#under the series are my own short summaries so i know what are they about 😅😅😅

[formula-ghost]

I know who you are, you'll be fine // FC43 x Alpine social media manager!reader

I know who you are series // Chapter 1

SUMMARY: Becoming Franco Colapinto’s social media manager could be the end of your career, or the beginning of the love story you never thought you’d have. 

WARNINGS: Not 100% lore accurate (ignore the sim video that Franco did for Australia, also let’s pretend Franco was in Monza during the Japanese GP, etc.); fuckboy Franco, SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI (Fingering and loss of virginity, protected PIV), YN is a Lewis Hamilton hater for the plot. Title from At The Beach In Every Life by Gigi Perez!

WORD COUNT: 9.9k

“Franco Colapinto.”

“...what about him?”

“He’s your newest client.”

“But he’s a reserve driver.”

“Exactly. He has plenty of time for content. He’s the perfect client, really.”

You know right then and there what this was about. Franco Colapinto was your punishment. 

Your boss looked away, as if she knew that you saw right through her. You balled your hands up over the fabric of your skirt, gently tensing and releasing the curves of your palm as a defense mechanism. You were a professional. You could do this. 

“If this is about Lewis…”

“You know it’s about Lewis, YN,” your boss replied, a tired tone in her voice. “It was my fault for giving you too much. I set the expectations too high.”

“I can do it!” you said, your voice a bit too insistent, eager yet desperate. “I have so many ideas for the move to Ferrari—”

“And he’s not going to do them. He has made that abundantly clear. Look, I’m sorry YN, but it is what it is.”

“I don’t think this is fair.”

“It’s not. I put too much on you, expected things that you couldn’t deliver, though no fault of your own. But it’s out of my hands.”

“Yet I’m the one being punished for it?”

“A reserve driver isn’t a punishment, YN. Franco is young, charismatic, and social media audiences love him.”

“He’s a PR nightmare,” you muttered under your breath.

“Well, then good thing you’re not his PR manager,” she responded, her eyebrows raised in a cautionary glance. The conversation was all but done. “Look, just try to make the best of it. He’s the perfect guinea pig, he’ll do whatever we ask him to. Just get some good content and we can review a potential switch at the end of the season. Okay?”

You agreed, though not without a frustration that you held close to your chest, pushing it down for the sake of professionalism. 

This time last year you had been on top of the moon; after a successful multi-year social media campaign with McLaren, your boss had given you a prestigious challenge of a client: Lewis Hamilton. 

Everyone knew he was…difficult, to say the least. A legend of the sport, of course, but a thorn in the side of social media managers across the paddock. 

He HATED his media requirements. Every year he negotiated to get as little media time as possible. His managers quit left and right. No one, truly no one, could get that man to cooperate with the social media team.

That was, he became your client. Or at least, you thought. 

But after months of the merciless push and pull, promises made and abandoned, avoiding emails and tracking him down in the paddock, you had gotten little out of him, and what did come of it was just a few videos that completely flopped. The people could tell he didn’t want to do it. 

For the first time in your short but brilliant career, you had failed. 

The result? Getting demoted to the social media manager of a reserve driver. Someone who never got posted, never made the grid, and was hardly ever even at the paddock. A waste of your time and his, really. 

Who did your boss think she was, acting like this wasn’t a slap in the face? You’d spend the next year following around a rookie, a wannabe, creating content that no one wanted to see and would never get posted anyway. Your career was effectively ruined. You weren’t sure who to be angrier at. 

But also, you weren’t sure whether you had the right to be angry at all. 

Back home, the homework began. Who was Franco Colapinto?

Of course, you had seen him around the paddock in his time at Williams. He was…charming. Talkative. A social media manager’s dream…if he was a full-time driver. 

You clicked through articles, interviews, instagram pages—he was a handful.

It was with this mentality that you walked into the filming studio, where they were making the intro for the new season. It was chaos; employees running every which way, drivers getting made up, producers tweaking the sun-hot lights against the green screen.

But Franco was nowhere to be found. Of course he wasn’t.

You sighed, already annoyed with your new client, who you hadn’t even met yet. This wasn’t his fault—it was your failure which had led to all of this. But you couldn’t help your annoyance, especially when you walked past Lewis in the hallway, clad in his new, bright, Ferrari red race suit. He trudged past you without giving you so much of a second glance.

Did he know that he had ruined your professional life? Did he understand how deeply and irrevocably he had screwed you over?

It’s not that deep, you said to yourself. Let go of it. Make the best of all this. 

You walked back into the main studio, where a few drivers were getting the finishing touches of hair and makeup ready before the filming began.

“Hey,” your coworker called to you, and you ran to the familiar voice. “YN, you’re gonna love this new camera. Come check it out!”

He handed you the camera, and you zeroed in as he walked you through the settings. He was right, it was spectacular—so spectacular that you filtered out everything going on around you. 

You jumped when a face came into view.

“Hola.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you scared me!” you laughed, as you smoothed down your shirt in nervousness, handing the camera back to your coworker, who also laughed at your expense. “I didn’t even see you come up. You’re Franco, right?”

Asking was just a formality. You knew his face, the sound of his voice, everything that there was to know already.

He nodded, and you continued, “Oh, great, I was looking for you. I’m YN, your new social media manager for Alpine.”

“Oh, I know you,” he said. “You don’t remember me? We met last season.”

You must have made a quizzical expression, because he continued, “In the paddock, I asked about Lewis?”

Oh, yeah, you did remember. 

You sighed, angrily turning off your phone. He was supposed to be here 30 minutes ago to film a tiktok. A task that would take him no more than 15 minutes… blown off. Texts unanswered. You were at your wits end. 

A tap on your shoulder. 

Behind you, the newest paddock sensation, a young Argentine buzzing with publicity. 

“Franco,” he said, extending his hand to shake. “You’re waiting for Lewis, right? I saw you in the Mercedes garage earlier.”

“Well,” you said, sarcastically laughing to yourself, “I was. Doesn’t seem like he’s going to make it, though.”

“Ah,” Franco responded. “I was going to ask you to introduce us.”

The laugh that came out then was genuine. 

“What?” Franco asked. “I’m serious.” By the look on his face, you could see his honesty. 

“Well, hopefully you’ll have more luck reaching him than I do.” The comment was tame, in all respects, but you still felt that twinge of unprofessionalism that scared you. You could never be too open or honest in the paddock. You never knew who was listening, what would get back to people…especially with someone as high-profile as Lewis. 

“He’s…unreliable?”

“He’s a busy man.” A perfect save. “Wish I could be of more help. But, hey, good luck out there today.”

“Wishing someone on an opposing team good luck?”

“I never claimed to be a Mercedes fan. They just sign my checks.”

“So, can I claim you as a Colapinto fan?” he said, a sly grin stretching across his face. You had heard of his playful banter before. You hadn’t heard how charming he was. 

“I’m just… a racing fan.”

“No wonder you’re with Lewis, then.” 

“Speaking of, I should go find him. But really, good luck,” you said, sending him a smile before you had to scurry back to the garage to find Lewis and give him a useless talking to. All in a day’s work, you supposed. 

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” you said, the memory coming back to you. “You did end up meeting him, right?.”

“I did, no thanks to you,” he said, his voice light and playful. He was clearly more excited than you. 

“Well, next best thing, you stole his social media manager. Now I’m your problem.” Hopefully he didn’t teach you the art of evasion, you thought. 

“Well, it means Lewis and I are basically teammates then, no?” Franco said, laughing. The interaction was cut short by your coworker, one of the directors, calling him over to finally get to work. 

So you assumed your place behind the cameras, getting as much behind the scenes content as you could, making yourself invisible. It’s what you were best at: being in the background, watching, observing, seeing the stories and details that others didn’t. Tiktok dances and challenge videos were fun, but the real job? You needed an eye for it. You needed to see what others overlooked.

The day flew past as your camera’s memory filled up with photos and videos of Franco. You studied them later that night, in the quiet loneliness of your hotel room, clicking through all the content you had gotten.

You zoomed in on the small details of his face: the way the light hit his curls, the reflection of his long lashes as they glanced right into the camera: it was good. As you memorized the details of his face, you couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope grow in your stomach. 

Maybe this wasn’t the death of your career after all. And hell, spending a year with good company couldn’t hurt.

He’s not too hard on the eyes, either. The thought left just as quick as it had arrived, but even though you were alone, a blush crept up into your face. 

Well…were you wrong? He was young, fit, charming, and God, how handsome. 

You rolled your own eyes, unamused with the back and forth in your brain. You were a professional, not a fan. You were better than this. Besides, you weren’t exactly his type. 

“I’m not anyone’s type,” you said, with a snarky laugh on your lips, as you told the whole situation to Kika over coffee. 

You had grown close to Pierre’s girlfriend in your short time at Alpine, though when you looked across the table, you saw someone the exact opposite of you. Beautiful, elegant, successful…and here you were, on a glorified babysitting assignment. 

“Don’t say that,” she responded. “Self-deprecation isn’t attractive.”

“It’s not self-deprecation. It’s just the truth. I mean, half the paddock just thinks social media personnel are annoying, and anyone outside the paddock just matches with me to see if I can introduce them to drivers.”

“Introduce them to Franco, then. He’ll talk their ears off until they’re begging him to be quiet” Kika laughed. 

Truthfully, Franco was talkative. That was one of his best qualities. 

“I bet he doesn’t have any problem getting matches,” you muttered, a twinge of jealousy in your voice. Franco was just…alluring, in a way not many others were. You had grown to know and love his playfulness, his sense of humor, and his genuine smile. He made work fun again.

“You’d be surprised,” Kika said, raising her eyebrows.

“What?”

“I’ve heard he’s on Raya,” she said, swirling her spoon on her mug. “But he’s single. You’d be cute together.”

You couldn’t help the laughter that followed, so thick and dripping with self-loathing that it choked you.

Kika looked up from her cup. “It wasn’t that funny. I’m serious.”

“Me. And Franco Colapinto. Kika, be so for real!”

“What? You wouldn’t go for it?”

“He’s my client! Besides, he’s a Formula 1 driver and I’m…his social media manager. He dates models, I… don’t date anyone.”

“So you don’t like it when he flirts with you?”

“He flirts with everyone. Hell, he flirted with you,” you snorted. 

“He is charming,” she said, a small smile coming to her lips. “You’re right, it’d never work. You’re too professional, and he’s a nightmare. But it would be cute.”

You rolled your eyes as you both got up to make your way back to the paddock for the day. You and Franco had come to the first race in Australia, and you’d been like his shadow, tethered close to him, always with a camera in hand to capture candid moments. It didn’t matter, though. All the focus was on Jack Doohan and Lewis Hamilton. They even told Franco to avoid the media. 

It had given you quite a bit of time to get to know him, though. 

“So, they really just have you following me around, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his mate. 

“Well, someone has to keep you in line.”

“No, I’m good,” he said, that familiar toothy grin coming back in full force. “I’ve been a good boy.” 

You blushed, involuntarily, though otherwise keeping your outward composure. “I was on social media last year. That’s absolutely not true.”

“But last year doesn’t count, no? I didn’t have a pretty personal assistant following me around keeping me in check last year.”

“Well, wherever she’s at, she needs to be paid more for putting up with your antics,” you chuckled. 

“I haven’t really been that bad, have I?” he said, cocking his head to the side in genuine curiosity.

“No,” you said, taking a sip from your water bottle. “You’ve been a perfect client, actually.”

“Then why are you so grumpy?”

You furrowed your brow. Perhaps you hadn’t been hiding it all as well as you thought. 

“It’s got nothing to do with you. Just…personal stuff.”

“What, is there a man I need to speak to?” You laughed, recalling your conversation with Kika earlier. 

“God, no, I’m single. It’s just…” You debated telling him. Franco, of all people, would understand frustration over employment contracts. He buzzed with the typical anticipation of a reserve driver, hoping and praying for a chance on the track again. You could tell all this sitting around and avoiding the media was doing him in.

But you didn’t want to add more to his plate. After all, none of this was his fault. You sighed, continuing, “You know, behind the scenes F1 stuff. Nothing you have to worry about.”

“Behind the scenes? Do I not get security clearance?”

“Not for this, Colapinto.”

“That’s not fair. I was going to give you security clearance to see something really cool.”

“Oh?” you questioned.

He glanced to his left and right, making sure that everyone was far away enough. He learned in towards you, and his eyes met yours, and your heart skipped a beat. 

He whispered, “When we get back to Enstone, I’m going to show you the sim.”

While everyone else went straight from Australia to China, you and Franco took a detour back to Enstone. He kept his word, taking you into the secluded back room where they kept the sim. 

Being the social media manager for a smaller team’s reserve driver had its perks. McLaren and Mercedes would much rather give you a million dollar raise than let you see their sim, let alone film and post it. 

“Wow…” you muttered, as Franco showed you all the settings and special buttons, clearly as excited about it as you were. “Are you sure I’m allowed to see this?” you asked as he slid into the seat.

“Of course,” he said. “Even better, you’re allowed to film it.”

“Just a few laps around virtual Bahrain?” you said. 

“We can do more, if you want.” He pulled at the collar of his race suit. It wasn’t the real deal—that was with the team, being transported to China—but the one for filming purposes, the one that was tighter. You noticed the way it hugged the sharp curves of his body as he settled into the seat, the pink fabric sitting snugly against the round of his thigh, up into his waist and to the slope of his chest, pulled back from his neck so he could breathe easier.

Was he having trouble breathing? You certainly were.

It was moments like these where you couldn’t help but notice his beauty. While he warmed up and completed a few virtual laps, you focused your cameras, zooming in on the twitch of his feet on the pedals, the way his chest rose and fell in careful concentration, and the zooming back and forth of his eyes, fixated on the pixels mere feet from his face. The lights you had set up rested on his lashes, illuminating them in a golden glow. He looked like something otherworldly: soft yet sharp, calm and focused.

He was in his own world when he slipped into that seat. And as always, you watched, you noticed, you saw, from the outside. 

“Hey guys, it’s Franco here…” he began, and his voice faded into the background as your gaze zeroed in on his pixels in your camera screen, this visage of him that wasn’t quite real. 

As your eyes traced every detail of him, you felt within you a deep desire to reach out and touch him. 

No. God, YN, that’s weird, you thought to yourself. 

Still, as he bit his lip and rounded the last digital corner, you couldn’t help that thought creeping up: how warm his skin would be against yours, the soft touch of two bodies meeting, a sensation you’d never felt before. 

“...so that’s a lap in Bahrain, ehm, racing is great here, so hopefully we have another good race this year.”

You were pulled out of your reverie as Franco looked at you. “Good?” he asked. 

“Great. Perfect, actually,” you said, trying not to stutter, feeling like a kid caught in trouble. Please don’t blush, you begged yourself, but you could already feel the warmth in your cheeks that would inevitably become redness. You just hoped he didn’t notice.

“Stay there, though. I wanna get some stills,” you said, adjusting your camera lens. You zoomed in and out, but the lighting from where you were sitting off to the side wasn’t quite right. You got up, biting the inside of your cheek as you adjusted your settings, never letting your eyes leave your lens.

“Can I…get closer?” you asked. “The lighting is weird.”

“Go ahead,” he said, looking back at you. His gaze was…intense. In a way it hadn’t been before. It sent shivers down your spine. 

“Look back at the screen,” you said, and he obeyed, as you closed the gap between the two of you, craning your back to move your camera in between him and the screen. But now you were a shadow, casting the light away from his frame that should have glowed.

“I can’t quite…” you said, muttering to yourself, but he disobeyed your orders, looking at you.

“Here,” he said, pushing back the steering wheel.  “Just climb over me.”

That was a horrible idea. The worst idea you had ever heard. But the reflection of the screen light on his face against the dark background—he looked ethereal. You had to capture it.

So you swung one leg over his, his feet still firmly resting on the pedals, as you hovered to deny yourself the touch that you so unprofessionally felt yourself longing for.

Only inches from your face, he stared down the lens of your camera, his gaze powerful enough to send shivers down your spine, leaving little gasps choked in your throat.

You clicked the camera again and again. You had plenty of pictures. You just didn’t want to move. 

Fate had other plans. You heard the snap only second before you felt it shoot into your back—the steering wheel, once pushed back, had sprung forward into you with a vengeance, throwing you off balance, and you fell into Franco, cushioning your fall by landing your palms against his chest.

You dropped your camera, a true gasp falling from your mouth, as you heard the screen crack. You didn’t look at its shattered remains on the floor, though. All you could see was the Argentine underneath you, the deep brown pools of his eyes and his perfectly rounded curls, mere centimeters from you now.

You were still for a beat too long. But you didn’t miss when his eyes quickly darted away from yours and down to your lips. 

“I—I am so sorry, YN,” he said. “Are you…gonna get the camera, or…?”

You immediately moved to get up, scrambling to create as much space between you and Franco as possible. You winced as you saw the shattered glass of your camera screen littering the floor.

“I could have sworn I heard the wheel click into place. I’m so sorry YN, here, let me help.”

You ignored him, but still he leaned down next to you, his race suit sinfully tight against the curves of his body you had been so close to just seconds ago.

“I’m fine, it’s just—”

“Shit, you’re bleeding.”

In the chaos, some glass had cut into your hand. He grabbed your wrist, and you looked up, locking eyes again with him. Your face must have been redder than a Ferrari.

“Just leave it. Let’s get you bandaged up, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, letting him lead you away from the sim room, relishing the touch of his skin against yours, even as your blood ran between it.

“No way!” Kika said, swirling her coffee with a familiar flick of the wrist.

“And I was bleeding,” you said, holding up your hand, now bandaged from the snafu only a few days prior. “But I was so nervous he had to grab my hand, and we locked eyes and it was AWFUL!”

“Really?” she said, a smirk on her face.

“Really. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“Then why are you smiling right now?”

“I’m not,” you said, painting your face in an intentional frown.

“Yes, you were. Oh, you all would be so adorable!”

You rolled your eyes. “I can never face him again. Not after I…accidently straddled him.” You laughed sarcastically, though a flume of anxiety rose in you. You would have to face him again in…well, not even an hour. 

And when that time came far too soon, the awkwardness in the air was palpable.

“So…” he droned on, looking away from you, “Another weekend of avoiding the press?”

You closed your laptop. “Let’s go talk to some fans.”

