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olive-fics · 1 year ago

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☠'Speed Demon'-Ellie Williams'

⋆By popular request, here's a one-shot (?) of Ellie Williams as a street racer in need of your support before a race..⋆

CREDS TO-@cottagecheese340 (My bsf ♡) AND TIKTOK + INSTAGRAM-@/Offtwotheraces

The sound of engines revving and the distant chatter of the crowd filled the background, a symphony of anticipation that quickened your heartbeats. Ellie's racing suit making a "pfft.." when she walked.

Ellie leaned against the sleek car, her eyes fixated on the darkened street ahead. The roar of engines and the pulsing neon lights of the city's underbelly surrounded her. She turned to you, her voice a low, almost trembling whisper in the midst of the racing chaos.

"Y/N... This race is gonna be close—I don't know if I'm gonna win tonight babe.." Ellie doubted.

Her fingers traced the curves of the car's modified body, the cool metal beneath her touch making her breathing tremble quietly.. She was nervous. It wasn't just the metal that made her tremble quietly though; it was the weight of the race, the stakes, and the undeniable surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

You met Ellie's gaze, an expression and mix of determination and unwavering support..

Your voice broke through the pre-race tension, your words carrying a reassuring weight through the noise of the engines and the anticipation in the air..

"Hey, Ellie, you've got this. You're not just good; you're one of the best out here. Trust me, even if you don't win tonight, I'll make it up to you. But right now, in this moment, I need you to give it your absolute best.. Got that?"

"But Y/N-," Ellie hesitated, her voice tinged with doubt, "I don't know..."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with uncertainty. She looked to you, her eyes searching for reassurance in the midst of her wavering resolve. The weight of the impending race pressed upon her, and for a moment, she questioned whether she should do this or not.

She inhaled a deep, steadying breath, the tension in her frame palpable as her fingers clenched into fists, knuckles whitening from her grip.

"Alright.. Fine."

"You don't have to do this, Ellie.." You took her hand. "Look at me."

Gently tilting Ellie's chin upward, coaxing her to meet your eyes. In a kiss, the world seemed to fade away for Ellie as her gaze slowly rose from the ground. her eyes met yours with a mixture of vulnerability and determination.

"I've got this," Ellie said, her voice carrying a quiet but undeniable determination. She gave herself a mental pep talk, squaring her shoulders and sighing contently.

"Yeah," she added with a soft grin, "I can do this."

Ellie slid into the driver's seat of her sleek, blacked-out car, her fingers instinctively wrapping around the wheel. With the engine humming eagerly, she spared a quick glance at her wrist, tapping her watch to check the time.

Her gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. With her racing suit snug against her form, Ellie closed her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply to calm her heart and lick her cracked lips. . .

As the flagger briskly displayed the green flag, a collective roar from the crowd blended with the growl of engines in anticipation. Ellie's heart pounded in rhythm with the race's imminent start. With a fierce determination in her eyes, she reacted in an instant, her foot slamming onto the accelerator.

In an explosive burst of power, her car surged forward, tires biting into the asphalt with a deafening screech. The acceleration thrust her ahead, and the world outside blurred into a chaotic kaleidoscope of lights and shadows. Ellie's finely tuned driving skills and lightning-quick reflexes came to the forefront as she approached the first hairpin turn with a grace that belied the breakneck speed.

As the race kept on, the roar of engines filled the air, drowning out all other sounds. The racers navigated the circuit with precision, each turn and straightaway a high-stakes battleground. Ellie, in the thick of the competition, demonstrated her racing prowess with every skillful maneuver...

As the race enters its final lap, the tension escalates. Ellie is neck-and-neck with her main rival, "ANDERSON." their vehicles inches apart..

in a thrilling sprint to the finish line, Ellie pushes her car to its limits just barely pushing against Abby's car. The crowd roars as she inches ahead and crosses the finish line first, her car's engine screaming in triumph..

As she caught her breath, her voice barely above a murmur, she mumbled to herself, a mixture of satisfaction and exhaustion seeping into her words, "Yeah... good.. fuck.." Ellie would rub the wheel and lay her head back taking off her helmet and stepping out of her car..

After the race's adrenaline-fueled chaos had subsided, Ellie fumbled out of her car, her movements a bit unsteady, and sought you out with an unspoken urgency. Her racing suit clung to her, soaked with the remnants of exertion, and her helmet dangled from her hand.

When she finally reached you, there was no need for words. Ellie enveloped you in a tight, grateful hug, her racing heart now coming to a steady pace.. The scent of the exhaust lingered with sweat and her musky cologne.

"You did so well Ellie... So proud," you mumbled into her shoulder, a smile playing on your lips and a gentle giggle escaping as you held her tightly.

Ellie let out an exhausted groan, her racing helmet clutched loosely in one hand, as she sighed deeply. She leaned in, her forehead gently coming to rest against yours, Ellie's lips then met yours in a gentle, affectionate kiss. Her other hand rested tenderly on your hips, fingers tracing soothing patterns along your pants.

"So... sore..." Ellie mumbled, her voice a soft sigh of exhaustion, as she sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth. Her calloused fingers, gently massaged her calf, coaxing some relief from the aching muscles.

"Let's get you sat down..Hm?" You whispered into her ear setting her down by the bleachers.

With a tender touch, you began to rub Ellie's calf gently, your fingers working in soothing circles to ease the soreness that had settled in her muscles. "Shh... I got you."

Ellie couldn't help but let out content sighs and bite her lip a bit, Ellie hated to seem weak but in all honesty, she loved being pampered.

"You have no idea how much I needed this, Y/N..Fuck-" Ellie ran her free hand through your hair and laughed wiping sweat from her forehead.

