through your chest, grounding you in the present for the first time in weeks. For a fleeting moment, excitement stirs in you. It’s familiar. Comforting.  

The peace doesn’t last.  

“You know, hiding in the garage isn’t going to fix everything.”  

The sharp voice startles you, and you glance toward the open doorway. Utahime stands there, clipboard in hand and exasperation etched across her face. Her sharp, professional outfit—a deep navy blazer and pinstripe slacks combo—looks wildly out of place against the gritty backdrop of the garage.  

Without looking up from your work, you twist the wrench tighter and mutter, “I’m not hiding. I’m working.”  

Utahime steps inside, her heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Hiding. Working. Same thing at this point,” she says, her tone dry. “You haven’t been to a single event since the... incident.”  

The word makes you freeze, it barely lasts a second, but it was just long enough for her to notice. Gritting your teeth, you keep your focus on the engine. “Can we not call it that? It’s not Voldemort.”  

“Fine,” she snaps, crossing her arms. “What do you want me to call it? The breakup heard ’round the racing world? The reason you’re trending on Twitter every other day? Because that’s what it is to everyone else.”  

Setting your wrench down with a clang, you finally meet her gaze. “I’ll show up. I always do.”  

“Oh, really?” she says, arching a brow. “Because last I checked, showing up means more than tinkering with your car like it’s a safety blanket.”  

“It’s called preparation,” you counter, the bite in your voice sharper than you intended.  

“Preparation for what?” Utahime throws her hands up in exasperation. “To stay in here forever?” Her tone softens as she lets out a sigh, but the frustration lingers. “You’ve been cooped up here for weeks. You can’t half-ass this season like last time. Le Mans isn’t just a race; it’s the race. No more late-night runs for thrills, no more headlines about your ‘personal life.’ Focus.” Racing isn’t just about the car. It’s about you. Your mindset, your presence. And right now, the scouts for Le Mans are seeing someone who’s gone completely radio silent.”  

You groaned, reaching for the rag to wipe your hands, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I am focused. Just because I’m not making dramatic speeches about it doesn’t mean I’m slacking off. And just because I’m not broadcasting my every move doesn't mean I’m “radio silent,” 

Utahime arched a skeptical brow, glancing over her clipboard. “First qualifiers are next weekend. Maki’s already clocked two practice runs, and Nobara’s been studying every corner of the Le Mans track like it’s her SAT. Meanwhile, you’ve been—what? Fixing your car?”  

“Hey, Camie is more than a car. She’s a masterpiece, and now she’s offended. We’re focused, stop worrying.”

“Focused,” Utahime repeated, her skepticism dripping from her voice. “Focused would mean you’re out on the track, working on your times, not holed up in your fortress of solitude.  

“Maybe I like my solitude,” you mutter, tossing the rag onto the workbench, a pout making its way onto your face.  

“And maybe it’s not doing you any favors,” she fires back. “Look, I get it. The whole thing with Megumi—”  

“Don’t.” Your tone is sharp, cutting her off mid-sentence. The room feels heavier now, the words hanging unspoken between you. “This isn’t about him.”  

Utahime’s expression softens, but she doesn’t back down. “Whether you want it to be or not, everyone else has made it about him. About you and him. If you don’t remind them why you’re you, you’re going to lose control of the narrative. And worse? You’re going to lose that Le Mans spot to him.”  

Now that… that hit. You clench your jaw, glaring down at the open hood of your car as if it might offer some magical solution.  

“I’m not going to lose to him,” you finally say, your voice low but firm.  

“Then prove it,” Utahime challenges, stepping closer. “Because Megumi’s out there training like his life depends on it. He’s not distracted by social media, drama, or whatever it is you’re doing in here. He’s racing. And you? You’re stalling.”  

Her words sting more than you care to admit, and for a moment, silence blankets the garage. The hum of the engine seems distant now, overshadowed by the weight of her honesty.  