“Good idea.”

If only Franco had known the weight of your suggestion. You had hated Mercedes fans—they made demands you couldn’t fulfill, and blamed you when their darling driver refused to make any content. But Franco fans were sweet, and as devoted as any fan base could be. 

Still, as you stood in the background and watched a group of Chinese fans—all women—coo at him, you felt a twinge of something deep in your chest you couldn’t quite name. 

You saw them giggle and bat their eyelashes as he effortlessly wooed them, leaning up against the nearest wall, giving them sly grins and the occasional wink that would send their hearts racing. He even blushed when they collectively cooed at him when he tried on a panda headband; an adorable moment to catch on camera, but one that, deep down, disgusted you.

Were you…jealous?

No. You weren’t a fan. Of the sport, maybe. But Franco? He was a smooth-talker. A player. Eye candy. 

You sighed as you packed up your camera bag—a replacement having quickly been given to you by Alpine—as the man in question made his way over to you.

“What’s got you in a bad mood?”

“Nothing,” you answered, not even bothering to look up at him.

“I can tell something’s bothering you. Is it your hand? Is it hurting?”

“A little bit,” you said, hoping your half-lie would give you an out. “Can’t believe my own client would do this to me.”

“Aw, do you want me to kiss it better?” he joked, and you laughed. 

“Get back to the garage, Colapinto,” you answered, rolling your eyes. 

“Come with me to Monza,” he said, looking at you over the brim of his mate cup, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re seriously asking me this.”

“Yes. It’s the least I can do to make it up to you. For breaking your camera.”

“So…to make up for the fact that you broke my work camera, you’re going to ask me to do more work?”

“It wouldn’t be work. Unless you wanted it to be. It’d be like a… behind the scenes pass. I already cleared it with Flavio.”

Truthfully, you had been dreading the days leading up to Franco’s long stint away from the track. He had to go test older cars in Monza, and you’d be staying back in Enstone. 

Well, that’s what you had thought. Apparently, Franco had other plans.

“Don’t you think that’s a little…weird?” you asked. “I mean, you’re my client.”

“It doesn’t have to be weird if you don’t make it weird. You’re just working from home.”

“Working from home, in a hotel in Italy.”

“You can say no if you want,” he said. “But I know you won’t. You’d miss my beautiful face too much.”

Your day was full of his oh so beautiful face, though. You saw him endlessly while working—whether his real form of his digital visage—and his smile haunted you even when you went back to your lonely hotel room every night, trying to find rest in the quiet stillness. You had abandoned your dating apps. You had stopped texting back your friends. 

You playfully rolled your eyes, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of realizing just how correct he was.

“C’mon,” he said, nudging you in the side with his elbow, and you sharply inhaled at the contact. “We can get real wine and pasta.”

“You can’t even eat pasta. Or drink.”

“Just go with the bit,” he said, in mock annoyance at your stubbornness. “I’m trying to do you a service here. I know you’d get so lonely without me here.”

Again, he was too right. Working with McLaren had been enjoyable, but corporately stiff. And working with Lewis had been, well, awful. But Franco? He was quickly becoming something of your professional muse. 

You bit your cheek, running through the pros and cons in your head. “You really took this all the way up to Flavio?”

“Yes,” he answered.

But he was your client. A client you were, unfortunately, crushing on. Yes, you had to admit it—even you couldn’t be delusional any longer.

And the thought of it scared you. How close you were to saying yes. Yes, I’ll run away to Italy with you. Take me to your hotel room. 

Where was that stone-faced professional you had always been? Where was your dignity? In the hands of Franco Colapinto, a young, charming race car driver who seemed to be a tad bit too enamoured with you, just as you were with him. 

You couldn’t let your fantasies get ahead of you. This was your job, a job you’d worked far too hard at to just give it up on a whim. But Franco sat before you now, his brown doe eyes looking at you, begging you to come with him.

No one had ever wanted you. 

Romantically, at least. Even friendships had been fleeting, shallow. You compensated with work. People wanted your expertise, your labor; that was enough, you told yourself. 

But no one had ever really wanted you, your presence, your being.

Except, Franco did.

“I…I really can’t,” you said. “I just have too much to do at Enstone.”

Franco didn’t try to joke this time. You saw the subtle shift in the glint of his eyes, a soft disappointment he wouldn’t speak. “No worries,” he said. 

But that night, back alone at your hotel room, you couldn’t sleep, replaying the scene over and over again.

If I go to Monza, I’ll regret it, you said to yourself. It’s crossing a line. He’s a client. Not your boyfriend.

He wants you there, another voice said. He wants you there. 

Enstone didn’t want you. Formula 1 was indifferent. It’d replace you in an instant if you failed to perform—a reality you’d come to know too well. 

Though the hour was late, you grabbed your phone, tapping his name without thinking, your mind blank as the phone rang once before he answered.

“Hello?”

“Does the Monza offer still stand?”

“For you? Of course.”

Against your better judgement, you found yourself in a hotel room in Monza a few days later—not any hotel room. Franco’s hotel room. 

He had proposed that you should watch the Suzuka free practice together that day. It was one of his rare days off during testing, and you could spare an hour or two, so why not?

You hadn’t expected this, though.

Franco, in nothing but grey sweat shorts, stretched across his bed. He patted the empty space next to him, inviting you to come lay next to him.

“Really?” you asked, barely suppressing a nervous laugh.

“What?”

“This is…hardly professional.”

“I’m not on the clock.”

“Well, I am,” you said, carefully sitting down next to him, leaving a deliberate amount of space.

“What, is something bothering you?” he asked. He knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.

You glanced back at him, giving yourself a minute to take in all of him: his defined muscles, perfectly tanned skin, even the scar that ran across his collarbone. You didn’t have it in you to say anything.

“Not at all,” you answered. You looked away and a sense of shame fell over you.

He was your client. And here he was, practically naked in front of you, and you didn’t have the courage to say a word about it. Because he wanted you next to him. 

It all felt so…pathetic. So even though you kicked off your shoes and stretched out next to Franco, you didn’t truly relax. He rested his arm against the headboard behind you, and it all felt too intimate. Wrong. 

You just prayed for the ending of free practice, keeping your eyes glued to the screen to avoid his gaze that kept lingering when it shot you sideward glances. 

When Sky Sports went to commercial, Franco got up, stretching and letting out a long sigh. You rolled your eyes. He was insufferable.

“Don’t tell my trainer,” he said, exiting the bedroom and walking into the small kitchenette in the hotel suite, “but I got stuff to make mimosas. You want one?”

“You aren’t supposed to be drinking, Franco” you said, breathing a sigh of relief now that he was out of sight. 

“And that’s why you keep my secrets,” he said from the other side of the wall.

Franco’s phone, on the bed next to you, lit up. A notification from Raya, the tinder of the rich and famous.

You felt sick to your stomach. What were you doing here?

You wanted to leave. But Franco came back into the room and handed you a champagne flute, which you took a modest sip from before setting on the nightstand next to you. Franco assumed his position on the bed, this time just the slightest bit closer, and you felt your breathing stiffen.

“Your phone was going off,” you said.

He grabbed it, careful to face the screen away from you, and began typing something. You crossed your arms and stared back at the TV as free practice resumed.

You watched the car race past, the familiar sound of revving engines calming you, as Franco locked his phone and put it on his own nightstand. You watched him out of your periphery, refusing to budge. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t, frozen in place with anxiety.

“YN…” he said, and you felt his hand reach out and touch your arm.

“Oh, shit!” you said. “Jack just crashed!”

In front of you were pixels of carnage, thousands of dollars in repair, and a damaged reputation.

Franco looked at the screen, grimacing.

“Is he okay?” you asked, to no one in particular. You sat up, focusing even more intently, watching Jack climb out of the car. You breathed a sigh of relief. Even Franco was focusing now. 

“I should probably call Flavio,” he said. “They might need me.”

“This could be your chance,” you said, looking back at him, but your face turned redder than a Ferrari at what you saw.

Franco was…most definitely not focusing on free practice, evident by the outline of his grey sweatpants that showed far too much. 

“And, I, um… I should go call the media team, make sure they’re good to, you know, uh… I’ll see you later, Franco.”

You got up and left without another word. 

After that you were more cautious, more professional. You saw Franco less, anyway. But he didn’t leave your mind.

Another coffee date with Kika, and as always, Franco was the topic of discussion. 

“Did you hear what he said in that podcast that just came out?” she asked.

“No?”

“He’s a fan of sex on the first date.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you snorted. Your mind went back to the Raya notification, the way he tilted his phone away from you. You swallowed back the jealousy.

“I still think you should go for it,” she said, smiling.

“No,” you replied, no smile on your face. “He’s for the streets. He retweeted a random girl’s ass the other day.”

Kika skillfully ignored your comment. “In that podcast, he also was talking about how hard it is in F1 to make genuine connections with people. It reminded me a lot of what you said before, about just wanting someone who wants you for you.”

“Well that’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”

“Sure. I’m just saying, I think you have more in common with Franco than you realize.”

“He’s a nice guy. He’s just…not for me.”

“How so?”

“Kika, he’s my client.”

She paused, her brows furrowing, staring into the last dregs of her tea cup. “I guess you’re right. I just hate to see you so lonely.”

“I’ll live. I mean, I’ve gotten this far.”

“But that’s no way to live. You deserve to be happy with someone.”

“We don’t always get what we deserve, though, do we?”

“I got the seat.”

“What?”

“I got the seat. Jack’s out after Miami. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“I—how do you know?”

“Flavio told me. Oliver is going to resign. Things are about to get crazy.”

Franco ran his fingers through his hair, the golden strands illuminated by the little slats of light through your hotel blinds. It was late at night, and Franco was still beautiful, even in his disheveled state.

“You can’t tell anyone. Promise me.”

“Franco, I don’t even have anyone I’d tell.” It came out a lot…sadder than you had anticipated. It had been a long, lonely day at your cubicle in Enstone while Franco was on the sim. “And why’d you tell me, anyway?”

“I didn’t know who else to go to. I just…I’m sorry, I know it’s late and you’re mad at me—”

“Mad at you? I’m not mad at you.”

“You’ve been so distant lately. Since we got back from Monza.”

“I’ve just been… busy.”

“I know,” he said, looking off into the distance, away from you. “Things are about to get a lot busier.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” you said, your voice soft. He looked back to you, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. 

Your eyes drifted down to the soft roundness of his lips, imagining them on your own, and you swallowed hard, as if you could rid yourself of the desire that felt strong enough to strangle you. 

“Why haven’t you been around recently?” he asked. He knew you were ‘busy.’ That’s not what he was asking. But you couldn’t find the words to tell him how you really felt. 

“Got tired of looking at your face, so I gave you over to PR,” you joked, reflexively using your sarcasm as a shield. “You’re their problem now.”

“Problem? I’ve been nothing short of perfect.”

“You retweeted—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“And on that podcast—”

“What was wrong with what I said on the podcast?”

“Seriously? You think there’s nothing wrong with talking about your first date sex preferences with the world?” you laughed, only half joking. 

“No. I stand by what I said. Why should you wait if it feels right?”

“Because nothing is ever that simple. Feelings lie to you. You don’t really know someone that well to really know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“What, did you have a bad ex or something?”

“No. I…don’t have any exes. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Never.” You looked to the floor, embarrassed, though Franco’s face was shrouded in as much darkness as the rest of the room. “But still, I’d never sleep with a stranger. It’s just too important to…give yourself away like that. I think it should be something loving.”

Franco was silent; the room was quiet enough that you were sure you could hear his heartbeat. 

“I don’t think it really matters that much,” he said. “People always come and go. If you wait for the perfect person, you’ll never have anyone. Soulmates, and all that…it’s just hopeless romantics. It’s never like that in real life.”

“You don’t believe in true love?”

“I don’t want to look back on my youth and realize I wasted it waiting for the one,” he said. “There is no perfect person. There’s just people. And I want to enjoy my time with people while they’re here.”

“What if you regret it? Sharing yourself with someone who doesn’t appreciate it?”

“Then you made a mistake. And life goes on.”

“I think…we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one.” You paused. “But you still shouldn’t be telling the media any of this.”

“Why not? Why should I not be honest about who I am, how I feel?”

“Because that’s not for them to know.”

“Who else is there to tell, though?” His eyes met yours. You remembered what Kika said, how Franco had spoken about wanting real connection in a world of ruthless competition.

“I get it,” you said. “I really do. Formula 1 is…lonely.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I left home at 14, came to Spain.”

“I know,” you said. “I listened to the podcast. It’s not much better on this side of the paddock. All the travel, the long nights. I…” you paused, unsure of how much to say. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know how to be a normal person anymore.”

“Exactly. It—it becomes all of you, you know?”

“I know. I feel like I’ve missed out on so much. And you can’t complain, because this is the life I always dreamed of.” All the lonely nights, the parties and milestones missed, the strangers unkissed; you were young, alive, but not free. You had chosen this. 

The room grew quiet.

“Well, if we’re telling secrets, can I share one?” you asked, and Franco nodded, his eyes almost begging. Let me in. Let me see what you hide from the others. Let me see you.

“I hate Lewis Hamilton.”

“What?” Franco said, taken aback, clearly offended.

“He was so horrible to me last year. Constantly ignoring me or leading me around, acting like he was going to cooperate and then bailing on me. I was just trying to do my job and he made it a living hell. And I can’t tell anyone because he’s the Lewis Hamilton.”

“I can’t agree with you on this, YN. He’s Lewis Hamilton. He gets a pass.”

“C’mon, I need someone on my side!” you joked, a small smile forming at the edge of your lips.

“I can’t. You’ll have to find some other poor reserve driver for that,” he said. “Besides, I won’t be a reserve driver for much longer.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you said, your voice soft, familiar.

Franco’s eyes met yours, in the simple darkness of your room. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss you.

“We’ll all have to celebrate,” he said.

“Of course.”

“You’ll be there?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

But upon entering Franco’s AirBNB in Monaco, you started to have regrets.

The music was blasting, drinks were flowing, and your host appeared with a smile on his face and a model on each arm, quite literally. This wasn’t the kind of place you’d ever belonged in.

“YN!” he called, raising a drink-filled hand from across the room, much to the chagrin of the woman on his arm, who eyed you up and down and gave you a passive aggressive smile. He broke away, making his way over to you, wrapping you in his arms. He smelled like a deep, woody cologne mixed with fabric softener and the tell-tale sign of a drink or two. 

“You made it,” he said, cocking his head and smiling at you.

“I’m a woman of my word,” you said, giving him a stiff smile. “But I think your date…or dates…is missing you over there.”

“Oh, she’s no one,” he said, waving his arm vaguely in the direction of the women, not bothering to specify which one. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

“Oh?”

He didn’t respond, instead grabbing you by the hand and weaving you through the crowd, and into the waiting embrace of an older woman.

“Mami, this is YN,” he said, as the woman reached out to hug you, and you obliged, more out of politeness in your state of confusion. 

Franco was introducing you to…his mother?

Of course, he then abandoned you to go back to his woman. Or women. There were quite a few women at this party, and some familiar faces from the Alpine garage. Still, amongst the sea of models and mechanics, you, the media girl, hardly fit right in.

Besides, Franco had told you to leave all your cameras and phones at home. You truly were without a crutch. 

You exchanged a few pleasantries with his mother, albeit awkward, because, well, what were either of you doing here?

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Franco,” she said. “All good things, of course.”

“I’m surprised he’d mention me. I mean, we’re just colleagues.”

“Well, I’m glad my boy is surrounded by such kind colleagues, then,” she smiled. 

Thankfully, Kika came to your rescue, and you found a spot away from much of the fanfare with her and Pierre, keeping to yourselves in the corner.

Franco, though, was the life of the party, taking shot after shot, dancing his heart away. After a while, when things showed no sign of dying down, but you were exhausted, you contemplated making an Irish goodbye. 

“You’re being watched,” Kika said, leaning down to whisper in your ear. You looked up and met eyes with your host, who again was arm in arm with two beautiful women (though not the same as before), yet his eyes only laid on you. 

You gave him a slight smile, and he just blinked at you, his expression conveying that he had more to say that only his eyes could tell you. The woman to his right—a blonde—whispered something in his ear, smiling flirtatiously, and he made some noise in response, never looking at the woman. She shot you a dirty glance from across the room.

You were done for the night. But as you tried to leave, you felt a hand grab you, pulling you back as Kika and Pierre made their exit. 

“Where are you going?” Franco asked, his eyes glossy.

“It’s late, Franco.”

“You didn’t even dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, c’mon YN, just one dance!”

“No, Franco, I have to go.”

“YN—”

“Franco. It’s late, I’m exhausted, this music is too goddamn loud and my head is pounding. Let me go.”

He released his grip, surprised at your snapping. Truthfully, you were too.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay. You can go.”

“No, I—I can stay a while longer, I guess.” 

“We can go outside?” 

You nodded and let Franco lead you, hand in hand, to the roof, a secluded area with an infinity pool overlooking the Monaco skyline. You could feel the bass pumping beneath your feet, but the night was quiet enough, and there was a cool wind that waved its way through your hair, caressing you into a calmer state.

You leaned against the railing, and Franco joined you, so close that you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

“I don’t mean to steal you from your own party,” you said. 

“I’m fine here,” he said. “I don’t think anyone is missing me.”

“I don’t know. You seemed like the life of the party there.”

“What if I told you I only threw this party for you?”

You paused. “Well, that would be kind of stupid. You should celebrate what you’ve achieved. I have nothing to do with it. Besides, I don’t usually come to these kinds of things.”

“But that’s exactly why. I wanted you to be able to experience it. Can’t say you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it.” He looked down, fiddling with his hands. “If you don’t usually like parties, then why’d you come?”

“Because it was important to you.”

You were both silent.

“You want to get in the pool?” he asked.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

“We can skinny dip.”

You laughed. He didn’t. 

“You’ll have to come up with a better excuse if you want to get me undressed.”

“Who said I was trying to get you undressed? Maybe I’m giving you an excuse to stare at me.”

“You’re the one who’s been staring all night. Besides, I’ve already seen you without a shirt. I’m not missing out.”

“You’re cruel,” he joked. 

“And you’re crueler,” you replied, as you both knelt near the pool, taking your shoes off, dipping your feet in the crystal blue water.

“How so?” 