"You need sleep, Ells?" You inquired with genuine concern, your voice laced with care. "I can drive us home--"

Ellie interrupted quickly, a hint of worry in her tone, "No-, that's alright."

Ellie's aversion to letting you drive her car ran deep. She was genuinely nervous about the idea, not just for the vehicle's safety but also for your well-being. Her car was an extension of herself, a testament to her racing prowess, and she couldn't bear the thought of it being mishandled or causing harm to anyone. . .

After offering solace to Ellie, her fellow racers and enthusiastic fans, the so-called 'fangirls,' (crazy lesbians) flocked around her like a whirlwind. They couldn't contain their excitement, their voices bubbling over with admiration and their phones poised for pictures. The atmosphere shifted from a private moment to a bustling celebration in the blink of an eye.

Ellie maintained a gentle but firm hold on your hand, anchoring you close to her as the small crowd began to dissipate.

Softly, with a reluctant smile, Ellie buzzed, "Thanks for being here, Y/N. You always keep me grounded.."

You chuckled warmly and gave Ellie's arm a reassuring rub. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Ellie. You know I'll always be right by your side for this."

"I know, and that means absolutely everything to me." Ellie let out a quiet sigh, her hand instinctively rising to gently itch her face.

You squeezed Ellie's other hand gently, "You did amazing out there, seriously-I'm proud of you."

Ellie's gaze fell to the ground, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement..."Oh please.."

"Wanna go home now, Ellie...?" You asked, your tone carrying a touch of reassurance. "I know you're tired..."

Ellie nodded in agreement, her movements slow and deliberate as she slid into the driver's seat of her car. Her fingers ran through her tousled hair, a sign of both fatigue and relief, as she let out a weary sigh.

"Feeling worn out, aren't you, Ells?" You asked in a hushed tone, your fingers gently massaging her shoulder as you sat close beside her in the car.

Ellie nodded and started to drive home.. The engine's purr and the rhythm of the road were a soothing 'white noise' to Ellie..

"Love you, Y/N," Ellie whispered, her voice filled with sincerity and affection.

You smiled warmly, your gaze locked on Ellie.

"Love you too, Ells."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

OK OK I FINALLY FINISHED THIS IM SRRY FOR THE WAIT!⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

♡ Hi! My friend gave me huge inspo/pretty much the whole idea for this! :) I tagged their accounts at the top! ♡

Sorry if this is bad I'm not an author lol-😭

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00valentina-writes00 · 27 days ago

Note

Street racing reader x mechanic Ellie??

(I just got done binge watching the fast and thefurious movies)

Reader street races to make some extra cash on the side, Ellie works on the cars and also details them for other racers.

RAHAHHAHHHH IVE had this stuck in my head since you made the request five hours ago bby-

And I have delivered.

✞⛧ Racing Hearts ✞⛧

warnings: language, sexual tension, suggestive themes, reckless driving, bickering, teasing, angst, smut towards the end (as always)

Word count: 7.9k

The garage smells like oil, burnt rubber, and metal—sharp, heavy, and lingering in the back of your throat. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast a dim, yellowish glow on the concrete floor, stained with years of grease and engine spills. The space is cluttered but organized, the kind of chaos that only someone who knows exactly where everything is can navigate.

You lean against the hood of your car, arms crossed, eyes scanning the place. Word on the street is that this mechanic—Ellie—knows her shit. Works fast, doesn't overcharge, and can squeeze power out of an engine like nobody else. You're skeptical. Too many mechanics see street racers as cash cows, overpricing labor and tacking on fees like you're some rich kid playing pretend. You're not. You race to make extra cash, to keep your car running, to survive.

A loud clang echoes from the far side of the garage. Then—

"Yo, if you're just gonna stand there looking pretty, at least make yourself useful and hand me that wrench."

The voice is rough, low, tinged with something lazy and self-assured. You turn toward it

Ellie Williams.

She's half under a lifted car, only her legs and torso visible, grease-smudged jeans hugging lean, wiry muscle. When she slides out, dragging a rag over her oil-streaked hands, you get your first real look at her.

Maybe 5'5", lean but strong, built like someone who doesn't just lift tools but knows how to throw a punch. Her forearms are defined, her hands rough, calloused from years of work. A faded band tee clings to her frame, the sleeves haphazardly rolled up, revealing a fern tattoo winding down her arm, the dark ink stark against tanned skin. A streak of oil smudges across her cheekbone, and a faint scar cuts through one of her eyebrows. Her green eyes are sharp, glinting with a mix of amusement and mild impatience.

You arch a brow. "I don't work here."

Ellie snorts, tossing the rag onto a nearby tool chest. "No shit. You've got 'racer' written all over you." She eyes your car, then you. "That why you're here? What, engine light came on and now you're freaking out?"

You grit your teeth. "I need a tune-up. You free?"

Ellie sighs like you just asked her to rebuild the whole damn car from scratch. She jerks her chin toward the hood. "Pop it."

You reach in, pull the latch, and step back as she moves in. The way she moves is confident, easy—like this is second nature. She leans over, hands braced against the frame, eyes scanning the engine like she's reading a book only she understands.

She whistles low. "Damn. You push this thing way too hard," she mutters, hands already working, brushing over wires, testing the tension on belts. "Might as well start digging your own grave."

You cross your arms. "I win races. Winning means pushing limits."

Ellie huffs a laugh, shaking her head as she reaches for a wrench. "Winning also means knowing when your car's about to shit the bed."

She gets to work, sleeves pushed up past her elbows, the muscles in her forearms flexing with each movement. You watch as she moves efficiently—checking, adjusting, tightening. There's a rhythm to it, like muscle memory. The music blasting from an old radio in the corner doesn't distract her. In fact, she taps her foot to it while she works, muttering under her breath every now and then.