Finally, you sigh and slam the hood of your car shut. “Fine. I’ll hit the simulators later. Happy?”  

“Ecstatic,” she deadpans, though there’s the faintest hint of relief in her expression. “But don’t just hit the simulators. Go upstairs. Talk to your team. They’ve been trying to drag you out of this funk for weeks.”  

You smirk faintly at her choice of words. “I don’t do funks.”  

“Call it whatever you want.” She gives you one last pointed look before turning to leave. “Just show up. That’s all I’m asking.”  

As her footsteps fade, the silence of the garage settles in once again. The car gleams under the sunlight, a testament to your meticulous care—but it isn’t enough. Utahime’s right. Racing isn’t just about the car.  

Grabbing your (empty) water bottle, you take a deep breath and head toward the house. It’s time to face the world, whether you like it or not. And you were going to show them that you’re better than ever.

You push open the door to your house, stepping into the chaos you call home. The sharp scent of motor oil clings faintly to your jacket, but it’s quickly replaced by the clean, crisp scent of the indoors. The foyer opens up into a spacious living area with polished marble floors that gleam in the soft sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The stark white walls are adorned with framed posters of old racing events, rock concerts, and abstract art, all splashed with animal prints and neon pink. At the center of the room sits a large black leather couch, adorned with a fluffy pink throw blanket draped over one arm and mismatched pillows shaped like skulls and roses.

The coffee table is littered with evidence of your late-night antics—half-empty energy drinks, stray playing cards, and a small stack of glossy magazines featuring you and your teammates in various articles. In the corner, a tall, potted snake plant struggles to survive, its leaves curling as though begging for more attentive care.

The open-concept kitchen flows seamlessly into the living room, with gleaming black marble countertops and pendant lights hanging from above, their matte black and tarnished gold fixtures adding a touch of flair. A pink neon sign reading "Eat Fast, Drive Faster" hangs over the stove, casting a soft glow across the room. The place is clean—for now—but the faint smell of burnt toast lingers, evidence of Nobara’s recent cooking attempt.

The grunge charm extends to the little details: a shelf near the staircase crammed with trophies and medals, the pride of the team, and a mishmash of knick-knacks—a chipped pink skull figurine, a tiny replica of your car, and a Polaroid of the team from your first big win, framed in black. 

As you step further into the house, the faint thrum of bass from Nobara’s room upstairs mixes with the sound of simulated engines roaring from the game room. Somewhere, Panda’s deep laugh echoes, followed by the unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting the floor.

“Who broke something this time?” you call out, kicking off your boots by the door and hanging your jacket on the hook labeled ‘Speed Demon’—a label you swear you didn’t put up.

In the kitchen, Maki is sitting at the counter, sharpening one of her knives with a whetstone. She glances up as you walk in, her expression as sharp as the blade in her hands. “Just your ego, probably,” she says with a smirk.

“Still babying that car of yours?” she teased as you walked in.  

“Better than babying a weapon collection,” you shot back, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “What’s the deal with the knives anyway? Planning on taking out the competition?”  

“Just prepared for anything,” Maki said with a smirk. “You could learn a thing or two about that.”  

You smirk, walking away from the fridge. “You’re hilarious. Keep working on that. Maybe one day you’ll have fans like mine.”

“I don’t think I want any of those. I’ve got a blade and a flawless record.”

“Good for you, Miss Terminator,” you shoot back before making your way to the living room. It’s alive with energy, the heart of your chaotic little universe. You settle onto the black leather couch, its cold surface softened by the worn-in comfort of the pink throw blanket and a plush skull pillow you hug to your chest. Nobara is sprawled across the opposite end of the couch, her legs dangling lazily over the armrest as she scrolls through Twitter. Panda is cross-legged on the shaggy pink rug, fiddling with a miniature die-cast model of your car, occasionally making it "zoom" across the table to annoy Nobara.