“You invite me to this party and make me stand around in the corner while you flirt with random models.”

“Are you jealous?” Franco asked, and you didn’t answer. He closed the gap between you, bringing his hand to yours. “YN, you know you’re my girl.”

“I’m your social media manager.”

“How long are we going to keep pretending?”

“Pretending what?” you said, turning to face him, seeing the genuineness in his eyes, fixated on you. You had no camera, no phone; you were alone with Franco, alone with your desire, and he wouldn’t let you escape any longer.

“Pretending like we don’t want each other.”

“What I really want is to keep my job.”

“I don’t see either of our bosses out here.”

“Franco…this is a bad decision. For both of us.”

‘Jumping into the pool right now would be a bad decision,” he said, smirking. “But this?” he interlaced his fingers with yours, kissing your hand where the cuts from the camera mishap had just started to scar over. “I’m sure of this.”

“Franco—”

“I want you.”

You pushed him into the pool. He reached out for you and dragged you down with him, ending you both cascading into the water in a fit of giggles.

And when you rose to the surface of the water, shivering from the cold and playfully pushing him away, he just pulled you in closer, wrapping his arms around your back, and finally pressing his lips to yours. 

You dragged yourself out of the pool, cringing at the feeling of your wet dress fabric clinging to your curves, and you could do nothing but laugh.

Franco followed close after, grabbing you again, and kissed you once more, his lips hungry for yours. The embrace was messy, fighting through tangled strands of hair and the horrid sensation of wet clothes clinging to each other's bodies, but you laughed anyway, in a giggly euphoria at his touch.

“Franco, I’m freezing,” you said, smiling through the discomfort. “Can we stop the make-out session before we both get hypothermia?”

“You’re no fun,” he teased, though he did oblige, throwing you a towel. “I’m kicking everyone out. I can throw your clothes in the dryer if you want to take a shower.”

A warm shower sounded perfect. However, the idea of being unclothed anywhere near Franco sounded…like a reality you weren’t quite sure of.

“I’d appreciate that,” you said, truly shivering now. Franco herded you inside, away from the rest of the party, into a bedroom you assumed was his. 

You locked yourself in the connected bathroom, quickly showering and changing into a thick, fluffy robe that Franco had left you, combing and blow drying your hair while you heard everyone downstairs filter out as the music and chatter got quieter and quieter. 

But your heartbeat only got louder and louder as you stepped out, watching Franco laid out on the bed, again clad in those God-forsaken grey sweatshorts that fit him too perfectly, his toned chest on display. 

“Your dress isn’t quite dry yet. Probably needs another 15 minutes,” he said, staring at his phone, typing away at something you couldn’t see before locking it and placing it face down on the nightstand next to him. 

You nodded, sitting on the very edge of the bed nervously running your fingers through your hair, though it was already dry.

“YN,” he called, and you could hear his voice get closer and he sat up. “It’s late. You could stay here tonight.”

“I really should just go when my clothes are done.”

“You want to? Or you should?”

You turned around to look at him, his eyes full of something hungering, a sight that made you anxious to your core.

“Franco, I’m your social media manager.”

“And?” 

“We already crossed a line—”

“I’m just asking you to stay the night,” he said. “Nothing more. It’s for your benefit, really.”

And somehow, a half hour or so later, you found yourself in nothing but your panties and one of his shirts, after conveniently realizing that this apartment only had one bedroom. 

“This is…so unprofessional,” you said as Franco dimmed the lights and climbed in the bed next to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do this with all my social media managers.”

“I could lose my job.”

“I’m not a snitch.”

Franco had laid down, but you couldn’t relax, instead sitting up and resting your back against the headboard, burying your face in your hands.

“What am I doing?” you mumbled to yourself, but he heard you, sitting up to meet you and gently pulling your arms away.

“You are going to sleep next to your client, who is going to mind his manners and be a gentleman and let you rest.”

“You’re hardly a gentleman.”

“That’s not true. I’ve been nothing but polite tonight.”

“Really?”

Franco’s eyes darkened as he pulled you down, resting one head above your head and one on your waist underneath his borrowed shirt, placing himself on top of you. You could feel his hardened length pressing against your bare leg. Your heart was beating out of your chest, your eyes widened, staring into his.

“If you want me to be impolite, I can do that.”

Your voice came out as shaky as an earthquake, though without any of the power.

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Only if you want to,” he said, his hands rubbing in gentle but firm circles around your hips, careful to not dip too high or low for comfort. 

“I’m a virgin,” you blurted out. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” he said, gently kissing you. “It’s just me. I’ll be gentle.”

His kisses trailed lower, down your neck, and you inhaled sharply as his lips grazed the crook between your chin and shoulder.

“Do you trust me to be your first?” he asked.

“I don’t know who else it would be.”

“YN,” he said, pulling back to look you in the eye. “I need to hear you say it.”

Looking up at him, wide-eyed and whispering, you had never wanted anything more. But you couldn’t let the words pass from your lips. Instead, you brought your hands up to his hair, roughly grabbing him and pulling him down to bridge the gap between you, bringing your lips together again. 

He slipped his tongue in between your lips, and you opened your mouth for him, gently moaning into the kiss as he softly grinded himself against your clothed core under the blankets. 

“Tell me what you want, YN,” he commanded, before grazing his teeth along your neck, biting down and sucking the sensitive skin to leave a mark.

“I want you,” you said, your voice breathy. “I need you.”

He brought his hand down to trace the edges of your panties, carefully dragging his fingers over where you needed him most, feeling your wetness grow as he just barely gave you any friction to buck up against. 

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Relax. Let me touch you.”

You obeyed, taking a deep breath as Franco lifted your shirt above your head and gently pawed at your breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth while he squeezed the other. 

The sounds he made were obscene as you tried to focus on just steadying your nervous breathing. But every touch electrified your skin, sending shivers through you, eliciting a sharp inhale or soft moan from your lips. 

His hands trailed down to your panties, sliding them off and meeting your mouth again with a kiss. He kept his lips on yours as he swirled your growing wetness around your clit, slowly sliding his fingers up and down your slit and through your folds. You ached for him.

“You okay?” he asked, and you nodded, whimpering into his shoulder as he brought you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.

Slowly, gently, he slid a finger inside of you, then two, pumping them in and out with the soft rhythm of your breathing. He brought you closer and closer, sending little waves of pleasure throughout your body, but not quite letting you fall over the edge into pure bliss. 

“You’re soaked,” he said, bringing his fingers from your pussy to your mouth, where you swirled your tongue around them, locking eyes with him once more.

“You ready?” he asked, and you couldn’t help the wave of anxiety that went through you. Still, you nodded, and he took off his shirts before reaching into the nightstand to grab a condom and put it on.

He grabbed you again, kissing you slow and deep, exhaling into the kiss. “Relax,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

You dug your nails into his back as he slowly pushed into you, overwhelming your sensations with the sweet burn of being totally taken by him, and the sound of his deep groan as he filled you to the hilt.

“You feel so fucking good,” he said, breathing heavily into your ear. 

“Franco…” you moaned, unable to form any words other than his name as he slowly thrusted in and out of you, gently at first, then with more power. You wove your fingers into his hair as he moaned into your mouth, wanting more and more of you. You wrapped your legs around his back, pulling him in, eliminating even the tiniest of gaps between you. You wanted him in the deepest parts of you, mentally and physically. You wanted him in your soul. 

“I’m so close,” he said. ‘So fucking close…” his voice trailed off into a string of Spanish curses as he plowed into you, chasing his own release, but still careful not to go too rough.

“I…I—” The words were lost to you. “Oh, God, Franco,” you groaned, feeling the soft pad of his thumb swirling around your clit, threatening to make you finish right then and there.

“I want us to cum at the same time,” he said. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, unable to form any sounds but those of pleasure that echoed through the room, your voices a cacophony of lust as he, with a final bucking of his hips, spilled inside of you, and brought you to the edge. 

He laid on top of you in the aftermath, catching his own breath as you caught yours, and suddenly you felt a thick sense of shame. What had you done? 

“Hey,” he cooed into your ear, setting both of you up, “you okay?”

You nodded, though it was a lie, but he could tell, pulling you into his arms to hold you and gently kiss your temple even through the sheen of sweat and smell of sex that now permeated through the room. 

He grabbed a warm, wet towel to clean you up, then left to grab a snack from the kitchen, before curling up next to you and inviting you to lay your head on his chest. You obliged, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat, gently grazing your fingertips over the surface of his scar.

The room was silent for a while, before he said, in a low, steady voice, “With me getting the seat, we won’t be able to see each other this often.”

“I don’t want to think about that right now,” you said, burrowing deeper in the covers, closer to him, and he ran his arm up and down your side.

“I just want you to know, I’m here. Even if I'm not…here. You know what I mean.”

You hummed in response. He continued, “But in the off season, I want to take you to Argentina. Show you around Buenos Aires, introduce you to my friends.”

“Yeah?” you whispered. This would normally be the time for a snarky comment. Bold of you to assume I want to spend my time away from work with you, or something to the effect.

But as you felt yourself drifting off in his arms, you couldn't muster up the will. You just wanted him to hold you. To see all your vulnerability, your unusual quietness, and find peace in it.

And he did. When you finally did drift off, he stared at your sleeping form, memorizing all the curves and edges of your body, the beauty in your stillness. 

He gently got up, turned the lights fully off, and checked his phone one last time for the night, dismissing all his Raya notifications from his homepage, before falling asleep next to you. 

[shortnspidey]

THE VOID

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 5.4K

SUMMARY: What was supposed to be a quiet family weekend getaway at the Stark cabin is quickly interrupted by New York City being terrorized once more!

WARNINGS: Thunderbolts* spoilers! Angst, slight fluff, hurt-comfort, non-sexual nudity, talks of past trauma & HYDRA PTSD

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! This was meant to be a short drabble but I couldn't help myself! It's safe to say Thunderbolts* is my new Marvel comfort movie! I hope I did this one-shot justice since we didn't get to see much of Bucky during the movie! 🫶🏻

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➩ series masterlist

As the soft glow of morning sunlight filtered gently through the sheer curtains, casting warm streaks across the hardwood floor. Your eyelids fluttered open, adjusting slowly to the familiar surroundings, the soft lavender hue of the walls, the faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air, and the peaceful silence broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird outside.

A small sleepy smile tugged at your lips as your gaze settled on the delightful chaos around you, a mountain of stuffed animals piled high near the window, polaroid pictures taped to the dresser mirror, each one a tiny fragment of a life well-lived and well-loved. Shifting to your side with a sleepy sigh, you expected to find the comforting bulk of your super-soldier fiancé beside you. His warmth, his steady breathing, maybe even the soft snore he always denied having.

But instead, a mop of tousled brown hair and a small frame tucked under a fortress of blankets greeted you. Morgan. Your not-so-little sister, who had clearly claimed the entire bed as her own sometime during the night. You let out a quiet chuckle, realizing you were perched on the very edge of the mattress, less than an inch from tumbling onto the floor. The covers had all migrated to her side, cocooned around her. She was somehow an even worse bed hog than Bucky, and that was saying something.

Even Alpine, with all her feline entitlement, hadn't managed to steal this much space. Your thoughts were interrupted as Morgan stirred, her little nose wrinkling adorably in protest against the invading daylight. She nestled even closer into your side, seeking warmth and refuge. "Morning, sunshine!" You chirped with faux cheeriness, knowing exactly what kind of reaction you'd get. Predictably, the nine-year-old groaned, burying her face deeper into your ribs with a dramatic sigh that made you smile even wider.

Definitely not a morning person, another undeniable Stark trait. "Morgan," You sing-songed, dragging her name out teasingly. “Time to wake up!” She grumbled in protest, clearly trying to lull herself back to sleep or at least tune you out. A soft giggle escaped you as you gently poked her side. “The only way I’m waking up is if you make me breakfast.” Morgan grumbled, her voice muffled against your side. You gave a mock gasp, clutching your chest dramatically.

“Demanding.” You teased, though your tone was soft as you reached out, brushing a few strands of her tangled hair away from her face. You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary. Her skin was still warm from sleep, and for a moment, you just took in how small she still was, despite her growing stubborn streak and increasingly bold opinions. “How about I make you breakfast,” You offered, lifting your brows with a knowing smile, “and I’ll even let you sneak a juice pop before Mom makes us lunch?”

Her face twitched, trying to stay serious, trying not to give in to your irresistible offer, but you saw the small smile forming at the corner of her lips. “Promise?” She asked, lifting her head slightly and giving you those big, brown, soul-piercing eyes that always reminded you a little too much of your dad. You nodded, solemnly holding out your pinky. “Pinky promise,” You declared, your voice dropping to a whisper like it was sacred and in a way, it was.

Morgan didn’t hand out trust easily, but a pinky promise? That was ironclad. She hooked her little finger around yours, her smile breaking fully now. “Deal!” You grinned and pressed another kiss to her forehead, this one quick and full of affection, before leaning over to grab your phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with a flurry of notifications, texts, emails, a missed call from Harley, but your thumb moved instinctively to the one name that always made your chest tighten in the best way. The most recent message read:

Bucky 🖤: Made it to the Capitol in one piece. Miss you already, doll. Tell Morgan I’m bringing her that thing we talked about.

You smiled at the screen, thumbs flying across the keyboard as you typed back a quick “I love you, stay safe.” Before you could even lock your phone, Morgan was peering over your shoulder. “Why couldn’t Bucky come?” She asked, her voice softer now, her fingers still tangled in the edge of your sleep shirt. You arched a brow, turning to face her with a mock pout. “Am I not enough for you anymore?” Morgan rolled her eyes with a giggle, but her cheeks flushed pink.

“You know what I mean.” She grinned. It always amazed you how quickly Bucky had wormed his way into her heart, how naturally he’d settled into the role of her protector, bedtime storyteller, and co-conspirator in every bit mischief she could dream up. And truthfully, you loved watching the two of them together, even when you pretended to be jealous. “Believe me, sweetheart, he wanted to,” You reassured brushing her hair back again as she snuggled close once more. “But he’s just a little busy now that he has Congressman duties.” Morgan huffed.

“You should’ve brought Alpine at least.” You laughed, ruffling her hair. “If we let that spoiled cat in this bed, there wouldn’t be room for either of us. Plus, she’d steal your juice pop.” That earned a giggle from her. “C’mon,” You coaxed, stretching your arms and sitting up fully. “Let’s go make some waffles. With chocolate chips. Maybe even whipped cream, if you swear not to tell Mom.” She perked up instantly, eyes gleaming. “You got yourself a deal!” This kid was definitely going to be the death of you.

After scarfing down at least a dozen waffles between you and Morgan, each one stacked precariously with whipped cream, chocolate chips, and just a hint of syrup for good measure you both made sure to clean the flour battlefield you’d left behind. The kitchen still smelled like vanilla and melted chocolate, but the counters were wiped, dishes stacked, and evidence buried, for the most part. Just in time too, as Pepper raised an eyebrow when she entered but said nothing.

Only offering a suspicious glance toward the empty whipped cream can in the trash. With the scent of breakfast still clinging to your pajamas and Morgan cradling a warm cup of cocoa, the three of you curled up on the couch for your weekend ritual. Blankets, mismatched socks, and the faint crackle of old movie magic filled the living room. The familiar sounds of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone played in the background, Morgan mouthing lines under her breath, completely absorbed in the scene.

And then, it happened.

The screen glitched, colors flickering unnaturally before the film feed abruptly cut to a flashing Breaking News banner. Static crackled. Then came the footage. A live aerial shot of Manhattan, swallowed by what looked like a creeping black fog, only it wasn’t fog. It slithered like it was alive, climbing buildings, flooding streets, consuming everything in its path. Helicopters struggled to keep up with the growing shadow that rolled through downtown like a tidal wave of nightmares.

Your blood ran cold. A surge of déjà vu punched through your gut, memories of Thanos, of the Snap, of losing everything for a single moment in time. But this wasn’t dust. This was something else, something darker. Morgan leaned forward, her cocoa forgotten, and even Pepper tensed, lips pressed into a thin, worried line. The footage zoomed in closer. Through the billowing obsidian mass, faint shapes flickered, terrified civilians, abandoned cars and buildings.

The once-iconic Avengers Tower, half-swallowed and collapsing in on itself, like some monument to forgotten glory. And at the center of it, looming like a shadow torn from nightmares, stood a shadowy figure. He wasn’t entirely solid, more like a dark silhouette. With every movement, people vanished. Your hand trembled as you reached for your phone, a cold sweat already forming at the back of your neck. You didn’t even remember dialing, your thumb working on autopilot.

“Pick up. Pick up.” You whispered, heart hammering against your ribs, anxiety rising like bile. One ring. Two. Three, then static. Faint, fragmented screams filtered through. Car alarms. Crumbling stone. You heard staggering breath, sharp and uneven. “Bucky? Are you there?” You asked, voice cracking, eyes fixed on the chaos on the screen. A ragged exhale echoed on the line. Then voices, quick, panicked. Civilians? You couldn’t tell. “Bucky, please tell me you’re not in that mess.” You begged, voice fraying at the edges.

You weren’t even sure if he could hear you. A pause. Then finally, his voice, raw and distant. “I wish I could, doll.” Your breath hitched. “I’m sorry.” He added. Those two words carried more weight than you could bear. Every instinct in you screamed to fight, to argue, but your voice didn’t come. Not even a whisper. “Doll, I—” And then, the call dropped. Your phone slid from your hand and landed on the couch cushion beside you with a thud. Your chest was tight, lungs refusing to work properly. Noticing the shift in your demeanor, Morgan instantly wrapped her arms around your waist.

“Is Bucky okay?” She whispered, burying her face into your side. You pulled her close, holding her like she was the only anchor in the storm. “I’m sure he is, sweetheart,” You reassured softly, kissing the top of her head. “He’s strong and brave.” But even you couldn’t tell if you were trying to reassure her or convince yourself. You looked up. Pepper had already stood, face pale but composed. She met your eyes, her strength unwavering even now. “Mom—”

“I know,” She mumbled quickly, cutting you off. Her voice was gentle, but there was an iron edge beneath it, a quiet strength born from too many nights spent watching the man she loved walk into war zones with nothing but conviction and an arc reactor. Pepper Potts wasn’t a stranger to sacrifice, and now, neither were you. “Go.” You hesitated, guilt gnawing at your gut. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.” She added, her hand closing tightly around yours.