"You talk to cars a lot?" you ask.

Ellie shrugs, not looking up. "Only the ones with owners dumb enough to burn through their engines."

You smirk. "You flirting with my car?"

Ellie pauses just long enough to glance at you, lips curling. "Jealous?"

You roll your eyes but don't fight the grin tugging at your mouth.

She works fast. Every adjustment is precise, every flick of her wrist practiced. She knows what she's doing, and for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like someone's trying to hustle you.

After a while, she straightens, wiping her hands on the rag. "You're all set. Try not to kill yourself out there."

You slide into the driver's seat, start the engine, and immediately notice the difference. The hum is smoother, the response sharper. She fine-tuned it perfectly. You glance up at her.

"How much?"

Ellie leans against the door, tapping her fingers against the frame. "Two hundred."

You scoff. "That's it?"

She shrugs. "Could've charged you more. Might, next time, if you keep acting like a dick."

You can't tell if she's serious, but there's something about the way she says it that makes you smirk. You pull out a couple of bills, hand them over, and she tucks them into her pocket without counting.

As you shift into gear, Ellie knocks her knuckles against the window. "Hey."

You pause.

"If you win, bring it back," she says, her voice casual but firm. "I wanna see what I'm working with."

You meet her gaze, searching for the catch. There isn't one. Just a mechanic who gives a shit, even if she pretends not to.

You nod once. "Yeah. Alright."

And with that, you pull out of the garage, the tune-up carrying you toward the starting line.

——-

The first time you come back to Ellie's garage after a race, she looks up from under the hood of an old Chevy, eyes narrowing like she's already regretting seeing your face again.

"You back so soon?" she says, wiping grease off her hands with a rag. "What'd you do this time, blow a gasket?"

You smirk, leaning against the doorway. "Nah. Just figured you'd miss me."

Ellie snorts. "Yeah, like a hole in the head." But she still jerks her chin toward your car. "Pop the hood. Might as well check if you haven't completely fucked it since last time."

That's how it starts. One visit turns into two, then three. You come back after every race, whether you need work done or not. Ellie complains, rolls her eyes, mutters about "needy racers," but she never actually tells you to leave. And despite her grumbling, she always takes a minute to check under the hood, wiping sweat off her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a faint streak of oil along her temple.

She's all rough hands and sharp edges, but there's something about the way she moves—focused, deliberate—that makes it hard to look away. The way the overhead lights catch on the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, the way her forearms flex when she tightens a bolt, the way she bites the inside of her cheek when she's concentrating.

"You gonna keep staring, or are you actually gonna help?" she mutters one night, not looking up from where she's bent over your engine.

You shrug. "Just making sure you know what you're doing."

Ellie scoffs, tossing a wrench at your chest—not hard, just enough to make a point. You catch it, grinning. "Real funny."

It becomes a routine.

The races run late, sometimes past midnight, and more often than not, you find yourself back at Ellie's shop, the neon sign buzzing faintly in the darkness. Some nights, you're actually there for repairs. Other nights, you just lean against the hood of your car, watching her work.

Ellie pretends to hate it.

"You got nothing better to do?" she grumbles one night, wiping sweat from her forehead with her forearm.

“Not really."

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head, but you don't miss the way her lips twitch like she's fighting a smirk.

Your presence is easy now—familiar, even. She doesn't ask why you keep coming back, and you don't explain. But sometimes, when she's bent under the hood, sleeves shoved up past her elbows, you catch the slight pink on her cheeks when she realizes you've been watching.

"Seriously," she mutters, throwing a look over her shoulder. "What's with you?"

You shrug. "You're kinda cute when you're pissed off."

Ellie scoffs, turning back to the car, but you see the way her ears turn red.

One night, you show up with takeout.

Ellie raises a brow as you set the bag on the workbench. "The hell is this?"

"Food," you say. "Mechanics gotta eat, too."

Ellie hesitates, like she doesn't know what to do with the gesture. She's used to grease, to engine parts, to long hours with nothing but black coffee and maybe a gas station snack if she remembers. She's not used to people taking care of her.

Still, she grabs the bag, peeking inside. She mutters a quiet, almost reluctant, "Thanks," before digging in, perching on the edge of the workbench, one boot resting against the stool beneath her.

You sit across from her, eating in comfortable silence. The radio hums low in the background, some old rock song, and for a moment, the night doesn't feel so heavy.

After that, you bring food more often. Sometimes it's just coffee. Sometimes it's a burger or something she can eat with one hand while working. She never asks for it, but she never turns it down, either.

Another night, she leans against the counter, sipping the drink you brought her, eyes flicking over to you. "You keep doing this, people are gonna start thinking you like me."

You tilt your head, grinning. "Yeah? And what would you think?"

Ellie rolls her eyes, but you don't miss the way she licks her lips before looking away.

——

The dim light in the garage flickers overhead, casting long shadows that stretch across the concrete floor, mixing with the hum of the fan spinning lazily in the corner. The air is thick with the smell of motor oil, sweat, and something faintly metallic. It's the kind of scent that makes you think of late nights and a kind of gritty work you've come to associate with Ellie—who's currently hunched over the engine of your car, her body angled just so as she works. Her movements are fluid, practiced, confident. Each shift of her body reveals the lean, toned muscles of her back, flexing beneath her worn-out sports bra.

You lean against the hood of your car, arms crossed loosely over your chest. Your gaze, despite your best efforts, keeps wandering back to her. There's something magnetic about the way she works. It's like watching a well-rehearsed dance, only instead of a stage, it's a greasy engine bay and a pile of worn-out tools scattered around her.

You can't help but notice the way the sports bra clings to her back, the lines of her spine visible as she bends over to tighten something under the hood. It's a small thing—something fleeting—but it catches your attention in a way you don't want it to. The soft curve of her spine as she moves, the way her muscles contract and relax with each movement—it's mesmerizing.