Maki—finally leaving the kitchen—has claimed the pink velvet armchair in the corner, her posture rigid and imposing as she continues sharpening her knife. 

“Did you see what people are saying about you and Megumi?” Nobara says, looking up from her phone with a grin. “Twitter’s on fire about you two. Apparently, someone spotted him at the circuit yesterday, and now everyone’s debating who fumbled who again.”

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “Can we not? I’m tired of hearing about him.”

“Oh, come on!” Nobara teases, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. “You have to care a little. The people want to know: did you dump him because he couldn’t handle your vibe, or did he dump you because he realized he peaked?”

Panda snorts his laugh so loud it startles Maki, who glares at him. “I’m Team Megumi fumbled,” Panda announces, raising his hand (paw) like it's a vote. “The guy’s too moody to handle someone like you. You’re all speed and chaos. He’s... whatever the opposite of fun is.”

“Broody?” Nobara suggests.

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for the support, Panda. Super helpful. It’s totally not like you know the whole situation firsthand.”

“But,” Panda adds with a mischievous grin, “you did ghost him at that after-party last year. So maybe it’s mutual fumbling?”

“That party doesn’t count,” you retort, throwing the skull pillow at him. “I had better things to do than listen to him complain in the corner all night.”

“Like what?” Nobara smirks, dodging the pillow Panda tossed her way.

“Win a race, maybe?” you reply. “Something he didn’t do that night, by the way.”

Maki lets out a sharp laugh from her chair, finally looking up from her knife. “You’re all idiots. Who cares about whatever high Twitter wants to get off on? Just get over it and focus on the qualifiers.”

“Thank you, Maki, the only voice of reason,” you say, raising your water bottle in a mock toast.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Maki responds. “You’ve barely touched the simulators, and from what I hear, Megumi’s been practically living at the circuit. If you don’t get serious, he’ll wipe the floor with you.”

The room goes quiet for a moment, the only sound is the faint bassline of Nobara’s playlist drifting from the speaker.

“I’m not worried about Megumi,” you say finally, your voice steady. “He can train all he wants. I’m still faster.”

Nobara raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push further. Instead, she leans back, stretching her arms over her head. “Alright, enough yapping. Let’s hit the simulators. If we’re serious about this season, we need to start acting like it. And Y/n, if you’re not on that track tomorrow, I’m dragging you there myself.”  

You give her a halfhearted grin. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“I’m calling dibs on the first run.”

“Dream on,” you say, standing up and tossing the skull pillow back onto the couch. “If anyone’s going first, it’s me.”

“Oh, so now you’re serious?” Nobara teases, following you toward the stairs.

“Always was,” you shoot back with a smirk.

The energy shifts as the team heads upstairs to the simulator room. The playful banter fades and it's replaced by the sharp focus that comes with a race. Even with the change in vibe, the camaraderie is there—an unspoken reminder that, no matter what happens on the track, you’ve got each other’s backs. There’s only one thing left to do.

It’s time to gear up.

break room!

I still suck at dialogue... but there is SLIGHT improvement (I think)

anyway! the break room is just gonna be the teams' hobbies!

maki has a knife collection, she guards them like they're hr birthed children. no one knows what she uses them for...

nobara runs a youtube channel, she mainly does blogs around the house but sometimes she streams game nights

panda has an insane amount of pokemon cards. he has pushed people on the streets while trying to find them on pokemon go (yes this is based on one of my friends)

megumi was definitely only at the circuit trying to get over it

get ready to turn on the ignition

taglist!

@brideads @sweettenderheart @sh0ot1ngst4r @bertqut1 @favbisexualh0e @Fushiguruzzzz @anonymity222 @harryzcherry @Janneeeexdxc @veevei @lightshowerrr @jasminasblog22 @gumims @samshine03 @yeehawnana @starrysho @1l-ynn @dovellici

if your tag isn't working please fix your settings or you will be removed!

also please comment if I can use you as a twt user!