You nodded, trying to keep your face neutral even as your stomach churned. You turned toward Morgan, who stood silently by the couch, clutching a pillow to her chest like it was a lifeline. “Morgie,” You called softly, crouching down to her level as her tear-filled eyes locked on yours. “He’ll be okay. We both will. Stay here with Mom, alright? I’ll call you as soon as I find Bucky. I promise.” You extended your pinky once more. This promise felt heavier than all the others.

“Okay.” She whispered, her voice cracking as she surrendered to your embrace, small arms wrapping tightly around your neck. You held her close, kissed her temple, then leaned into her ear. “I love you, kiddo.” You breathed, barely able to speak past the knot forming in your throat. You felt her nod against your shoulder, and it shattered something inside you. With that, you quickly got dressed, grabbed your car keys and drove as fast as the speed limit allowed you into the void that was now New York City.

As you made your way into the city, weaving recklessly through the traffic, your hands clenched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Horns blared, lights flashed, but none of it registered fully, you were running on instinct and adrenaline. You fumbled for your phone at a red light, trying once again to ping Bucky’s location. Nothing. The screen flashed back the same message, unable to locate device.

You swore under your breath, the sickening realization hitting you like a punch to the gut, his phone must’ve been destroyed during all the chaos. There was no other choice. Without any clue where he might be, you had to go back to the apartment. Your chest ached with the weight of uncertainty, but through it all, a stubborn flicker of belief remained, he’d make it home to you. He had to. The moment your key turned in the lock and the door creaked open, the silence inside greeted you.

You didn’t need to call out to know, he wasn’t there. The emptiness clung to the walls, thick and oppressive, and did absolutely nothing to soothe the storm of fear brewing inside you. You closed the door quietly behind you, letting your forehead rest against it for a beat too long, before turning to scan the room with hopeful eyes. Then, a soft meow echoed from around the corner. “Alpine,” You breathed out, your voice cracking slightly with relief. The snowy white cat padded into view, her tail high as she trotted toward you, clearly happy to see you home.

You knelt down immediately, scooping her into your arms and pressing her warm body close to your chest. She purred against you, a soft, steady vibration that grounded you just enough to keep from unraveling completely. “Hi, sweet girl.” You murmured, your voice gentle as you carried her to the couch. You sank into the cushions, Alpine nestled securely in your lap, and stared out the window at the glowing city beyond. Every instinct in you screamed to go back out there.

To search every alley, every rooftop, every shadow, but instead, you sat still. Holding on to hope like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. After what felt like an eternity of pacing in the kitchen, organizing things that didn’t need organizing, and switching between news broadcasts that offered very little comfort and a phone that refused to light up with his name, you were unraveling thread by thread. Each second stretched, heavy and tense, your breath shallow. And then, you heard it. The familiar jangle of the doorknob.

Your heart skipped a beat, then thundered, and as the door creaked open, you let out a breath that felt like it came from somewhere deep in your soul. Your muscles, locked in anxious tension, began to loosen as you rose quickly from the couch. But the moment you turned the corner and saw him, really saw him all of that fragile relief shattered and the fear came crashing back in. There he was. Dressed in his signature all-black, the fabric of his clothes torn in various places.

Revealing angry red gashes and violet bruises beneath. His broad shoulders were pulled back in a rigid posture. His long hair was disheveled, sticking to his forehead and brushing his jawline, and his face, God, his handsome face was a map of pain. Scratches lined his cheekbones, one temple split and still weeping. His knuckles were bruised, skin split. And still, he didn’t bother to close the door behind him. His cerulean blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a brief moment, time stood still. He closed them slowly, like the sight of you was too much to bear all at once.

Relief, exhaustion, maybe even guilt, it passed across his face like clouds across a stormy sky. “James.” The name left your lips sharp and clipped, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest. There was frustration in your voice, more than that, there was hurt. At the sound of his given name, his eyes opened again, more alert, more present. He knew exactly what it meant when you used it like that. But he also knew this wasn’t about being in trouble. Not really. Cautiously, he took a step forward, hand raised, vibranium fingers trembling just enough to betray the storm inside him.

He reached for your arm, bracing for the rejection he was sure he deserved. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. When his palm met your sleeve and you stayed rooted to the spot, something in him broke loose. He took another step, his other hand rising to gently uncross your arms, and you let him. You didn’t meet his eyes, not yet, but you didn’t resist his touch either. He pulled your body into his slowly, grounding you with the firm steadiness of both flesh and metal, his touch familiar, grounding. You looked away, jaw tight, holding back tears or words, you weren’t even sure which.

He exhaled slowly, then lifted a hand to your face, calloused fingers brushing lightly against your cheek as he tilted your head up. You didn’t want to look at him because if you did, you’d lose what little composure you had left. Still, you let him tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your temple as he searched your face like it held the only truth left in the world. Your eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was louder than anything either of you could say. Then finally, you broke it, your voice low and rough around the edges.

“You’re still in trouble.” You grumbled, trying for stern but falling short, the corners of your mouth betraying you with the tiniest quiver. “I know, doll,” He murmured, his voice gravelly and soft in that way only reserved for you. “I know.” He rested his forehead against yours, his breath shaky as it ghosted over your skin. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness yet. He just needed this. You. “Just let me hold you.” He whispered, more of a plea than command.

And without another word, you let him.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, each breath shaky, uneven. His arms were tight around you now, no longer tentative. Flesh and vibranium wrapped fully around your waist, holding on like if he let go, everything would collapse. And maybe it would. You didn’t want to test that theory. He smelled like smoke and the faintest trace of blood, but underneath all that, you still found him. That scent you’d come to associate with home.

“Hey,” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, lips brushing your hair as he spoke. “I’m here. I’m okay.” You pulled back slightly at that, brows furrowing. “You’re not okay, Buck,” you scoffed softly, your hands coming up to cradle his scruffy cheeks. “You’re clearly hurt and you’re bleeding.” You swallowed hard as your thumbs traced the edges of a fresh cut along his jaw. “You scared the hell out of me.” His eyes closed again, jaw clenching as he leaned into your touch. You blinked quickly, fighting the sting in your eyes, but he saw it anyway.

Without hesitation, Bucky leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours again, this time more firmly, grounding himself in the contact. Then, slowly, deliberately his lips brushed yours. It wasn’t a kiss full of hunger or urgency. It was soft yet purposeful. You melted into it instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as his hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. His lips trembled against yours, not from fear but from sheer, overwhelming feeling. He kissed you like he’d been afraid he wouldn’t get the chance.

Like this kiss was a thank you, an apology, and a promise all in one. When you finally parted, he lingered, his nose brushing against yours, eyes searching yours with that soft, open ache that always made you want to protect him, even when strongly believed that he was the one built to protect you. You exhaled shakily, resting your hands over his heart. In that moment, no words needed to be shared. You simply pulled him close, this time wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face against his shoulder.

After a beat, your voice now more steadier broke the silence. "I hope you know you owe Morgan a call, she was pretty shaken after what she saw on the news." Bucky let out a long breath, one hand ghosting up your back in an absent, soothing motion. "Hopefully the bear plush I brought all the way back from DC will be enough for her to forgive me." Your brow lifted, eyes narrowing slightly as amusement flickered in your voice. "Seriously, Bucky. Morgan has enough stuffed animals to fill an entire daycare."

"Doesn't mean I'm gonna stop spoiling her," He offered a small shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking just enough to chase away some of the tension. "We should call." You nodded slowly, lifting your head from his shoulder without pulling away completely, your arms still draped around him in a gentle tether. "We should," You murmured in agreement. Your gaze swept over him, taking in the grime, the torn edges of his clothes, and the blood smeared along his jaw. "Might want to clean yourself up first."

Your fingers reached up, brushing lightly over the blood smeared on his cheekbone. The touch wasn’t firm, just the barest sweep of skin against skin, but it carried so much more than it seemed to. In that single gesture, you offered reassurance, a silent apology for whatever pain he endured, and the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone. He leaned into the touch with a subtle, almost imperceptible sigh, his eyes fluttering closed for just a beat too long. Like the warmth of your hand was more healing than anything could ever be.

His lashes lifted slowly, gaze locking with yours. The blue of his eyes, normally sharp and vigilant, had softened into something almost vulnerable. “Join me?” Just two words. So simple, but they cracked something open inside you. The sheer vulnerability behind them wrapped in a quiet plea and a need for closeness he rarely voiced ever made your throat tighten. You didn’t trust your voice to hold steady, so you simply nodded, the motion small but immediate.

His expression didn’t shift much, but you saw the way his shoulders eased, just slightly. He leaned in, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead. He stayed there for a moment, his lips resting against your skin like he was afraid letting go too soon might shatter whatever peace had settled between you. Then, he stepped back, not far, just enough to reach for your hand. His fingers found yours with an easy familiarity, holding on like you were his lifeline. And without a word, he turned, guiding you slowly toward the bathroom down the hall the space you shared.

As you stepped into the space, a wave of protectiveness surged through you, catching you off guard with its intensity. It was more than just concern, it was an aching need to reassure him, to make it unmistakably clear that he was safe and loved. He stood quietly, as if waiting for something he didn’t quite know how to ask for. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of his t-shirt, eyes flicking up to meet his, searching for any flicker of hesitation. The fabric was worn, soft beneath your touch, and you tugged gently, more a question than a motion.

His response was wordless but immediate, lifting his arms and granting you silent permission. You peeled the shirt upward, revealing inch by inch of scarred, bruised skin that made your heart twist. A sharp, quiet gasp escaped your lips as the damage came into view faint scrapes, livid bruises blossoming in purples and yellows, and the ever-present, jarring contrast where metal fused into flesh. You knew the serum would eventually do its work, knitting tissue and dulling pain, but logic didn’t stop the worry that clawed its way up your throat.

You leaned in, unable to keep the distance between you. Your hand wrapped around his warm, solid bicep, drawing him gently closer. He didn’t resist. Your lips brushed against the harsh line where his metal shoulder met skin, a place that too often bore the weight of his guilt and silence. You pressed a soft kiss there, then another, scattering them along his shoulder blade, the curve of his jaw, and finally to the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was a silent whisper: I love you. You’re not alone.

His breath caught, chest rising sharply, and in the next heartbeat, his lips found yours. The kiss was deep, unhurried, the kind that said everything neither of you could quite put into words. When he finally pulled away, it was only to mirror your earlier gesture, his hands slipping under your oversized knit sweater and lifting it with reverent care. It joined his shirt in a quiet heap on the floor. “I love you so much, Y/N.” He murmured against your mouth, the words rough and tender all at once.

What followed felt timeless, a slow shedding of barriers, both cloth and emotional, until you were stripped bare, wrapped in warmth and each other. Garments fell away between stolen kisses and whispered reassurances. Hands traced the map of each other’s bodies like a prayer, gentle and certain, until there was nothing between you but skin and steam. At one point, his fingers intertwined with yours, he brought your left hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

Then pausing, kissing the delicate glint of the engagement ring that rested there. His eyes met yours, soft and unguarded, and it said more than any vow ever could. Under the cascade of the shower, he held you close. You could feel the tension leaving his frame as your fingers threaded through his damp hair, massaging the soap in gentle circles. You washed away the remnants of blood and sweat, each pass of your hands careful not to press too hard against his bruises. Then it was his turn. He touched you as though you were made of glass.

His hands were hesitant and unsure, but so achingly tender it brought tears to your eyes. Every swipe of the washcloth, every stroke of his palm was deliberate, a silent apology for all the times he’d believed he didn’t deserve softness. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, surrounded by heat and steam and the quiet hum of water. Time didn’t matter. All that did was this, the slow melting of tension, the steady beat of his heart against yours, and the comfort of knowing that here, in this moment, you both had found something worth holding onto.

After drying off and pulling on soft, comfortable clothes, you settled into the rhythm of familiarity. Bucky perched at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, as he FaceTimed Morgan. You watched as the tired lines around his eyes softened at the sight of her excited face, his voice lifting just enough to sound like himself. “I promise I’m in one piece, kiddo,” He reassured her, holding the camera up so she could see the both of you. “Got a surprise for you next time I visit. I just know you’re gonna love it!” Morgan giggled, already speculating what said “surprise” was.

As the call continued, he had her and you laughing in no time, making goofy faces, promising to teach her how to do a proper left hook (with Pepper's reluctant permission), and patiently answering every curious question she had about what she had seen on the news. You noticed how his shoulders dropped, tension easing the longer he talked to her. Even Pepper smiled, though her eyes flicked across the screen with a mother's worry, lingering on the faint bruises still visible on his face.

When the call ended and the familiar dial tone hummed into silence, the weight of the night returned. The room felt heavier, quieter. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, phone dangling forgotten in one hand. The other scrubbed across his face as though trying to rub away everything he’d just relived. You straddled his lap slowly, grounding him with your presence, settling so your chest was against his, your arms around his shoulders.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, gently scratching at his scalp, something you knew calmed him. “You want to tell me what happened?” You asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing. “Yeah,” He rasped. “Yeah, I do.” And so he did. He spoke in starts and stops, piecing what had happened in fragments. He told you about flying to D.C. to expose Valentina de Fontaine. How he’d manage to convince force Yelena and her father, John Walker, Ava Starr, reluctantly, to gather enough evidence to bring Valentina down. But as usual, she was always ten steps ahead.

“She was manipulating this innocent man, Robert Reynolds, Bob, to somehow become the world’s New Avenger under her control, yet her plan had a horrible flaw,” He explained, eyes distant. “Bob, he had another side of him. This drug trail, it wasn’t anything like what happened to Steve or Banner. There was a darkness, a void.” Your hand moved from his hair to his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat. “Go on.” You coaxed softly, watching as his breathing grew more labored.

“The worst part,” He muttered after a long pause shutting his eyes, bracing himself. “Was that this alter ego, he could get inside our heads. All of us. It wasn’t just telepathy. It was like he peeled something back. Like he could reach into the rot of the trauma we’d buried and drag it into the light.” His voice cracked on the last word. Your arms tightened instinctively around his back, rubbing in slow reassuring circles. “He saw inside my worst nightmare,” Bucky continued, each word weighted and raw.

“And then he made me live it again. It felt so real, Y/N. The cold steel of the restraints. The stench of antiseptic. I was strapped down at that H.Y.D.R.A. base again. My body was fighting, but my mind—” His jaw clenched hard. “They were erasing me. Again and again. Every time I’d start to remember who I was, they’d wipe it clean. My name. My face. You.” A pained breath escaped him. “You were fading. I couldn’t hold on to you.” You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. “But I’m right here,” You whispered.

“You held on enough to help your friends. To come home to me.” He swallowed back a whimper, blinking back tears. “I didn’t think I’d make it out,” He admitted, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t think I deserved to.” You tilted his chin gently until his eyes met yours. “You always deserve to come home.” For a long time, he didn’t say anything, just let himself breathe against you, his arms wrapping around your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Then, with a shaky exhale, he lifted your left hand and brought it to his lips again. He kissed the engagement ring slowly, reverently, holding your hand against his chest. “This,” He murmured, voice barely audible, “is the only thing that kept me from breaking.” You felt your own tears gather against your lash line as you processed his words. “Bucky, sweetheart, while I'm not thrilled you jumped into danger," You began, your tone soft but laced with honest concern. His arms wrapped around you tighter, keeping you anchored against him.

“I know, doll,” He murmured, his voice low against your lips. “I’m so sorry I scared you.” You pressed your index finger to his mouth before he could say anything else. “But I am so proud of you,” You declared firmly, your words laced with admiration, leaving no room for protest. That brought a real smile to his face, that rare kind of smile that lit up his features and made the years of pain and burden momentarily vanish. The kind of smile that always made you swoon just a little, no matter how many times you saw it.

“Besides,” You added with a dry scoff, “Let H.Y.D.R.A try to get close to you again and see what happens.” He raised an eyebrow, half amused and half confused. “What, you gonna fight 'em with your sarcasm?” You rolled your eyes, but your voice was calm and certain as you lifted your left hand between you. The ring glinted in the low lamplight. “No. You have me. And I’m not going anywhere.” Understanding dawned in his expression, and something unspoken passed between you.

You had seen each other at your best and worst, through blood and bruises and sleepless nights. And still, here you were. That was all he needed. And that was more than enough.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! <3

Remember you are NEVER alone! Do not hesitate to ask for help if you are struggling with your mental health, reach out to your loved ones, check in on people who have been too quiet, and always remember to be kind because you never know what other people may be dealing with! 🤍

Mental Health Help Hotline: (833) 317-4673

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, mentions of an autistic meltdown, Lando being horrendously down-bad.

Notes — I love to ramble with ya’ll about my fics, so send me as many asks as you want!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2018

Amelia liked it when the pit garages were like this. Tools neatly racked, screens idle but ready, the scent of fresh tire rubber still hanging in the air — not yet burnt.

Fernando sat on a workbench, sipping his espresso.

She was perched on the same tire she always chose, butter-yellow water bottle in hand. There was enough ice inside to keep her drink cold all day, even under the Abu Dhabi sun. She wore a white cotton dress that would probably be stained with oil by the end of the day — she didn’t care.

"You are thinking too much," he said eventually, voice low, words shaped by the curl of his accent. "I can hear them.”

She turned the bottle slowly between her hands, listening to the ice crash against the insulated metal. “You can’t hear thinking.” She told him. 

"I can when it is this loud," he replied. She frowned, staring at one of the stickers on her water bottle. Either there was a language barrier — or Fernando was some kind of mind reader. “You are worried about the new boys, yes?”

She rounded her shoulders up to her ears in response. 

He shifted slightly, the sound of his espresso cup touching down on the metal bench. “You worry they will not like you. Or not understand you. That they will say stupid things.”

“I don’t care if they like me,” she said automatically, but her voice was too tight around the words. “I just… I don’t want to make them uncomfortable. Because I don’t act the way they will expect, since I’m their boss’ daughter. Or because I don’t always know how to—”

He cut her off with a short sound — not quite interrupting, just catching the sentence before it turned into something more self-deprecating than necessary. “Mi niña,” he said. “You are not responsible for the comfort of two boys. Especially not ones who still trip over their own feet getting into the car.”

She didn’t smile, but the edges of her thoughts softened.