You think about how she'd look if she were arching her back, the muscles in her spine stretching, the way her body would ripple beneath your touch. The way her muscles might tense if you shoved your strap- It's a thought that catches you off guard, unexpected and almost too much for your brain to process. You quickly look away, taking a breath, trying to shake the thought out of your head.

But then she shifts again, and you're back at it. She pulls herself out from under the car, brushing a strand of messy hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her face is flushed with the effort, but her eyes—those green eyes—catch yours almost instantly. There's a challenge in her gaze, something you can't quite read, but it's there, lingering.

"You gonna keep staring or are you gonna help?" she grumbles, wiping her hand on a rag. She doesn't look annoyed—if anything, there's a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, like she's enjoying the attention, even if she won't admit it.

You raise an eyebrow, pushing off the hood of your car. "Maybe I'll just watch you do all the work. You're pretty good at it."

Ellie lets out an exaggerated sigh and stands up straight, stretching her back with a small grunt. The motion pulls your attention once again, the way her muscles ripple, how her spine arches as she stretches. You swallow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, trying to hide how her physicality affects you. She notices, of course. She always does.

——

Ellie starts teaching you things.

At first, it's just little comments here and there. "If your car starts pulling left, check the tire pressure before assuming it's alignment." "Listen for knocking in the engine—means the timing's off." "Don't rev the shit out of it before a race, you're just burning fuel for no reason."

Eventually, though, she starts pulling you into the work itself. Hands you a tool instead of doing it herself. Makes you tighten a bolt, check a connection.

It's frustrating, at first. She's a tough teacher, blunt and sarcastic, but never careless. If she corrects you, it's because she wants you to get it right.

One night, as you're trying (and failing) to change out a spark plug, Ellie leans over, her arm brushing against yours, the warmth of her skin distracting in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

She smirks, voice low. "Need me to hold your hand?"

You huff, but your fingers slip on the plug, and Ellie laughs. Not mocking, just amused, something softer underneath.

"You're getting better," she admits, nudging your shoulder with hers. "Maybe I won't clown on you forever."

And then, that same evening, you challenge her.

"You ever actually gonna watch me race?" you ask, leaning against the counter as she works.

Ellie glances up. "I hear about it."

"Not the same."

She exhales, tossing the rag aside. "Racing's not really my thing."

You tilt your head. "Then why do you work on race cars?"

Ellie shrugs. "I like the work."

You step closer. "Come watch," you say, quieter this time. "You spend all this time making sure my car doesn't fall apart. Wouldn't hurt to see it in action."

Ellie hesitates. She's used to the garage, to oil and metal and machines she can fix with her hands. But people? Feelings? Those are harder.

Still, after a moment, she sighs, running a hand through her messy auburn hair. "Fine," she mutters. "One race."

You grin. "Try not to fall in love."

Ellie scoffs. "You wish." But her smirk lingers, and for the first time, you think she might actually be looking forward to it.

——-

Ellie's in your passenger seat, and she's already regretting it.

The neon lights of the city streak past, blurring into a rush of color as your tires screech against the asphalt. The engine roars beneath you, a perfect harmony of raw power and precision—the kind of balance only Ellie could've fine-tuned.

She grips the oh shit handle, knuckles white. "Jesus," she mutters. "You drive like a fucking maniac."

You grin, shifting gears as you weave between cars. "Told you to buckle up."

Ellie scoffs, but she yanks the strap tighter across her chest anyway.

The race is chaos—machines tearing through the night, engines screaming, rubber burning against the pavement. You're threading through the pack, cutting close, feeling the pulse of the road in your bones. Ellie's right there beside you, tense but locked in, green eyes darting between the dashboard and the road ahead.

She mutters under her breath—half curses, half prayers—as you take a sharp turn, the back tires kicking out before you correct with practiced ease. You feel the thrill in your veins, the sharp, electric rush of knowing you're inches from disaster but still in control.

Ellie exhales through her nose, stealing a glance at you. Your hands on the wheel, the gleam of sweat at your temple, the way your jaw tightens in focus. Something flickers in her expression, something she won't name.

"You're gonna get me killed," she grumbles.

You smirk. "Not tonight."

A straightaway opens ahead. The last stretch. The lead car is inches away, close enough that you can feel the tension radiating off the driver. You downshift, engine snarling, and Ellie leans forward instinctively, caught up despite herself.

"Come on, come on," she mutters, eyes flicking between the speedometer and the road.

You time it perfectly—cutting inside at the last second, just before the other driver can block. Ellie swears as you squeeze past, inches from scraping metal, the rush of air and neon swallowing you whole.

Then—

You cross the finish line first.

The world slows. The roar of the engine fades under the cheers, the flashing lights, the chaos of celebration. You exhale, chest rising and falling, heart pounding against your ribs.

Ellie is staring at you.

"You actually fucking did it," she says, like she can't quite believe it.

You turn to her, grinning. "Had to make sure you got a good show."

Ellie rolls her eyes, but there's something else there now—something deeper, something charged.

She huffs, shaking her head as she unbuckles her seatbelt. "You're insane."

You lean in, voice lower now, more deliberate. "You like it, though."

Ellie doesn't answer. She just looks at you for a long second, the hum of the engine still between you, the night thick with something neither of you want to name yet.

Then she smirks. "Drive me back to the shop, hotshot."

And just like that, you know this won't be the last time Ellie's in your car.

———

The garage hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, the scent of oil and metal thick in the air. Ellie's perched on the edge of your hood, wiping her hands clean with an already-filthy rag. Her coveralls are unzipped and tied around her waist, leaving her in a sweat-stained band tee that clings to her lean frame. There's a streak of grease on her cheek, just below her scarred eyebrow, and her green eyes flick up at you, sharp and knowing.

"You're an idiot," she says flatly.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Good pep talk, Els."

"I'm serious." She tosses the rag onto the workbench behind her, arms crossing over her chest. Her forearms are streaked with oil, veins subtly pronounced beneath her lightly tanned skin. "This race? It's not like the other ones. These guys don't just want to win, they wanna make sure you lose. You think you're fast? They'll make sure speed doesn't matter when they're ramming you into a guardrail."

You lean against the car beside her, feeling the cold metal press into your back. The payout for this race is bigger than anything you've taken on before, the kind of money that could keep you steady for months. But it's not just about the cash. It's the thrill, the proof that you can run with the best.

"I'll be fine," you say. "I know what I'm doing."

Ellie exhales sharply, shaking her head. "Yeah, that's what they all say. Right before they end up in a ditch."

You smirk. "Didn't know you cared so much."

Ellie scoffs, shoving at your shoulder with enough force to make you stumble. "Shut the fuck up. I care about my work, and I just spent weeks making sure your car doesn't explode the second you push it past 100."

"Uh-huh." You watch her, taking in the way her fingers twitch at her sides, the way her jaw clenches just a little too tight. She's pissed, yeah, but there's something else under it—something like worry.

She huffs, hopping off the hood. "You're impossible."

"And you're hot when you're mad," you shoot back, just to see the way she rolls her eyes.

Ellie flips you off as she walks away, but she doesn't argue.

——

The city lights blur past, neon streaks cutting through the darkness. Your grip on the wheel is steady, fingers flexing against the worn leather. The engine hums beneath you, smooth, powerful—Ellie's work, through and through. You can feel it in every shift, every perfect response to your touch.

It starts like every other race. The line-up, the revving engines, the sharp crack of the signal to go. You take off clean, slipping into position, letting muscle memory take over. The world narrows down to asphalt and headlights, to the pulse of adrenaline in your veins.

But halfway through, you feel it.

Something's off.

The car behind you—too close, too deliberate. You know blocking moves, you know how to force an opening, but this? This isn't racing. This is something else.

Then it happens.

A sharp jolt from behind—metal slamming into metal, sending your car skidding sideways. The tires scream against the pavement as you fight for control, hands moving fast, instincts kicking in. You see the guardrail rushing up, see the way they're trying to send you straight into it.

Not happening.

You cut the wheel at the last second, using the momentum to spin out and straighten just before impact. The car shudders but holds. You don't even think before punching the gas, shoving forward with everything you've got.

The finish line is a blur.

You don't even register the cheers at first, only the sharp, exhilarating high of survival, of victory. You won.

But your car? Your car is wrecked.

Smoke curls from under the hood. The side panel is dented in, the alignment's fucked, and you can already hear Ellie's voice in your head, full of exasperation and fury.

And sure enough—

"What the fuck were you thinking?!"

Ellie's storming toward you before you even get out of the car, boots heavy against the pavement. Her hair is a mess, pulled loose from its bun, and her face is flushed with anger. She looks like she ran here, like she couldn't get to you fast enough.

You step out, wincing as pain flares in your ribs. Nothing broken, just bruised. The adrenaline is still riding high, and despite everything, despite the near disaster, you're grinning.

"I told you not to trust those assholes!" Ellie's voice is sharp, but her hands are shaking when she reaches for you. Not the car—you.

"I won," you say, like that makes it better.

Ellie stares at you, eyes burning. Then, suddenly, she shoves you. Hard.

"You could've gotten killed, dumbass." Her voice cracks, just slightly. That's what does it.

Your grin fades. She's scared.

Her hands hover at your sides, like she wants to check you over but doesn't know where to start.

"Ellie—"

"Shut up." She exhales harshly, rubbing a hand over her face. When she looks at you again, her jaw is set, but there's something vulnerable in her expression. Something raw.

You reach out, catching her wrist before she can pull away.

"You care, don't you?"

Ellie scoffs, but she doesn't move. Doesn't yank her hand back, doesn't look away.

"You're a pain in my ass," she mutters.

You squeeze her wrist gently, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin. "That's not a no."

Ellie swallows hard. Then, quietly—almost too quiet to hear—

"Yeah. I care."

The words settle between you, heavier than the weight of the race, heavier than anything else.

Ellie shakes her head, exhaling. Then, finally, she does what she's been itching to do—her hands move, checking you over, tracing along your arm, your ribs, making sure you're still in one piece.

Her fingers linger.

You don't stop her.

The wrecked car, the sabotage, the near-disaster—it all fades for a moment. It's just Ellie, frustrated, furious, and more worried than she'll ever admit.

And you, alive, grinning, and feeling something even riskier than the race itself.

———

The garage door rattles shut behind you, sealing in the thick scent of oil, rubber, and something distinctly Ellie—warm skin, faded cologne, the sharp tang of grease. The place is dimly lit, the overhead fluorescents casting long shadows, flickering slightly like they can feel the tension hanging in the air.

Ellie is already pacing. Still pissed.

Actually, pissed doesn't even begin to cover it.

"You are such a fucking dumbass," she snaps, voice sharp enough to cut through the thick air. Her hands are on her hips, fingers flexing like she's trying to resist the urge to throw something. Maybe a wrench. Maybe at your head.

She's pissed. But goddamn, she looks good.

Her white band tee is draped over the workbench, discarded in favor of a black sports bra. It clings to her, sweat-dampened from the heat of the shop, highlighting the toned lines of her stomach and the slight curve of her chest. Her arms—lean, wiry, strong—are still smudged with grease, her hands flexing as she talks, fingers twitching like she's desperate to take something apart just to burn off frustration.