“They come into your garage. You were here first. You are a very helpful addition.” He paused. “And you are never unkind. This is more than most.”

She tightened her grip on her water bottle. “I make people uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed, and his honesty was nice. People always tried to lie to her in a silly attempt to make her feel more normal. “But only the ones who do not listen properly to what you say.” He picked up his espresso again, then added, “And if they do not listen, I will teach them.”

Amelia glanced toward the open garage, where footsteps passed in rapid beats and voices moved in bursts. It was the last race of the 2018 season. Lewis had already secured the Drivers’ Championship. She’d sent a big cake to his house with Well Done for Being Fast written on it. He’d posted a picture on his Instagram, which meant he’d appreciated the gesture.

She glanced at her phone and started chewing on her bottom lip.

Thinking about Lewis only reminded her of the email — unread, unacknowledged — sitting in her meticulously organised inbox.

Toto Wolff had taken it upon himself to email her. From his personal address, not his work one — no “Mercedes” anywhere in sight.

She’d taken one look at the subject line (Unconditional Job Offer / Employment Opportunity) and promptly launched her phone across the room. Miraculously, the screen had survived.

Lewis had warned her more than once that his team principal was interested in her talents. She’d assumed it was flattery. Apparently not.

If her dad ever found out about the email, he’d have a full-blown meltdown — the kind usually reserved for her. A rival team trying to poach his daughter wasn’t just a personal affront; it was a declaration of war.

“Amelia,” Fernando said. 

She didn’t look up right away. 

"Yes?” She asked. 

"Do not worry so much,” he said, tapping the side of his cup. "It ruins the coffee."

— 

The MTC was half-empty, lit with the flat grey light of a British winter morning. Most people were still on holiday. Lando wasn’t most people anymore. 

He tugged at the sleeves of his new team jacket as he walked the corridor past engineering, sneakers squeaking just slightly with each step. It still felt surreal; being here. Not as a junior, not as a maybe, but as a full-time McLaren Formula One driver.

He was so wrapped up in the thrill of it that he nearly walked right past her.

Amelia Brown was crouched beside a cart of sorted telemetry tablets, scanning each one like she was decoding a puzzle, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed unhappily. Her white trainers were smudged, her dark hair pulled back loosely, and her signature butter-yellow water bottle was sat beside her on the floor.

Lando stopped.

“Hey,” he said, a little too loud for how quiet the corridor was.

She looked up, blinked once, then gave a small nod. “Hello.”

Not cold. Not warm either. Just… Amelia. 

“I, uh… I set two alarms now,” he blurted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “So I’m never late anymore. Not even accidentally, you know?”

She turned her attention back to the tablets. “Okay.” She mumbled, hardly eligible. 

He waited. 

Right. That was it. 

Just okay.

“You know,” he tried to remind her, smiling because he wasn’t sure what else to do with his face, “because you said I lacked discipline and wouldn’t get the promotion if I kept being late.”

“I did say that,” she said, tapping on one of the screens and letting out an almost silent sigh when the screen remained black. “It was a problem.” 

Still nothing. No smile. No teasing. 

Lando cleared his throat. “Right. Well. It’s not a problem now.”

“Good,” she said.

A pause stretched between them. 

Lando rocked back on his heels. “Cool. Alright. I’ll just— I’ll see you around?”

Still, she didn’t look up. “Highly likely.”

He gave a quick nod and turned to go, cheeks warm.

He’d always thought of himself as pretty likeable. People laughed when he wanted them to. He was decent at reading a room — usually. But clearly, none of that meant anything to Amelia Brown. 

As he walked off, he glanced back without thinking. And, like an absolute idiot, he stumbled a little when he saw her absolutely beam at one of the tablets as it flickered to life, screen lighting up her face like something out of a bloody PC World advert.

Jesus Christ. She was fucking pretty.

Not in a flashy, look-at-me way. Just… quietly, properly pretty. The kind of pretty that made his stomach do something proper dodgy. He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering to himself. “Yeah. Sick. Nice one, mate. You’ve got no chance.”

— 

iMessage – Tuesday, 19:47

Lando mate she’s well fit 

Max F. bro 💀

Lando can’t stop staring at her she probably thinks im a right creep

Max F. yeah probably who are you even talking abt

Lando zak’s daughter

Max F.

are you actually brain dead?

you can’t fancy your boss’s daughter, mate

Lando she smiled today not at me but i saw it 

Max F. get a grip

Lando shut up you don’t get it

Max F. it’s a miracle you’ve still got a job 

Lando is this a safe space or what??

Max F. absolutely not you’re delusional, mate she’s so off-limits it’s not even funny

Lando 

🖕

— 

The Browns didn’t really do Christmas — not in the traditional sense. No matching pyjamas, no big family gathering, no chaos in the kitchen over a turkey no one actually wanted. They kept it simple: jazz music, good coffee, and her dad’s usual schtick — “I forgot to buy you anything this year.”

Which was a lie. Obviously.

She found it parked just outside on the driveway. A muted grey, weather-worn 1974 BMW 2002. 

Amelia stood and stared at it for a long time. Long enough that the cold bite of English winter started to seep in through her socks, and the tips of her fingers began to sting.

“Don’t just stand there,” her dad called from the doorway, hands tucked into his dressing gown pockets. “Take a proper look. She’s all yours.”

She took a slow step forward, then another. The car was old, but solid — just the way she liked things. A little rust, some scuffed chrome. It was beautiful. She crouched next to the front fender and ran her hand along the edge, careful, reverent.

“You hate shopping,” she said, still staring at it.

“I didn’t shop,” her dad replied. “I emailed a man named Clive and paid way too much to have him do all the work for me.”

There was a long silence.

She stood, glanced at him, tried — really tried — to meet his eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

He gave a small nod. “You’ll need new tires. And probably a carburettor.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her sleeves, but this time it wasn’t nerves — it was barely-contained energy. Her thoughts were already whirring; parts lists, toolkits, diagrams, weekends in the garage with grease on her hands and her favourite playlist playing on repeat.

“I— I can order those online,” she said, already calculating delivery times in her head. “And the belts. And the spark plugs. And—” She stopped herself.

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled into his coffee mug that said ‘Worlds Best Dad’ and stepped back inside, leaving her alone with her new car and barely contained excitement.

Her hands started moving at her sides — flapping, stimming, too fast to stop once they began. She shoved them into her pockets, fists clenched tight against the fabric. Closed her eyes.

She took a breath. Let it out slowly.

Old habits died hard. Years at school had taught her to mask her reactions — even the harmless ones — because they made her stand out. Because they made her weird.

She hadn’t just been ignored. She’d been mocked. Not always loudly, but enough to stick. The way she flapped her hands. The way she didn’t make eye contact. The way she talked too much about one thing and not enough about everything else.

There was a reason she’d chosen not to go to university, even though she loved learning. Even though engineering made perfect sense to her in ways people often didn’t.

She could get a degree. She’d probably be good at it.

But it would drain her — the social minefields, the unspoken rules, the overwhelming noise of lecture halls and shared spaces and trying to be something she wasn’t just to fit in.

She’d spent so long trying to pass as normal. To not stim in public. To not talk too much. To not be too much.

Once, a girl in her class had said, in a tone that Amelia guessed was meant to be kind, “At least you’re pretty. You wouldn’t be able to tell that you’ve got, you know… issues.”

She still thought about that sometimes.

How it was supposed to be a compliment.

How it hadn’t felt like one at all.

— 

2019

The lights were off in her dad’s office. Just the soft hum of the monitor on standby, the gentle click of the old wall clock, and the warm, familiar scent of coffee baked into the furniture. She curled up on the old leather couch, knees tucked close to her chest, head resting against the arm. She had her weighted blanket on. Her yellow water bottle was beside her, half-full. The room felt like a safe haven. 

After yesterday, that was all she wanted.

The meltdown had come on fast — she’d been too hot, the lights too bright, someone had changed the layout of the front-desk without warning her, and it had all just spiralled. She hated how quickly she lost herself in the emotions. Hated the looks people gave her when she couldn’t hold it all together.

She’d apologised more than she should have. Her dad told her that she never needed to apologise for being who she was.

The office door opened.

She didn’t move, but her eyes flicked toward the sound. Her dad stepped in first, deep in conversation, and behind him were Carlos and Lando.

“I told you, she’s probably curled up somewhere charging like a phone,” her dad said lightly, then saw her. His voice softened. “Ah. There she is. Amelia — this is Lando. And this is Carlos.”

She blinked. Sat up a little. “I already know Lando.”

Lando almost tripped over his own feet. “Yeah! Yeah, we’ve, uh— run into each other a few times. Around. Just, like—hallways. And stuff.”

He scratched the back of his neck. His face went bright pink.

Amelia stared at him for a moment before she turned her attention to Carlos. “Hello.”

He gave her a small smile. “Hola,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a small pause.

Her dad cleared his throat, cheerful as ever.

“Carlos is one of the good ones,” he said. “No nonsense. I like that in a driver.”

Amelia nodded once. That made sense. She respected no-nonsense people, too.

She tucked her knees back under her chin. “Okay,” she said quietly.

Carlos smiled again, just a little wider this time. Still cautious, but less unsure.

Amelia didn’t return the smile — not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t always remember that she had to. Instead, she reached for her water bottle and unscrewed the lid. 

“You retired in Australia,” she said. 

Carlos blinked, then gave a small laugh. “Yeah. Not the best start to the season.”

“It was the power unit,” she shrugged. “Renault engine. Unreliable. It wasn’t your fault.”

Her dad gave a low chuckle. “She doesn’t miss much. Reads through race data like it’s the morning newspaper.”

Carlos tilted his head slightly. “You work with the engineers?” He asked her. 

“I don’t work anywhere,” Amelia said. “But I sometimes sit in on meetings. And I fix things when they’re wrong. Fernando used to let me be in his garage. He said I was very useful.”

“You are useful,” her dad said automatically, from across the room.

She didn’t respond. Compliments were difficult — they always made her feel like she was meant to do something with them, and she never quite knew what.

She looked at Lando. He was already watching her.

She blinked. His eyes widened a little.

She let out a quiet sigh through her nose. She hated not knowing what expressions meant — what came next, what was expected.

“Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” Carlos said, breaking the silence.

Amelia took another sip of water. The right words settled on her tongue this time.

“You overshot Turn Nine,” she said, turning back to Lando.

He coughed. “I—Yeah. I know.”

“You let off the brake too early. You always do that when you’re nervous.”

Carlos let out a small, choked sound.

She frowned at him. 

Lando shifted. “I don’t always do that.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “You did it at Monza in 2018.”

“Okay.” He said. His neck was going red. 

“But you’re getting better,” she added. “You were twelfth. That’s good, considering the partial engine fault.”

He looked at her for a second too long. She didn’t know why. Then he said, “…Thanks.”

She nodded once, and then tugged at her blanket. 

There was a quiet pause — the kind Amelia usually didn’t mind. Lando shuffled his feet. Carlos glanced toward the door, then back to her.

“Right then! I’ll come find you later,” her dad said to her. “We’ll get something nice for lunch.”

“Okay.” She agreed. 

Carlos gave her one last polite nod. “See you around, Amelia.”

She didn’t say goodbye, just looked at him, then at Lando. “You should eat more complex carbohydrates before qualifying sessions,” she told him. “You looked quite pale.”

Lando stared at her. “I—yeah. Alright.” He paused, then added quickly, “It was, uh, nice seeing you again.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips pressed together in a way that, for her, was close to a smile.

— 

iMessage – Thursday, 10:51

Lando i’m fucked like properly fucked

Max F. bro come on

Lando she’s unreal and actually insanely smart

Max F. mate this is such a catastrophically bad idea

Lando she remembered i locked up into turn 9 in monza like three years ago i think i’m in love

Max F. you’re not in love you’re having a breakdown

Lando can’t it be both

Max F. lando i’m staging an intervention where’s jon⁉️ does he know you’re acting like this

Lando jon just keeps saying i should be stretching more he doesn’t care about my emotional wellbeing

Max F. he’d start to care if he found out you were thirsting after zak browns daughter 

Lando gonna make her my wifey 😏

Max F. fucksake lando 

— 

Amelia stood behind the screens at the back of the McLaren pit garages, fingers looped through the sleeves of her jacket. She’d already organised the weekend’s tyre allocation list by compound, colour-coded the data feed to match, and adjusted the ride height figures twice. Not because she needed to — just because she could.

It was her first race of the year.

The first time back since before the winter break. 

The new chassis looked better in person than it had in the renders. She liked the way the papaya paint caught the light.

“Amelia,” someone said softly.

She turned her head slightly. One of the engineers — Greg? Grant? She still hadn’t learned his name. She was terrible at remembering names. 

“Telemetry’s live when you’re ready.” He told her. 

She nodded once and moved closer, careful to avoid the cables that trailed across the floor like snakes.

The numbers lit up on the screen in front of her. Speed. G-force. Delta times.

She exhaled, long and slow. 

“Morning.”

She looked up. Lando.

He was already in his race suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair a mess and half-damp. He hadn’t had time to dry it properly after his shower.

“Hello,” she responded.

“You’re here,” he said, smiling. Then quickly added, “I mean — yeah, obviously. It’s only the third race. But still.”

She tilted her head. “Yes. I’m here.”

A pause. His mouth opened like he was going to say something else, then closed again.

“Okay, cool,” he said finally. “Sick. Um. Good luck out there.”

“I’m not driving,” she frowned at him.

“Right.” He turned and walked straight into a support beam.

Amelia blinked, then returned her attention to the screen.

Lando’s throttle trace was spiky again. She’d make a note of that.

— 

The garage was quieter now. Not silent though. It was never fully silent. Engineers were keeping their voices low. Tools clinked still, but in a less urgent rhythm. Some of the pit crew were already sweeping up debris from the floor. Wiping away a mess that no one wanted to talk about.

Amelia stayed where she always did, behind the screens, legs crossed on the floor like it helped anchor her in place. Her yellow water bottle sat by her knee, half-empty and warm now. She hadn’t drunk much since the race started.

DNFs always left a strange taste in the air. Bitter. Like metal.

She hadn’t seen the full replay yet, but she didn’t need to. Lando’s car had made it twenty-eight laps before something failed; she’d seen the warning signs creeping into the data before the radio call was made. His voice had been clipped. Tired.

The flap of the garage partition opening made her flinch. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

It was obviously Lando. His helmet was gone, race suit peeled halfway down, sweat-damp fireproofs clinging to his arms. He stopped just beside her.

“I’m fine,” he said. His voice cracked a little. “In case anyone’s, you know. Wondering.”

Amelia didn’t respond.

He hovered.

She tapped the edge of her tablet. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Kind of was.” He dropped onto the floor beside her with a groan, back against the wall. “Clipped the kerb weird coming out of six. Probably jarred something.”

“No,” she said. “You were nursing a power unit issue from lap seventeen. You did what you were supposed to.”

He looked at her, then away again, picking at the velcro on his gloves.

She watched him for a second. Tried to decide if she was supposed to say something else. If there was something people usually said in moments like this.

Nothing came.

So she offered the only thing she could give. Facts. “You did better than the data predicted.”

Lando glanced at her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

She squinted at him. Hadn’t that been obvious? “Yes.”

He smiled a little. Just with the corner of his mouth. “Cheers.”

They sat there in silence for a while. A few people came over to touch Lando’s shoulder and offer him sympathy. His jaw got tighter every time. 

Eventually, she picked up her tablet and started rewatching his onboard. Then she angled it toward him. 

“You’re going to tell me exactly what I did wrong, aren’t you?” he asked.

She nodded.

He let his head thump back against the wall. “Brilliant.”

—

The motorhome had quieted after media duties and the two-hour race debrief. Lando sat slouched on the drivers' lounge sofa, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling. Carlos was across from him, arms folded, watching with a look Lando had come to recognise: the I know something you don’t want me to know look.

“I need to ask you something,” Carlos said, tone casual. But the accent gave it weight — Som-theeng.

Lando didn’t look up. “No.”

Carlos chuckled. “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say, coño.”

“I do.” Lando groaned. “And the answer is still no.”

Carlos leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You like her.”

“What? No, I—” Lando paused, brow furrowed. “Like who?”

Carlos tilted his head. “Come on. Don’t play dumb, amigo. Amelia. You like Amelia Brown.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “Nah. We’ve barely talked.”

Even he could hear the lie in his own voice.

Carlos raised a silent eyebrow.

“I’m just being respectful!” Lando snapped. “She’s—she’s McLaren royalty, basically. And she knows more about my car than I do half the time.”

Carlos shrugged, eyes sharp. “Sí, she’s smart. And I like her. But...” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You need to be careful, cabrón.”

Lando’s jaw tensed. “Why? Do you like her? Is that what this is?” The words came out sharper than he intended, something hot and ugly twisting in his gut. Jealousy. Stupid, immediate, and impossible to hide.

Carlos blinked. “Ay, no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lando didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said he wasn’t convinced.

Carlos sat back, arms folding again. “She’s not a paddock flirt, okay? She’s not like the grid girls or the influencers who want a selfie and a race pass. She is your boss’ daughter. You screw that up, it’s not just her you lose — it’s your job, your reputation, and the respect of thr whole damn garage. If you haven’t already lost your seat.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “Why does everyone act like I’m some... idiot teenager with zero self-control?”

Carlos held his gaze. “Because you are a teenager with zero self-control.”

“I’m nineteen!” He argued. 

“Exactly.” Carlos exhaled through his nose. “So, listen to me. If you’re serious? Fine. But don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “I’m not a total dickhead, y’know.”

Carlos gave him a long look, then nodded. “Bueno. Just remember what I said.”

Lando muttered under his breath, “Still worth it.”

Carlos groaned, grabbing a cushion off the sofa and chucking it at him. “Ay dios mío. You are so getting yourself fired.”

— 

Amelia was sat on the low wall outside the McLaren hospitality unit, sipping from her water bottle, tablet balanced on her knees.

She heard him before she saw him — Lewis never really moved quietly. Valtteri was beside him. 

“Morning, little genius,” Lewis said, slowing to a stop.

She looked up, blinked once. “Good morning.”

Valtteri gave a small nod. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m fine,” she said, glancing back down at her tablet. 

There was a pause. 