You should be paying attention.

You should be apologizing.

Instead, your gaze drops—just for a second—watching the way her small swells sit perfectly in that sports bra, the subtle way they move when she breathes, the way sweat beads lightly on her collarbone.

"...Are you even fucking listening to me?"

Your head snaps back up immediately. "What?"

Ellie's staring at you now, arms crossed over her chest—which, unfortunately, just makes your problem worse.

She narrows her eyes. "Unbelievable."

You swallow hard, fighting the heat creeping up the back of your neck. "I—uh—what were you saying?"

Ellie scoffs, dragging a hand down her face. Her biceps flex when she does it, lean muscle shifting under grease-streaked skin, and you're absolutely going to hell.

"You almost fucking died," she says, voice lower now, frustration simmering into something quieter, something tighter. "You get that, right? Like, actually died."

You should say something. Should acknowledge the way her voice wavers, the way her fingers twitch at her sides like she wants to hit you or shake you or maybe just grab you and never let go.

But all you can think about is the way a drop of sweat rolls from her throat, down her sternum, disappearing beneath the band of her sports bra.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Ellie catches the way your eyes flicker downward again. Her brows furrow. Then, slowly, something shifts.

"...You're not even fucking listening," she realizes, voice edged with disbelief.

"I am," you lie.

Her gaze drops slightly, just a fraction, then flicks back up.

Ellie takes a step forward.

You don't move.

Her lips part, just slightly, and for a split second, you think she's going to call you out, absolutely tear you apart for checking her out while she's in the middle of being mad at you.

Instead, she tilts her head, voice dropping into something smoother. Something slower.

"...My face is up here, ma'am."

You blink.

Ellie's smirking now—just barely. Just enough to make your stomach flip. Still mad, but now she knows exactly what's going through your head.

You clear your throat, forcing your gaze back up. She doesn't make it easy.

Her green eyes flicker with something dangerous. Not anger. Not entirely.

"I'm still pissed at you," she says, quieter now.

You nod. "I know."

Ellie's arms drop from her chest, hands settling on her hips instead. "And you still need to make this up to me."

You inhale sharply, nodding again. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want."

That smirk deepens—just a little. Just enough to make your pulse jump.

"I'll hold you to that," Ellie murmurs.

And fuck.

You're so screwed.

——-

Ellie's been working on your car for hours, refusing to let anyone else even touch it. Her focus has never been more intense, not even during the times when she's been elbow-deep in engine parts or tuning something just right. Tonight, though, it feels different. More personal. You can't put your finger on it, but something's shifted in the way she's working.

You can't help but feel like it's your fault.

She's already told you, in every sharp and frustrated word she's muttered under her breath, that you're reckless. That you take risks without thinking. That you don't even care if you break the damn car—or worse, break yourself. But here she is, sweat-streaked and tired, still refusing to stop. She's determined to get it just right, to make sure everything's in perfect condition before you hit the streets again.

You watch her for a moment before stepping closer to the car. Her back is to you as she tightens a bolt beneath the hood, the faint glow from the overhead light making the edges of her shoulders and back stand out in sharp relief. Her movements are fluid but strained, the exhaustion in her posture showing despite her efforts to stay focused. Her black sports bra is soaked through with sweat, and her skin glistens under the shop's lights, the grease staining her arms and neck a stark contrast to the softness of her skin.

The sight of her, all intensity and grit, makes your chest tighten in a way you can't explain.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words are stuck. You don't know how to phrase it, how to ask for her forgiveness or make her understand just how much you appreciate the fact that she's here, fixing your car even when she has every right to just walk away.

She doesn't turn to look at you, but her voice cuts through the silence. "You're gonna fuck up again, you know that?"

You move around the hood of the car, leaning against the metal, just close enough that you can see the tiredness in her eyes. The deep lines of exhaustion around her eyes. "I don't plan on it."

Ellie scoffs, wiping a hand over her forehead, smearing more grease across her skin. "Yeah, well, your plans suck."

You lean a little closer. "You could always stop me."

She doesn't respond immediately. She's busy twisting a wrench, her brow furrowed in concentration, biting her bottom lip as she works. But when she speaks again, her voice is quieter, lower—like it's something she's only willing to admit to herself, and now to you.

"I can't fix you if you crash," she says softly, her gaze not meeting yours as she sets the wrench down, rubbing her hands against her jeans in frustration. The words hang between you, and for the first time tonight, the weight of what she's saying really hits you. It's not just the car she's worried about. It's you.

You swallow hard. It feels like a punch to the gut, but it's one you didn't realize you needed. You think about what she's said, how much it means, how much you've taken for granted her presence in your life. "Then keep me from crashing."

There's a moment of stillness, the only sound the soft hum of the lights and the faint clink of metal on metal. Ellie's eyes lift to meet yours, her face a mix of something unreadable—anger, concern, frustration, maybe even something deeper. She doesn't look away, and for a long second, you just stare at her. Neither of you says anything.

You step forward, slowly, careful to respect the invisible boundary that's always existed between you. Your hand lifts, fingers brushing gently against her cheek, the touch so soft it feels almost too intimate for the shop. But Ellie doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into it, just slightly, her breath a little sharper.

Her skin is warm, the grease staining her face still doesn't detract from the softness of her cheek beneath your fingertips. You feel the tension in her, in her entire body, and something in your chest pulls tighter. You want to say something—anything—that will make this moment feel real.

But you don't need to. She beats you to it.

Without warning, her lips crash into yours. It's sudden, but not surprising. The force of it makes your heart stop for a beat, and then it kicks into overdrive. You taste spearmint gum, gasoline, and something deeper. Something that feels like desperation and heat. Her lips are soft, but there's a fierceness in her kiss, an urgency that matches the rapid beat of your heart. The tension that's been building for so long between the two of you finally explodes, and all you can think about is how the hell you haven't kissed her before now.