She sighed softly before looking up at them both. “You can tell Toto thank you,” she said, tone even. “For the offer. I appreciate it, but I’m not interested.”

Lewis blinked. “Offer?”

“Yes. The job.” She paused. “I assumed he’d told you.”

Valtteri and Lewis exchanged a glance; surprised, a little caught off guard.

“He didn’t,” Valtteri said slowly.

Lewis folded his arms. “He reached out to you directly?”

She nodded. “From his personal email. Not the Mercedes one.” That felt important.

Lewis let out a low whistle. “Damn. That sneaky bastard.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Amelia went on. “And I’m staying with my team. With my dad. Loyalty is important to me.”

Valtteri raised his brows. Lewis looked at her for a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. “Well, he’ll be disappointed,” he said, voice lighter now.

Amelia shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”

“Guess we’ll just have to beat you on track then,” Valtteri added, grinning.

She frowned down at her tablet screen. “You have a significantly better car than us.”

Lewis laughed. “Yeah. Guess we do.” 

— 

“Miss Brown, I’d like a word.”

She turned, blinked, and then frowned.

The team principal for Renault smiled at her, a little too wide — it was off-putting.

“I’ll just jump straight to it. I think you could be a great asset to our team. We’d love to have someone with your brain power. I could offer you a very generous employment package.” He said. 

She blinked at him. She’d been getting these exact kinds of propositions ever since the season started. Every team, it seemed, was suddenly interested in her ‘brain power’. She wasn’t sure what had changed. Maybe they had followed her on Twitter. 

“I am happy where I am,” she said flatly. “Thank you.” 

The man was still smiling, though it was starting to fade just a little. “Are you sure? We’d be willing to work out a very appealing arrangement for you. It could be a great opportunity.”

She wasn’t interested. She didn’t need to be polite. It didn’t take a lot of effort to walk away from the conversation. She took a step back, her fingers clenching around her yellow water bottle.

As she moved past him, she heard him call after her, but she didn’t stop.

Gosh, she thought to herself, as she made her way back to McLaren motorhome. Could none of them find anyone better than a 19-year-old without a degree?

NEXT CHAPTER

[highdramas]

peaceful road | dr. michael robinavitch

pairing: michael robinavitch x f!reader

warnings: language, age gap (reader is 29, robby is 50)

word count: 2392

summary: (small town au) you've lived in cradle point, oregon for nearly your entire life. when you come down with a nasty sickness, you meet dr. robby-- just having opened his new private practice after running away from it all.

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i'm very excited to kick off this series! i admittedly know little about operating a private practice, or medicine in general, so please forgive any inaccuracies. thank you for reading <3

--

dr. michael robinavitch starts his day at 7am, by habit more than anything else. he doesn’t begin seeing patients until 8am, but there’s something very comforting about the quiet of his office, the sound of the keyboard, the faint sound of johnny cash playing out of his speakers. he makes the short drive to work every day and he now has the time to stop for coffee, rather than make it at home.

life has been slower since that day in the pitt. that day that lead into an almost immediate sabbatical, which then lead to a resignation, he still has to fight off this notion that he gave up, that he conceded something. he wakes up and wonders most mornings still– how are they doing? how’s whittaker holding up? sometimes, he nearly texts dana to ask, then he remembers she’s now at a private practice, too. except she didn’t move across the country.

how could he stay in pittsburgh? what was going to be left for him there?

he loved the pacific northwest for a long time, after visiting one time with collins. he enjoyed portland, but he loved his time on the coast even more. when he thought about where he wanted a fresh start, that felt like a good a place as any.

after extensive research, he decided on cradle point. with a population of 1,500, and no private practice since the last doctor had moved away, it felt like a good place to try. and so he did. and after two months… well, things were going pretty well. it felt like he could breathe, while still doing the thing that he had burning passion for. he could save lives and not put his own mental health in turmoil every single day. he could step away from emergency medicine and live with himself.

that’s what he said to himself, anyway. sometimes, when he was feeling really crazy, he would go to the emergency room in lincoln city, and he’d sit in the parking lot and consider going in and asking if they needed an er physician. but then he always got back into his subaru and made the drive down the coastline back to cradle point.

he’s only on month two of operating his own private practice, and he doesn’t want to say that it’s perfect– he knows it isn’t. but it’s good. and that’s what he cares about.

hearing a tug at the door, his head pops up, tugging his readers off. it’s unusual to get anyone at his door until 9 or 10. he suspects that townsfolk are still trying to decide if they trust him– he gets it. well, not really, but he is starting to understand the small town mentality. the aversion to outsiders.

when he swings open the door and sees you, it starts up those same emergency medicine instincts. you look unsteady on your feet, holding a coffee, sunglasses on the crown of your head. “hi,” you say, voice graveled. “i’ve been wanting to come by and introduce myself–” you give him your name before you cough into the crook of your arm. “i’m sorry, i know you’re probably not open yet. my friends finally shamed me into coming, but i need to be at my shop at 8:30, and i saw that your light was on–”

“no, no. please, come in and sit.” he gestures to an exam bed which you hop onto. he can’t help his slight smile as you cross your legs and toss your bag into the chair by the exam table like you’ve done it the exact same way a million times. “did you used to see dr. jackson?”

michael doesn’t know much about his predecessor, other than that it sounded like he had pretty big shoes to fill. dr. angela jackson was beloved by the people of cradle point. that much was abundantly clear. you flush and laugh a little bit. “she’s my aunt.” you rub your hands on your pants and look at him sheepishly. “that’s a small town for ya.”

he laughs louder at that. “well,” he takes a step closer to you. “i’m not your aunt, but i’ll take good care of you. my name is dr. robinavitch, but most people call me dr. robby. i’m gonna do a quick exam on you and hopefully get you out of here.”

“thank you, dr. robinavitch.” you smile so earnestly it makes his heart stutter over itself.

shit.

–

you had a crush on the hot doctor. why did no one tell you that he was hot?

having lived in cradle point for your entire life, any new person moving into town was undeniably a big deal. it felt like, anymore, people moved away frequently, but there wasn’t a steady stream of those returning. of course, there was the tourists in the summer and the occasional retiree that would settle down on the coast. but most people didn’t feel like living out of the way of so much.

you loved your hometown. you loved the tall trees and the fact that you could walk onto the balcony off your bedroom and hear the faint crash of the ocean. you loved that your best friend erin was just like you, and had stayed, and that every day you could walk ten minutes down the road to see her. you loved that you could take your cat onto the beach in her little harness and leash whenever you wanted. you loved the farmers market. you loved being a business owner in this town. there wasn’t much that you didn’t like.

and you really loved when new people entered your orbit. there was a sort of excitement that it brought– it was so rare, how could you not be excited?

dr. robinavitch is thorough with you. you believe him when he says he’s doing to take good care of you. you’ve been going and going with little slowing since you got sick– not taking days off of work, carrying on despite your body screaming at you to stop. he cradles your face and gently presses on your cheeks, causing you to wince slightly. it’s then when he leans back and looks at you and says, “yeah, you’ve got a pretty nasty sinus infection. i’m gonna get you some antibiotics and you should be good to go within the next week. but you’re gonna need rest– no work. you think you can do that?”

“i can give it a really good try,” you say. “no, no– yeah, i won’t work. i’ll get erin to cover the store for a couple of days.”

“where do you work?”

“i own mazzy’s. it’s a bookstore on main street.” feeling bold, you say, “you should come by sometime, once i’m better. do you like to read? i can give you plenty of suggestions.” you pause, and add, sheepishly, “if you want, of course.”

michael, utterly charmed despite everything in him screaming at him not to be, shoves his hands into the pockets of his zip up hoodie. “yeah, i like to read. i’ve been driving past it every day and thinking about how i should go in. i’ve read through just about everything i’ve got.” that was about all he did during his sabbatical– reading, pretending, pushing it all down. “i’ll come by. i like sci fi.”

“sci fi! we have a great sci fi section–” you sneeze. “and fantasy, too, if you’re into that sort of thing.” you have that same sheepish look on your face and all he can think about is how sweet you are, how in fifteen minutes you’ve made him feel more welcome in this town than anyone else in the past month has made him feel. including his neighbors. no fault to them, he thinks; they would be in pretty stiff competition with you around.

no. you’re younger than him– twenty nine, he found out, as he was doing your intake. he may be having a midlife crisis, but he never fancied himself the type to go for a girl nearly half his age, let alone a patient. but then you start talking about a book called this is how you lose the time war and his heart does that same stuttering that it did earlier. maybe he should be the one seeing a doctor.

“--and, yeah, it’s a love story more than anything. a very good love story. not some of the cheesy slop that’s out right now. i mean, don’t the people want to yearn anymore?” you sigh, clearly exasperated at your own train of thought. you stand and grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “anyway. i’m sorry, i’ll get out of your hair.”

“no, no–” he chuckles, the sound awkward in his ears. “stay in my hair as much as you want.” it’s his turn to flush, but you are too, and you meet each others gaze and laugh together. maybe there’s some knowing it that laugh. that neither of you can quite place it, but… there’s something.

“as much as i’d love to, i should take your advice and get my rest. thank you so much, again–” you open the door to the clinic, greeted by the torrential downpour that started at some point while you and dr. robby were in your trance. “wow. anyway, i’ll be seeing you.”

“oh–” he grabs the door, holding it open for you and looking out at the unyielding rain. “you drive here?”

“i walked. i’ll be fine, i–”

before he can think better of it, he says, “i can drive you,” a doctor for more years than he can count at this point, and he’s teetering on breaking the code of ethics over the first girl he meets. of course. “if you want. only if you want.”

hanging onto the doorframe, you smile a little and look out to the rain. fuck it. “sure. thank you.”

–

you both make a quick jog to his car parked slightly down the road, tugging your hoods over your heads. “this one’s mine,” he says, pointing to an immaculate black subaru suv. he rushes to open your door for you, making sure you’re safely inside before he hops into the drivers seat. the sound of the rain pounding on his car fills your ears, and you’re both slightly out of breath, looking over at each other and smiling. “wouldn’t have been a fun walk home,” he muses.

you blow out a puff of air. “no, it wouldn’t have.” you lean your head back against the seat, sniffling some. “thank you.”

“my pleasure.” you’re still looking at each other for a beat when he clears his throat, starting up the car. “you lead the way.”

you provide him instructions on how to get to your small seaside cottage. it was your parents home– when they decided they were ready to go on and retire in southern california, tired of the rain of the oregon coast, they put the house in your name. it was your grandparents home before that, the entire house wrapped up in the history of your last name.

you provide him anecdotes regarding businesses and landmarks as you drive past them. “that’s mrs. felicia’s diner. have you eaten there yet? don’t get the pie. just trust me.” a moment later, “this is the lookout where high schoolers go to make out or smoke weed. it’s like, don’t they know they’re not that slick?”

michael listens to all your musings, riveted. having grown up in chicago, later relocating to pittsburgh, he’s always been a big city guy. big cities have their own charms, quirks, and rituals– but none the way that you’re describing to him. he likes that about cradle point. that you have a story for every square inch of this town.

“so. why did you move here?” you ask. it’s an innocent enough question, and you’re not the first person who has asked it but it still makes his heart seize up. “i mean– i’m just not used to new people. you’re probably gathering that none of us are.”

“yup, i’ve gathered that much.” he tries not to sound too irritable. it’s not your fault you’re asking. it’s not your fault that he’s so fucked up, that he feels like he can’t run fast enough away from his past. “i was just ready for a change.”

“and where did you move from?”

“pittsburgh.”

“did you like it?”

“yeah, until i didn’t.” he sighs. “i’m sorry. i’m not trying to be a hardass.”

shaking your head, you look down at your hands. “no, i’m sorry i’m prying.”

“don’t be. don’t be, really– i’m the asshole. trust me.”

you begin approaching your street. it’s idyllic– framed with trees, sloping hills with various beautiful beach homes surrounding it. the beach is but a stone’s throw away, and he feels a pang of jealousy. he’s certainly not without the funds, but a beachside home was not in the cards for him. “this is me,” you point to the home, and he smiles a little. of course it is. it’s quaint, but charming. there’s a beautiful garden out front and a cat napping in the front window. “thank you again.”

“you’re welcome. and about before, i–”

“nope. no more apologies needed.” you give a reassuring smile. “thank you for the antibiotics. thank you for the drive. and…” you fumble around in your purse for your store business card and a pen, scribbling a string of numbers onto it. “if you ever want a book recommendation…” you pass the card to him. “just let me know.”

staring down at the card, your logo– a cat sleeping on a stack of books– he rubs his thumb on the worn paper where you’ve just written your phone number with the word “cell” ahead of it. he wonders how long it’s been in your bag. if you give these out to just anyone. “i’ll do that.”

with a final smile and a wave, you speed walk towards your house. he watches to make sure you get inside safely. when the door has shut, he leans his forehead onto the steering wheel, a long breath coming from deep in his chest.

twenty feet away, you’re leaning with your back against your front door, your hand on your chest, an identical breath coming out of you.

[cevansbrat0007]

Bold Moves

Summary: You decide to slip Ari your panties during an innocent encounter at the public library...

Warnings: Mature Themes, Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Brief Discussions of Body Image, Bird Being Brave, Going Commando, Light Roleplaying, Frisking, Manhandling, Spanking, Ass Slapping, P in V Sex, Implied Overstimulation, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Decided to finish this when I came across it in my drafts. Takes place earlier in Ari and Bird's romantic relationship. Part of my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

“I’m so glad you pitched me this idea, Marisol.” You beam as you finish writing in your notebook. “I know it’s still early yet, but I would love to collaborate with you for Halloween.”

“Yes!” The younger woman cheers, throwing her arms up in the air. “I knew I picked the right woman.”

“Just I knew they picked the right woman to run the town library.” You throw her a wink before tucking your pad and pen back into your purse. “Now, I hate to cut this meeting short…” Out of habit you press a hand against your belly, silently wishing you’d opted to throw on a pair of spanx this morning instead of a flimsy pair of panties. 

Frankly, you were tired of sucking it in. But every time you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror you looked pretty damn good. Perhaps your confidence was growing after all. 

“But I need to get home and change so I can run by the shop before it gets too late.” You finish, feeling grateful when the sweet librarian sees fit to lead you out of her office.

“Sooo…” The dark-haired woman drags out the word, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as you both come around the corner. “Word on the street is that you’ve been seeing a lot of Detective Levinson lately. Everything good, I hope?”

 “What do you mean?” You respond, willing your pulse to remain steady. “Everything’s fine. He just…likes for me to call him whenever something new pops up about Martin. That’s all.”

And whenever you lock up in the evening. And when you make it home. And then again to decide if he’s coming to your place for the night. Or, if you’re already on the back roads heading to his. 

It was all so fun and exciting. But at the same time, it was just sex. Amazing sex, mind you. But just sex all the same.    

Instead of responding immediately, Marisol simply chooses to link her arm through yours. “Mm. While I haven’t lived here long, I’ve already learned how much this town loves gossip.” She muses. “Which is why I try to fly under the radar at all times.”

“Uh huh.” You give her a gentle nudge. “Even when it comes to a certain Officer Milton?”

“Shh! We do no not speak that man’s name in this house!”

“Why not?”

“Because I feel like he always goes out of his way to just…be around. He’s like a puppy. I do not have time for puppies, chica. I’m too busy building a career amongst the books.”

“Well sugar, I suppose you might wanna tell him that.”

“Ay, but that would involve making conversation. Something I also do not have time for because–”

“Because he’s standing over there by the door, talking to our favorite resident detective.” You interrupt with a giggle, prompting the other woman to drop your arm in a flourish before racing off back in the direction of her office before squeaking out “you never saw me” - leaving you alone. 

You allow yourself to stand there for another moment, content with watching the two men talk. While both were easy on the eyes, you were only interested in one of them. Glancing down at your outfit, you once again reassure yourself that you’re looking pretty damned good. 

And then – just that fast – an idea strikes you.

Refusing to overthink what it was you were about to do, you discreetly make your way into the ladies room. After checking to make sure you were alone, you slip into a stall. Reaching underneath your skirt, you slide your lacy black panties down your thighs before stepping out of them. 

Biting your lip, you tuck the small scrap of fabric into your pocket. Once you’re finished, you go to leave. But not before stopping long enough to refresh your lip gloss and fluff your curls. And then you’re out the door.

Hopefully you’d be able to catch the handsome bounty hunter before he left.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take you long to find him. He’s right where you saw him last – near the front of the library still talking to Milton. As you near the two, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll be able to pull this off without making an absolute fool of yourself. 

But first you’d have to find a way to get rid of Officer Milton without making your intentions obvious. And then it hits you. While it might be wrong, it was officially time to pawn him off on your favorite new friend.

Marisol.

“Good afternoon, Officer Milton.” You chirp as you sidle forward, politely interrupting their conversation. “Detective Levinson.” Of course you’re immediately met with smiles from both men. 

“Well get a load a’ you.” Milton gives a playful whistle once he gets a good look at your business attire. “Lookin’ sharp, darlin. Goin’ somewhere special?”

“Actually, I just came from a meeting down at the bank.” You tell them, smoothing your hands along your gray pencil skirt. 

“Ahh.” The officer nods. “Fingers crossed all went well.”

“It did. Thank you.” Delicately clearing your throat, you make a show of glancing around before directing your complete attention to the young officer in front of you. “While I hate to interrupt you two when you’re hard at work, I think Marisol might need you.”

“She does?” The man immediately perks up, vaguely reminding you of your neighbor’s golden retriever. 

“Yep.” You wince inwardly, hating yourself for lying. “Not sure what it’s about, but I think she’s somewhere in the back.” 

Just like that, a switch has been flipped and Officer Milton is off on the hunt for a sweet little librarian who most certainly did not need him. Fingers crossed she would catch the hint and just go with it. 

And now you’re alone with the one man with the power to leave you breathless. You were constantly left tied up in knots around this man. But today it was finally time you turned the tables on this guy. 

“How’s the manhunt going, Detective? Any new leads?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss this part of my investigation with you, Miss.” He says, flashing you a rather charming smile. “But if you hear from our guy Martin anytime soon, be sure to give me a call.”

“Of course.” You nod, feeling your cheeks heat. “Well, I’d best be goin’ now.”

“Be safe gettin’ home.” 

“Same to you. Detective.”