Your hands find their way to her back, pulling her closer, the warmth of her body pressing into yours. You can feel the way her breath hitches against your mouth as you deepen the kiss, as if she's not quite sure if she should pull away or just let go. But she doesn't pull back. She's there, with you, kissing you like there's no tomorrow, and you let her.

Your fingers dig into the small of her back, feeling the smooth curve of her spine under her sports bra. The heat of her body makes everything around you blur. Ellie's breath is coming faster now, and you can feel the tension in her muscles, the subtle tremor in her hands as she cups your face, like she's trying to ground herself. You can't tell if it's from the kiss or from the exhaustion in her body. Maybe it's both.

The kiss slows, and Ellie pulls back, her lips still just inches from yours, her breath ragged. She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling quickly, her eyes glassy and intense. She doesn't say anything for a long moment, just looks at you like she's seeing you for the first time. Then, in a voice softer than you've ever heard her use, she says, "Don't make me worry about you."

It's almost a plea. Something fragile. Something human. And you feel it deep in your chest.

You press your forehead against hers, closing your eyes for a moment. "I won't."

Ellie's hand slides from your face to the back of your neck, her fingers threading into your hair, pulling you back down to her lips again. This time, it's gentler, softer, more deliberate. You can feel the warmth of her hands, the way she's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping her grounded.

You kiss her back, slower this time, with more meaning. More tenderness.

The garage feels small now, even though the space is vast. The soft light overhead hums, flickering as you pull away from Ellie's lips. There's a moment of lingering, of breathing her in, both of you still caught in the tension of the kiss, the rush of adrenaline and desire flooding you like it's the only thing that matters right now. Her hands rest on your chest, fingers flexing against your shirt, and her breath is hot and quick against your skin.

You glance at the car—a mess of metal and grease, the body still a little dented from the race earlier, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters as much as the girl in front of you. You pull back slightly, catching her gaze, and something in her expression shifts—softens, just for a moment.

"Let's go," you mutter, the words thick in your throat, the heat between you almost unbearable now.

She quirks a brow, clearly amused by the sudden urgency. "Where?"

You can't help but smile, but there's a wickedness behind it now, the kind that only Ellie could bring out of you. "To the backseat."

Her eyes narrow, the playful glint there, but she doesn't fight it. She grabs her jacket off the workbench, then turns back to you with a look that holds both challenge and something softer, something that feels real and vulnerable. "You sure the car's up for it?" she asks, her voice low and teasing. "Seems like it's in worse shape than you are."

You flash her a grin, moving toward the car. "It'll hold up. But I'm not sure you can, Red." You tap the roof of the car, your heart pounding harder now, both the adrenaline of the race and the desire to see where this moment leads.

Ellie huffs in mock exasperation, shaking her head as she follows you toward the passenger door. Her eyes flick to the backseat as she slides inside, and she makes a show of eyeing the cramped space before slumping against the worn leather. "This is ridiculous."

"Not if you make it fun." You shut the door behind you, your fingers shaking slightly as you walk around to the other side of the car. But as soon as you slide in, the atmosphere shifts. Ellie's eyes don't leave you for a second, the intensity of her gaze sending a shiver down your spine.

You don't waste time. Not anymore.

You're already leaning across the seat, your hands on her shoulders, guiding her back until she's laying against the cushions. Ellie's eyes flicker with something between anticipation and amusement, but she lets you take control, lets you kiss her again, this time without hesitation.

The kiss is deeper this time. Her lips part easily for you, and you move closer, your body pressing into hers. Her hands find their way to the back of your neck, pulling you in, urging you to be closer, to make her feel everything. Your fingers are tangled in her hair, and you can feel the heat of her skin through the thin layer of her sports bra as you kiss her harder, deeper, like you're both trying to escape whatever exists outside of this moment.

Ellie's breath catches as you kiss her neck, trailing your lips down to the curve of her shoulder, tasting the salt of her skin. She's breathless, her hands roaming to your chest, tugging at your shirt in frustration, like she wants more, needs more.

"Damn, you're a tease," she mutters between breaths, though there's no real anger in her voice—just the kind of raw desire that's infectious. You smile against her skin, trailing your lips lower, hands working at the button of your jeans, just trying to take this to the next level, to see where the fire between the two of you can burn.

She gasps softly as you kiss her again, hands sliding down your chest to find your waistband. You feel the heat of her fingers on your skin, the way she moves with more urgency now, like the car isn't the only thing that's broken between you. It's her, too. She's been holding back all night, hiding beneath her sarcastic remarks and tough demeanor, but now, there's nothing left to hide behind.

You tug her closer, your lips never leaving hers, as she fits perfectly against you, the smell of grease and sweat still on her skin, the scent of spearmint gum lingering in your senses. You push her hair back from her face, brushing it behind her ear, watching her eyes flutter closed in the moment, her lips parted slightly as she exhales.

There's something about her like this—vulnerable, open, real—that takes your breath away.

"Ellie..." you whisper, your voice rougher now, but she stops you with a finger on your lips, a teasing smile on her face.

"Don't talk." Her voice is thick with desire, her hand moving lower to trace the outline of your chest, feeling the beat of your heart beneath her fingers. "Just kiss me."

You don't need to be told twice.

Your lips find hers again, the urgency mounting as you shift your weight, pressing her down into the seat. She groans softly against your lips, the sound driving you insane, and you pull her closer, hands tracing the contours of her body, feeling the heat radiating from her, the tremors in her hands as she tries to keep control. You've never seen her like this—so lost, so caught up in something more than just the moment.