And then, without sparing him so much as a warning glance, you discreetly remove your panties from their hiding spot and slip them into the back pocket of his jeans. To his credit, Ari doesn’t move a muscle. Instead he continues to stare straight ahead, his gaze never wavering.  

Head held high, you manage to make it all the way to your car before collapsing in a fit of nervous laughter. While you wished you could’ve seen his face, you know deep down that you were better off running off the way you had.  

Maybe he’d call you tonight and maybe he wouldn’t. But all that mattered is that you’d mustered up enough confidence to make some bold moves this afternoon, which by all accounts made you a bad bitch.

Later That Same Evening…

It’s been hours since you pulled that stunt with Ari, but as luck would have it, you still had yet to hear from him. Not that you were worried or anything. In fact, if you had to choose an emotion, you were more disappointed than anything else.

While you’d long since abandoned your high heels by your front door, you were still wearing the outfit you’d worn to the bank. You’d simply been too excited to go by the shop so you’d decided to remain closed for the day.

Heaving a sigh as you rise from the couch, you’re in the middle of debating whether or not it’s worth trying to cobble together something for dinner when you hear the sound of your doorbell. Confused, you go to reach for your phone, only to frown when you see there’s nothing from the one man you wanted to hear from most.

The bell chimes again, prompting you to get a move on. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” You mumble, stretching your arms above your head. Opening the door, you’re treated to the sight of a large man standing on your porch with his hands in his pocket, his official badge prominently displayed on his hip. 

Hello, Detective Ari Levinson. 

“Evening, Miss. Apologies for bothering you so late.” 

“Why hello, Detective. Somethin’ I can help you with?” You do your best to keep your tone light while you wait for him to explain himself.

“Sure hope so. Got a report about someone engaging in some inappropriate behavior.” He informs you, barely concealing his smirk as he leans his big body against the porch railing.

“Is that right?”

“Fraid so.” He nods solemnly. “In fact, I actually found a trail of evidence that led me right here to your front door.”

“I…well, there has to be some mistake.” You protest, your hand flying to your chest. 

“Huh.” Ari sucks on his teeth as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a small scrap of lacy black fabric. “Then you wouldn’t happen to know who these belong to, would you?”

Your eyes go wide at the sight of your panties dangling from one thick index finger. 

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, but they’re certainly not mine.” You sniff haughtily. “I’ve never seen those before in my life.”

“Now, Miss.” He gently chastises, taking another step towards you, invading your space. “Perhaps I should warn you that it’s a crime to lie to a member of law enforcement.” Instead of responding you simply fold your arms across your heaving bosom. 

The nerve of this man, thinking he had the right to question you like this right out in the open. Honestly, what would your neighbors think? The scandal!

“You know what? I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna need to search the premises.” The bounty hunter moves to enter your home, only to growl when your hand stops him short. “It’s also a felony to impede an official investigation.” Ari grunts, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

“And I'm thinkin’ I'm gonna need to see a warrant first, Detective.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch his eyes darken - his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. 

“I’m sure a good girl like you ain’t got nothin’ to hide.” Ari rasps, leaning in so that his mouth now hovers a mere inch above your ear. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” You respond, sounding a little more breathless than you’d like.

“Unless there’s something in there you don’t want me to find?”

“I don’t have anything to hide.” Blowing out a breath you decide to give the man what he wants, if only to see what comes next

“Not sure I believe you, sweetheart.”

“Fine.” You concede. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you come in for a quick look. But you’ve gotta be fast.” You tell him, poking him in the shoulder before turning to lead him into your home. “Because I’m expecting company any minute and we don’t need an audience.”

“We’ll see.”

Your pulse kicks up when you hear Ari shut the door behind you, followed by the quiet snick of the lock. Guess that meant he thought he was staying awhile. Just as you open your mouth to protest, you’re caught off guard when he brushes by you, allowing you to catch a hint of his cologne. 

“I’m not sure what you’re on, Detective.” You say, shooting him your fiercest glare. Meanwhile, this man responds with his most lethal grin. “But I’m giving you five minutes to figure it out before I–” 

“You know, Miss, I didn’t wanna ask you this outside. Especially given the already delicate nature of this investigation. But do you happen to be wearing any panties?”

“Excuse me?!” His question has your mouth falling open, your cheeks burning hot with outrage.

“Answer the question.” His eyes track your every movement as you slowly back away in the direction of the stairs. “Because every good girl I know puts on a pair of panties before leaving the house for the day.”

“Goodnight, Detective Levinson.” You hiss before turning and taking the stairs two by two. “Please see yourself out before I’m forced to call your supervisor.”

Your words are met with silence. And it’s not until you reach the edge of your bedroom that you hear him moving – up the same stairs you’d just scaled only seconds before. You can hardly suppress a shiver as the heady thrum of anticipation courses through you. 

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart.” Ari growls softly as his impressive form fills your doorway, effectively blocking your only exit. “But I’m not through with my investigation.” It’s a struggle to ignore just how good he looks taking up space in your bedroom like this. 

“I want you to leave.”

“Oh, I will. As soon as I’m finished.” He takes a step towards you, rolling up his sleeves as he does. “But first, I’m gonna need you to turn and place your hands on the wall.”

“I–I will do no such thing!” Comes your almost breathless reply. “I’m not a criminal.”

“Hm.” Ari cocks his head, his magnetic blue eyes leering at your much smaller, curvier frame. “But you are a suspect.” In less than a fraction of a second, this man is now standing in front of you. “And it would be rather reckless of me if I didn’t pat you down.” One large hand curls itself around your bicep before gently leading to a nearby wall. “You should know that I’m a bit of a stickler when it comes to following protocol.” 

Blood roaring in your ears, you place both of your hands on the cool surface. Taking a deep breath, you can’t help but jump when he kicks your feet apart, forcing you to spread your legs even wider, granting him better access.

“I’m gonna report you.” Unfortunately for you, your flimsy threat does nothing to deter him.

Your eyes fall shut when you feel two large, warm hands glide their way up and down your arms. It feels as tempting as it does comforting. He repeats the action twice more, almost as if he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security. 

Next, those wandering hands are stroking along your sides, greedily following the path of your curves. And then you feel him bury his nose in the crook of your neck. It’s impossible to miss his soft groan as he inhales your sweet scent.

“Now I’ve gotta ask you, little Bird.” He hums, his sharp teeth nipping at your ear. “Do you have anything on you that could stab, stick, or poke me?” 

“N-no.” 

God, you were so fucking wet right now it’s embarrassing. And you can’t stop the moan that catches in your throat when his sensual ministrations move to your breasts – cupping, massaging, and kneading. He lewdly palms them through your blouse, this thumps paying extra attention to your hardened nipples. Your back arches of its own accord as he continues to play with your body.

And there’s a part of you that hates yourself for the way he makes you respond.  

“Hm. So far so good, baby. Proud of you for keeping your hands where I can see ‘em.” Now his hands are skimming down your hips to toy with the hem of your skirt. His warm breath dances along your sensitive skin, making you shiver. “But now it’s time for the big question.” Ari begins inching your skirt higher and higher. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Are you–”

“This ain’t right, Detective!” You protest, protectively clenching your thighs together. However, your words only make him chuckle. “Pretty sure this is an illegal search and seizure.”

“As a member of law enforcement, I would have to respectfully disagree with you.” He says at the same time as he grinds himself against you, his massive erection pressing into your lower back. “It’s my job to keep the community safe. And to deal with naughty girls who go around handing out their unmentionables to strangers.” Your skirt inches even higher now, stopping just short of revealing your dripping cunt. 

“And what do you know?” He purrs, holding you still as his hand dips between your thighs, cupping your most intimate flesh. “Looks like we’ve got a little liar on our hands. Don’t we?”

“Don’t. We.” The renewed authority in his tone makes your pussy quiver.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And how should we handle liars, sweetheart? Hm?” Your knees go weak when you feel two thick fingers spear their way through your messy folds, lightly strumming over your clit. “What should we do with you?”

“....I…don’t know….”

His deep chuckle has you squirming in his hold, your hips bucking as he continues to grind the heel of his palm against your sensitive nub.  

“Tell you what. You and I are about to have a serious conversation about what happens to pretty young ladies who can’t seem to tell the truth. Even when it’s in their best interest. What do ya say?”

“Y–yes, Sir.” You moan as your eyes threaten to roll back in your head, sparks of pleasure dancing behind your eyes. “Whatever you want – I’ll be so, sooo good!”

Thirty Minutes Later…

“Why the fuck you keep runnin’, baby?” Ari growls, smacking your bottom hard. “Yeah, get that juicy ass back here. Love watchin’ those cheeks bounce.”

The rhythmic sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, spilling out into the hall as Ari drives into you over and over again with his impressive cock. 

He’d been hard for hours before he ever showed up on your doorstep. Frankly, he’d lost count of how many times he’d paused throughout the day to bring your panties to his nose. It was like he couldn’t seem to get enough of how good you smelled. But he also knew that wouldn’t be enough.

He needed to taste you. Needed your unique, earthy flavor on his tongue. 

Thankfully, he had no doubt that he’d have time to eat the fuck out of your sweet pussy later. After he was finished fucking you into oblivion for being such bad girl. Who would’ve guessed his little Bird had it in her to be so deliciously naughty?

Meanwhile, you’re too busy sobbing into a pillow to be proud of yourself right now, your hands fisting the sheets while your man exacts his revenge on your body. At this rate, you’d already cum twice. And here you were already roaring along to orgasm number three. 

Fuck, this man was a goddamned menace!

Your desperate cries grow louder as Ari picks up his pace, forcing you to clench around him as you finally resort to begging.

“Please, Ari!” You wail when he lifts your hips higher before adjusting the angle of his strokes. “I–ooh God–M’so close!”

“Oh yeah?” He snarls, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. “Then let me see you work for it.” A sharp hiss escapes when his heavy palm comes down on your ass again, this time smacking both cheeks without so much as missing a beat. “This is how bad girls get punished.” You tense when he delivers yet another blow. “They’ve gotta work for their pleasure.”

“I’m sorry–wooh God!” Your voice comes out raw, bordering on hoarse.       

“That’s it, baby. Yeah, there we go.” He gifts you with another slap, earning a sharp yelp from you. “Yeah, throw it back like you love it.”

After an afternoon of being bad, there’s nothing you want more than to be good for this man. You wanted to please him. Make him happy. If only so he never stopped touching you. And you were trying – honest to God, you were.

But it was all too good. Too much. 

“Just know, everytime you run, I’m gonna drag that sweet ass right back.” Ari renews his punishing grip on your hips, holding you up even as your sweat slicked body starts to give out. “Now cum for me one more time so I can finally stop takin’ it easy on you, pretty Bird.”

END

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[tthoroughfare]

kerosene // ellie williams

*･゜ﾟ･* summary: the setup of a slow burn between you and ellie.

*･゜ﾟ･* pairing: jackson!ellie x reader

*･゜ﾟ･* content: sfw

*･゜ﾟ･* length: 1.7k

so... this actually started out as NOTHING. i planned for it to be nothing. just me, my pages app and my love for jackson!ellie & that fuck ass hoodie against the world. howeverrrr i may or may not have written almost 10k so far that i'm planning to split up (and continue) into an ongoing series just focusing on you and ellie living in jackson, spending time with your friends, slowly falling in love. real piners rise

god i just love jackson ellie so much. her little nerdy cocky self

the idea of being friends and pining over each other for literal years because you’re both too scared to say anything… catching the other staring, having a few little moments here and there but chalking it up to nothing because you both don’t believe the other would see you like that.

and then she starts dating cat and you’re just like welp. guess this is really never ever gonna happen after all. you let yourself mope for a while, not wanting to go out as much for fear of seeing them together and feeling that strange pang in your chest — just overall being weird and avoiding ellie. you feel silly, really, locking yourself away and listening to sad music over someone you were never even with.

you selfishly hope it doesn’t last long, that it’s just a fling, but when months go by and they’re still together, you come to some sort of acceptance. you even date someone else for a short while to try and take your mind off of her, but quickly realize you’re just searching for scattered parts of her in someone else. and something in your gut tells you that while nothing’s wrong within the relationship, it just doesn’t feel right. doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to.

meanwhile, ellie’s mindset was that she never really saw you as attainable in the first place. and she did genuinely really like cat, so when she initiated the relationship, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t excited to see where it went. you were always at the back of her mind, though. she didn’t like the way you’d distanced yourself. you were never best friends, but definitely fairly close. she felt the switch almost overnight, the way you stopped going out of your way to talk to her, stopped asking her to tag along when you'd hang out with jesse and dina. she didn’t know what your deal was. the thought that you might be jealous did cross her mind, but she quickly swatted it away. why would you be jealous? it’s only her.

when you started seeing someone yourself, it was like confirmation. nothing was ever gonna happen, you weren’t jealous; how could any of that be the case when you were right there, with someone else? she cursed herself for even thinking about any of it, guilty conscience thick when her mind would then turn to cat. she knew she shouldn’t be deliberating whether you were jealous, whether you liked her, whether anything could ever happen between you, when she had a girlfriend.

she tried her hardest to push you out of her mind whenever you’d arise. she still saw you around, sometimes alone, sometimes with your girlfriend. you’d talk pleasantly, share a few laughs, but it wasn’t like it used to be.

and then one day, when she’s on her way home, she sees you by yourself. you’re sitting under a tree reading, headphones in. she can’t help but notice you look a little melancholy, like you don’t want to be bothered. she deliberates on whether to disturb you or not, stopping, then going to walk away, then stopping again. against her better judgement, she wanders over to you and nudges you gently with the side of her foot.

you look up, offering a small smile and tugging your headphones out. “hey.”

“hey.” ellie mirrors you, shooting back a soft smile of her own. a beat of slightly awkward silence passes as she tries to think of the reason she actually came over. she doesn’t even have one.

“what’s up?” you ask after a few seconds.

“uh… not much. just… uh… wanted to say hi.”

the corner of your mouth quirks into a slight smirk. “well… you just did.”

ellie breathes out a quiet chuckle, bringing her hands together to mess with her fingers. “very funny.” she pauses, then hesitantly crouches and sits beside you. “whatcha reading?”

you turn the cover so that she can see it. “mystery book,” you say, eyes flitting between ellie and the novel, before you rest it back in your lap, starting to lightly read again.

“you want me to tell you who the killer is?”

you chuckle, looking back up at ellie. “sure, take a stab at it.”

ellie’s eyebrows raise slightly. “pun intended?”

you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as you realize what you just said. “nope. guess i’m just too witty.”

she looks down and smiles lightly, before looking up at the sky in feigned thought. she clicks her fingers. “it’s the priest.”

you let out a laugh. “there isn’t even a priest in it.”

“that’s what you think,” she quips back, feigning seriousness. “he will be introduced in… 43 pages.”

you roll your eyes, unable to hold back a smile. “shut up.”

“nope. wanna hear some more of my predictions? 100% accuracy guaranteed.”

“sure.”

“… you’re in a shitty mood,” ellie says matter-of-factly, before her voice softens. “seriously, you good? you look all…”

she trails off, gesturing at you slightly.

you chew at the inside of your cheek. truth be told, you are in a shitty mood, but you didn’t realize it was visible. plus, you don’t really want to talk about it. especially not to ellie, of all people. “yeah, nah, i’m fine.”

she just gives you a look in reply — one to say, ‘i’m not stupid’. to which, you let out a small sigh and shake your head. you’re not good at lying to ellie. “okay, i guess i may be in a… tiny bit of a slump.”

she shuffles a bit, leaning back on her hands. “why? what’s wrong?”

you pick at your nail, pausing. “i don’t know, man. just… yeah. stuff.”

“what kinda stuff?”

you curse her in your head for pushing, but simultaneously feel a pulse in your chest that she cares. you don’t particularly want to talk to ellie about your relationship. or lack thereof. it feels embarrassing, for some reason. in the end, you let out a small, defeated sigh. “ugh. just… so… i’m not with you-know-who anymore.”

ellie raises her eyebrows, trying to ignore the way she feels selfish relief. “damn. that sucks.”

you shrug. “i suppose so.”

another awkward pause occurs as ellie tries to think of what to say. comforting people has never really been her forte, but she wants to try for you. plus, she’s curious. “…wh-what happened?”

you look up, eyes flitting around the scenery, pulling a small face as you think. “nothing, really. just… wasn’t working. like… didn’t really feel right, y’know?”

she quirks an eyebrow, looking sideways at you. “so it was you, huh?”

you let out something between a breathed out chuckle and a groan. “…yeah. i felt really mean.”

“damn. you’re ruthless. heartbreaker,” she teases deadpan in response, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

to which, you roll your eyes and snicker, the smile lingering on your face. even in the worst mood, you’d noticed, ellie could always make you laugh somehow. “shut up. it wasn’t like that.”

“then what was it like?”

you shrug lightly, toying with the cover of your book. “i don’t know. went as best as it could, i suppose. i have nothing against her, nothing happened, it just… yeah. like i said. wasn’t right.”

ellie hums in acknowledgment, looking away in thought. her silence feels a little uncomfortable, driving you to babble on. “i don’t know, she’s nice and everything, but it just felt like we were kind of… wasting each other’s time. i didn’t see it actually going anywhere. i know we’re still young, and… y’know, it’s hardly like we have to marry each other or whatever. but something just felt missing. i don’t know.”

you glance at ellie briefly, then back down at your book, tracing the cover art with your fingertip. “like… you and cat. you guys seem happy. what does that feel like?”

she feels a little taken off guard. she’s not used to talking about this with anyone; anyway, nobody’s ever really asked. she shifts, sitting cross legged and leaning her forearms on her thighs, messing with her hands. “uh… i don’t know. i haven’t really thought about it.”

you furrow your eyebrows slightly. not really the reaction you were expecting. “oof. what does that mean?”

ellie lets out a drawn out hum, wrinkling her chin. “… i don’t know. i suppose it just feels… hm. it’s just… what it is. i guess.”

you pull a face, blowing air through your nose. “wow. don’t get too sappy on me, now. you’re gushing.”

her eyes roll in response to your sarcasm, a lopsided smirk on her face. “shut up.”

you mirror her smile, meeting her eyes for a few seconds, trying to shove down the way it burns a hole through you, makes your chest feel like it’s constricting.

the moment is broken by a call of ellie’s name. you both automatically look up, spotting cat strolling over with a bright smile on her face. 