You kiss her deeper, harder now, with everything you have, because you know, in this moment, you can't let go. You can't push her away. Ellie's the kind of girl who makes you lose yourself in the chaos of it all.

And when she pulls back, gasping for air, her hands in your hair, you can see it. The change in her eyes—the vulnerability they hold.

"You've got me wrapped around your finger," she admits quietly, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

You smile, brushing your thumb along her cheek, your heart racing as you look at her. "Yeah, I think I do."

Your hands slide up her sides, pushing the sports bra up and over her head, and then she's bare from the waist up, her small breasts on full display. Her skin is lightly tanned, with a few faint scars here and there—reminders of a lifetime of hard work. Her nipples are already hard, a soft rosy pink that darkens as you run your fingers over them.

"Oh..," she breathes, her head falling back against the seat as you lean down, taking one nipple into your mouth. She's sensitive—you can tell by the way she twitches, the way her hands grip your shoulders like she's trying to hold on. You flick your tongue over the bud, and she lets out a low moan, her hips rolling against yours.

"You like that?" you murmur against her skin, and she huffs out a laugh, even as her breath hitches.

"Shut up," she repeats, but there's no bite to it. Her hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, and you take that as permission to keep going. Your mouth moves to her other nipple, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and she lets out a whimper that goes straight to your core.

Her hands are fumbling with the button of her jeans now, her movements clumsy with need. "Help me," she mutters, and you don't need to be told twice. You slide her jeans down her thighs, leaving her in just her boxers, and the sight of her like this—flushed, breathless, and completely exposed—makes your mouth water.

You kneel in front of her, your hands sliding up her thighs, and she watches you with wide eyes as you hook your fingers in the waistband of her boxers, pulling them down to her knees. Her pussy is right there—petite and neat, just like the rest of her. Her outer lips are soft, slightly darker than the rest of her skin, and you can see the faint glisten of arousal already.

"God, Ellie," you breathe, and her cheeks flush even darker. "You're so wet."

"Shut up," she mutters again, but her breath catches as you slide a finger along her slit, feeling how slick she is. Her clit is already swollen, and when you press down gently, she lets out a strangled moan, her hips jerking forward.

You don't wait any longer. You lean in, your tongue flicking over her clit, and she swears under her breath, her hands tangling in your hair. "Fuck, yes," she gasps, her thighs trembling around your shoulders as you lick her in slow, deliberate strokes.

You can feel her pulse beneath your tongue, the way her body tenses with every touch, and you know she's close. So, you slide a finger inside her, and fuck, she's tight—warm and soft and so, so wet. Her walls grip your finger like she never wants to let go, and when you curl it just right, she lets out a noise that's half-moan, half-sob.

"Please," she gasps, her hips rocking against your hand. "Please, don't stop."

You don't. You keep going, your tongue and fingers working in perfect sync, until she's shaking, her thighs clamping around your head as she comes with a cry that echoes through the car.

Her body sags against the seats, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. "Holy shit," she mutters, her voice rough, and you can't help but smirk as you stand up, your hands resting on her hips.

"you're so easy to make cu-," you tease, and she huffs out a laugh, swatting at your arm.

"Shut up," she interrupts, but there's no real heat behind it. Her hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and when she kisses you again, it's softer this time, more tender.

——-

It's a strange thing, becoming official with Ellie. It feels like there should be some big shift, some monumental moment where everything changes, but nothing really does. You're still you, she's still her, and the bickering and teasing that defined your dynamic before continues as it always has.

Except now, it's different. There's a quiet understanding between the two of you, a kind of soft intimacy that hangs in the air every time she grabs your hand or flashes that mischievous grin before dragging you into yet another playful argument. You still argue over the dumbest shit—like whether you're actually good at parallel parking or if you're "absolutely ruining the car's suspension with every sharp turn"—but now there's a deeper undercurrent to it. It's comfortable, easy. It's you and Ellie, in a world where nothing really changes, except maybe for the fact that now you get to kiss her whenever you want.

And you do. A lot.

One of those days, you find yourself in your car again, heading down a familiar stretch of road. Ellie's with you—of course she is. She's always there, usually sitting next to you with that trademark half-smile on her lips, like she knows something you don't. Her hands are resting casually in her lap, still smelling faintly of grease from working on cars all day, her flannel sleeves pushed up to her elbows. It's a simple look, but it suits her—rough around the edges, but effortlessly cool.

You make a sharp turn, your tires screeching slightly as the car swerves, and Ellie's hand shoots out instinctively, grabbing the door handle with a grip that's nearly white-knuckled.

"Jesus Christ, you trying to kill us?" she snaps, but there's a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She leans back against the seat, half-amused, half-annoyed as she watches you with narrowed eyes.

"You're always so dramatic," you say, grinning, your hands steady on the wheel. "It wasn't that bad."

"It's always 'not that bad' until we end up in a ditch somewhere, your blood on my hands."

You laugh, the sound of it filling the car, and despite the fact that she's still gripping the door handle like she's holding on for dear life, you can't help but enjoy the playful exchange. It's part of who you are now—the two of you together. The banter, the teasing, the way she'll roll her eyes at you but then steal a quick kiss when she thinks you're not paying attention.

"Admit it," you say, glancing at her for a second, "you like it when I drive fast."

Her lips curl into that familiar, knowing grin. "I like to live dangerously, but I also like not dying, so pick a lane, yeah?"

You chuckle, swerving slightly to avoid a pothole, and she groans, but this time, she's not as frantic in her reaction. She's used to you by now—used to the way you drive with that reckless abandon, like the world is a racetrack and the rules don't apply to you. Ellie knows you'll push the car until it can't take any more, but that's part of the thrill, isn't it? She might complain, she might grab the door handle and give you shit for your reckless driving, but deep down, you know she's not really scared.

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