“speak of the devil,” you murmur jokingly, turning to look back at ellie briefly.

she scoffs in response, moving to stand up. when cat presses a small kiss to her lips in greeting, resting a hand on her arm, you avert your eyes.

cat looks down at you, offering a soft smile and a wave. “hey.”

“hey,” you reply, looking back up. you did really like cat. you weren’t necessarily friends, but she was cool, and funny, and always nice to you. you flit your eyes between her and ellie as she turns back, addressing her girlfriend.

“i was on my way to yours. we still watching a movie tonight?”

ellie looks down at you, then back at cat, an unreadable expression on her face. “uh… yeah, yeah. for sure.”

cat smiles at ellie, taking her hand and lightly swinging it between them. “… well, we’ll leave you to it,” she says to you.

you nod slowly. “yup. catch you two later.”

you wave half-heartedly at them both as they walk away hand-in-hand, free hands returning the gesture. you busy yourself with putting your headphones back in and choosing a new song, but if you were looking up, you’d have seen ellie look back at you. twice.

[freeabortionslol]

don't marry him (quinn hughes x bsf!reader) ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

summary: angst, quinn talks reader out of engagement, unrequited love (kinda), reader is a lawyer, lots of flashbacks, italics mean flashbacks, not a single y/n used (yay!) warnings!! anxiety, panic attacks, cursing, intense argument a/n: okay so I rly didn't know what to do with this bc it honestly felt wrong to have him confess his feelings in this moment LMAO so I think I'm def gonna do a pt 2. anyways this was the fic from my drafts that the people voted for so here it is!! hope u enjoy :)

wc: 4.1k

“You lost.” Quinn said, staring out at the Lake, not making eye contact with you.

“What?” You asked, twirling your flashy engagement ring around your finger. 

Max had come into your life at a time when everything felt uncertain. You were fresh off a series of career setbacks, questioning your worth and your ability to build the future you had always dreamed of. He was steady, charismatic, and above all, ambitious. Qualities you admired and felt you needed to anchor yourself. He made you feel secure in a world that often felt chaotic.

Quinn sighed, turning to face you slightly. “At life. You lost.” He mumbled out, taking a sip of his beer before turning back to the lake. Your face quickly softened with a hint of sadness.

“I-I didn’t lose. I’m happy and successful.” You said, your tone coming off with a hint of anger. 

You and Max met at a work conference, one of those overly formal events where you spent half the time pretending to be interested in panel discussions and the other half networking. Max had approached you during a coffee break, his easy confidence setting him apart from the crowd. His suit was perfectly tailored, his smile sharp but not unkind.

Quinn took one look at you, shifting in his seat slightly. “Y-You…you don’t want this.” Your heart thumped slightly, cracking your knuckles to drown out the sounds of your own thoughts. “I’m scared for you.” 

Max’s love came with conditions. He valued success above all else, and he expected you to do the same. Work always came first, even if it meant skipping family events or cutting vacations short for a meeting. He didn’t understand why you needed to spend time with Quinn, Luke, and Jack.

“Quinn, I love him. You know that.” Your brows furrowed in an attempt to make him understand. 

The engagement came as a surprise, even to you. It was during a charity gala, one of those glittering events Max thrived in. He had pulled you onto the stage during his speech, getting down on one knee in front of hundreds of people. The ring sparkled under the chandeliers, and the applause was deafening. You had said yes because saying no didn’t feel like an option. Not with Max’s expectant smile, the cameras flashing, and the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

“But do you like him?” His words sent a shiver down your spine as you continued to fidget with the ring on your finger. The ring that was far too heavy to be wearing constantly, its band made of gold instead of your preferred silver. His words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking in your chest like a stone tossed in the still waters of the lake. His gaze remained fixed ahead, unwavering.

Max wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t cruel or unkind. But he didn’t see you, not the way Quinn did. He saw your potential, your ambition, but not the person you were when all the noise fell away.

“I-I…I don’t- of course I like him. What are you getting at?” You stuttered, confused about your own feelings on the matter. Quinn glanced at you with a side eye, taking another swig from his bottle before speaking.

“Really?” He asked, his heart shattering at the sight of tears welling in your eyes. “I see the face you make when he talks. It’s blank, unreadable. And when he laughs? Your eyes scrunch up like when we would drag you out of bed to get on the boat.” Quinn lets out an uncomfortable chuckle. “You really want to wake up next to his mustache every morning for the rest of your life?” You roll your eyes, posture slumping.

“Don’t make fun of him.” You warned, your voice becoming stern. Quinn bites the inside of his mouth before turning away. “I’m successful, Quinn.”

“Yeah-yeah, that’s great. You have all the fuckin’ money you could’ve wished for.” He huffs out with a sarcastic smile.

“Don’t do that. Don’t make me sound materialistic-” You crossed your arms, Quinn cutting you off quickly.

“Well it’s kind of hard when all you do is work and work-” His voice raises significantly.

“This is my dream! If you can’t accept the fact that i’m happy-”

“Yeah! And you’re so damn caught up in it that you don’t have time for us anymore!” He yells, sending you a look of anger. One you’d never seen before. He breathes heavily, trying to calm himself down as he moves to the edge of his seat. His eyes soften when he catches your expression, scared. He sighs reluctantly before he speaks again. “Luke notices the way you brush him off when Max is around. He notices how you never fly out to Jersey to see him and Jack like you used to.” Your breath hitched as Quinn’s words pierced through the air. His voice had calmed, but the raw emotion in his eyes cut deeper than his raised tone ever could. You looked away, not able to face the weight of his gaze, and stared at the rippling water instead. The golden light of the setting sun shimmered on the surface, mimicking the perfection you thought you’d built. 

“Luke said that?” You whispered, your voice barely audible. A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down, refusing to let it show. You didn’t want this, not here, not ever. 

“Yeah.” He replied softly. “Jack see’s it too. They miss you.” Quinn turned his head to face you, your gaze still not meeting his. “I miss you.” You turned to glance at him, tears bubbling as you brushed a strand of hair from your face. You continued playing with your ring, biting your lip to hold the cries. 

You sniffled, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “This is my life. I won.” You croaked out. Quinn sighed, leaning back in his seat as he swirled the beer bottle in his hand.

“When we were kids, my Aunt Julia came over to visit us during christmas. Do you remember that?” He asked quietly, catching you off guard in a moment of vulnerability. You nodded your head, continuing to bite your lip. “She asked all of us- Me, you, Jack, and Luke ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’” Your eyes softened quickly, bringing your knees to your chest. “Do you remember what you said?” He asked, his tone empathetic.

“Yeah, a lawyer-”

“A mother.” He interrupted. The words hit you like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from your lungs. You froze, staring at Quinn as the memories hit like a tidal wave.

“I…I don’t remember that.” Your voice barely above a whisper.

Quinn gave you a sad smile, his eyes softening. “You do. You just don’t want to.” He brought the bottle to his mouth, looking out at the lake again. The two of you sat in the thick silence. Quinn, knowing he was winning this conversation and you, overthinking every little moment from the past two years. Tears began to escape your eyes as you stared out at the lake, refusing to look at Quinn. He turned to you, seeing how hard this conversation was for you. He wanted to pull you into him, let you cry into his shoulder until all the pain went away, but that wasn’t his job anymore. It was Max’s. The pain burned deep into Quinn’s chest as he recalled every memory he shared with you at this house. Jumping off the boat together on hot summer days, neighborhood barbecues where you would wear those short little sundresses he liked so much, your first kiss while playing spin the bottle together, and of course every deep conversation you shared on this back deck, in these exact chairs. When he was thirteen, he was sure of the fact that he would marry you. He never expected to be sitting here, watching you fiddle with an engagement ring that he didn’t buy. 

You blinked, wiping the tears from your face as you decided to face your fear of confrontation. “I-If I don’t work hard now, I won’t have anything left when I'm old and burnt out.” Quinn’s jaw clenched as he processed your words, his gaze fixed on the lake but his mind clearly elsewhere. He tilted his head back slightly, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to suppress his frustration. Your lip trembled, more tears falling by the second as you looked away. 

“H-He um-” You paused, taking a long sigh as you looked over at Quinn. “He says there’s no time for children in our career.” Quinn whipped his head over to you, his expression softening as he got lost in your words. 

“He’s a piece of shit.” Quinn mumbled, shaking his head as he returned his gaze to the lake. 

You licked your lips as you rolled your eyes. “He’s not a piece of shit, okay? He’s a good guy, you just don’t know him.” You said, your tone growing in frustration. Quinn looked over to you, mouth open, brows furrowed as if you’d just said the most unbelievable thing. 

He huffed out a small laugh before returning his eyes to the bottle in his hand. “You’re fuckin’ delusional.” He let out quietly, taking another sip. You whipped your head to him, your frustration quickly bubbling over. 

“Excuse me-”

Quinn was quick to interrupt you, his voice raised slightly. “You heard me. You’re fucking delusional if you think that’s love.” He rolled his eyes, looking back at you. 

You scoffed, licking your bottom row of teeth as you let out an uncomfortable laugh. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” Your expression had become serious, your tears stopping in their tracks. “This is love!” Your voice carefully rose in volume. “I fell in love,” You laughed slightly, letting a slight smile escape your lips out of frustration. “You’re just jealous.” 

Quinn’s face turned bright red as he took in your words. He looked down at his lap, then back to you. He bit the inside of his cheek, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle before speaking. “Jealous?” He asked, brows furrowed. “My god, you're so full of yourself sometimes.” He didn’t mean that and he knew, but you didn’t. You bit your lip, trying to hold back tears as your best friend tore you apart. “You seriously think i’m jealous of him?” He asked, his voice just below a yell.

“No, of me!” Quinn froze, his beer bottle mid air as the words echoed between the two of you. “You’re jealous because I found love and-”

Quinn slammed the bottle on the wooden deck, the sharp sound making you flinch. “Don’t.” He snapped, his voice shaking with anger. “Don’t twist this into me being the bad guy for giving a shit about you.” 

“You don’t give a shit!” You shot back, standing up as your emotions boiled over. “You just can't stand the fact that i’m not following you around like a fucking puppy anymore!” Quinn stood too, his frame towering over you, but his expression wasn’t filled with intimidation. It was filled with raw, unfiltered pain. 

June 23rd, 2012

Dear diary, today was pretty good. In the morning, Jack and Luke jumped on my bed to wake me up which sucked, but when are they not annoying? Anyways, they dragged me down to the lake for a boat day. We went with their dad and their brother Quinn (my future husband). Jack and Luke were doing this wakeboard surfing thingy so I decided to stay close to Quinn. He’s just sooo perfect. His hair is amazing and he smells so good. I wanna be his girlfriend like literally so bad but I can’t tell if he likes me or not. He held my hand when we jumped in the water which was literally the best thing that has EVER happened to me. Anyways, that was the most important thing that happened today.

“What are you reading? You don’t read.” Jack’s piercing voice pulled Quinn straight from focus. He quickly turned around, shutting the book immediately.

“Nothing uh- just something for school.” He stammered out. Jack furrowed his brows, crossing his arms. 

“It’s summer.”

“Yeah, summer reading.” Only it wasn’t summer reading. It was your diary, something personal and private. Quinn was only reading it to find out where you hid the hockey puck you stole, but he stumbled upon a catalog of entries about himself. Do you expect a thirteen year old boy to not read it? 

“Okay well, dinner’s in five minutes.” Jack said before spinning on his heel to exit the room. You liked Quinn, like really liked him and now he knows it.

“You need to think about what you just said.” Quinn said, his voice low. “Think about that and then compare it to every time I talked you through your panic attacks, or every time I picked you up at three in the morning when we were sixteen because you were too drunk to drive home, or every time I offered you a place to stay when your parents were fighting. Then, you can tell me if you think I give a shit or not.” He stared you down, his eyes becoming tense as your bottom lip began to tremble. 

“I didn’t-”

Quinn huffed out his breath, interrupting your speech. “Do you know how hard it’s been to watch you? To see you become someone I don’t even recognize anymore?” His voice became stern, raising in volume. “You don’t smile the same way anymore. You don’t laugh like you used to!” Your breath hitched, the weight of his words suffocating. You looked down at the ring on your finger, the glittering diamond that once felt like a prize but now felt more like a shackle. “You think I don’t care?” His voice was quiet, but the pain in his voice was unmistakable. “I’ve always cared. A-And seeing you like this, wearing that ring, in this life that’s clearly eating you alive? It kills me.” 

You licked your bottom lip, tears spilling down your face as you looked up at him. You swallowed the lump in your throat, letting out a shaky breath as you gathered your thoughts.

“Hey, babe. You almost ready?” You heard Max’s voice shout from the living room as you finished putting your earrings on. 

“Yeah, just a second!” You yelled back, fluffing your freshly blown out hair in the mirror. You took a deep breath as you looked yourself up and down in the dark green bodycon dress that Quinn had gotten you for your 21st birthday. You’d never put it on, but you assumed it was fitting for a work Christmas party. Was it too much? You thought to yourself as you ran your hands down the sides, seeing that the length was about an inch above your fingertips. You decided it was fine and made your way out of the bedroom, purse in hand as you walked to the living room. Max sat on the couch in his tailored Prada suit, a bit pretentious to wear to a work party. His legs were spread wide as he had one hand on his phone, and the other on the back of the couch. He looked up from the screen to glance at you in your dress. You gave him a soft smile, your shoulders tensing up as he furrowed his eyebrows. 

“It’s a bit short, don’t you think?” He asked as he ran a hand through his blonde hair. You looked down at your dress, then back up at him. 

“W-Well, I was thinking that a little. Should I change?” Your voice was shaky, filled with nerves at Max’s disapproval. 

He shook his head, standing from the couch with his hands in his pockets as he made his way to the door. “No, no. We're already gonna be late with how long you took to get ready.”

There were little moments like that that clouded your mind as you stood in front of Quinn. Your breathing was shaky, your face now fully engulfed in hot tears as he stared into your eyes. “You don’t get it.” You let out, your voice just barely above a whisper. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to find stability. To feel…safe.” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. 

“Safe?” Quinn repeated, his eyes locking with yours. “Is that what this is? Because it doesn’t look like it. You’re not safe. You’re trapped.” He gestured to the ring on your finger, his voice lowering at the depressed sight of you. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You stared at him, your chest tightening as his words dug into the thoughts you’d been trying so hard to suppress. Quinn softened, stepping closer. “You deserve more than this.” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “And I think, deep down you know that.”

You bit your lip, sniffling your nose before wiping your tears with your sleeve. “I’m in too deep. I can’t get out.” You whispered, finally bringing yourself to the point to admit it. You weren’t happy, you knew that, but you couldn’t tell anyone. Well, you thought you couldn’t until Quinn finally pushed you to the point where there wasn’t another option. 

Quinn let out a sigh mixed with exhaustion and a hint of relief. He sent you an empathetic smile as he absentmindedly grabbed your hand, rubbing his thumb against the back of it. “You can.” He said, his voice quiet. “You’re not alone. I’m here…if you need help. I’m always gonna be here.” Your breath caught in your throat as Quinn’s hand enveloped yours, his warmth cutting through the icy wall you’d built around yourself. His touch was steady, grounding, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope. His words echoed in your head, soft and firm. You stared down at his hand, the calluses on his fingers brushing lightly against your skin as his thumb moved in slow, soothing circles. It felt so familiar, so safe, and the contrast to Max’s cold indifference hit you like a wave. You couldn’t help but let all the emotions running like a swarm through your head push you to the point of breakage. You began to sob, your eyes still looking at your hands intertwined as your breath came out in short, stammered increments. Quinn didn’t waste any time before pulling you into his chest, allowing your sobs to escape into his shirt as he wrapped his arms around your body. He held you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against everything that had been weighing you down. His chin rested on top of your head as your tears soaked into his shirt, but he didn’t seem to care. His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, grounding you in a way you hadn’t felt in ages. 

“It’s okay,” He murmured softly into your hair. “I’ve got you.” You clung to him, your fists gripping the fabric of his shirt as if letting go would mean losing the only thing tethering you to solid ground. 

The room began to shrink in an instant, reading the text from your mother. “It’s final. Dad and I are separating. You and I are moving to Gran and Pop’s when you get back from the lake house, so I need you to pack up everything.” 

The tears came almost immediately, but that didn’t scare you. It was the feeling you got in your chest, like your heart was radiating pulses all over your body. Pounding over and over again, like the beating was the only thing you could hear. The sound of Quinn shooting pucks only made it worse, like each shot was another banging ache to your head. You tried to slow your breathing, but it felt like the most difficult challenge at that moment. Your breaths were short and hitched, gasping for air at any chance you got. Your hands shook as your phone fell out of them. You were terrified, you didn’t know what was happening. You couldn’t die, you were only sixteen. You still had so much to do in life. You tilted your head up, staring at the ceiling light, but that only made it worse. Quinn noticed when you didn’t say anything about the shot he’d just missed, immediately dropping his stick to run over to you.

“Hey, Hey. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He said frantically as he leaned down to where you were sitting on the floor. You tried to tell him, tried to speak, but your head was stuck looking up, and you felt like you couldn’t move it. Quinn placed his hand on the back of your neck, pulling your head down to face him. Your face was covered in tears, completely red as your mouth parted slightly. “Talk to me.” He said gently. “Please?”

You licked your quivering lips, trying your hardest to breathe. “I-I…I c-can’t. I can’t b-breathe.” His heart dropped at your words, the panic in your voice cutting through him like a knife. His hands moved to gently cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears even as more fell. 

“Okay, okay,” He said softly, his own voice trembling but steadying for your sake. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re not dying, I promise.” You gasped again, your breaths shallow and uneven, your chest tightening with each attempt. “Look at me.” He instructed. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He blew out softly, his eyes locked on yours as he repeated the motion.

You tried to mimic him, but your breath was quickly caught in your throat, sending you a fresh wave of panic. “I c-can’t Quinn, I can’t!” You cried.

“Yes, you can.” He reassured, his hands never leaving your face. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Just take it slow.” You managed a small, shaky inhale, your body trembling as you followed his lead. “There you go.” He said, his voice laced with a small flicker of relief. “Now, out through your mouth.” Quinn stayed with you, guiding you through each breath as the pounding of the room began to dull. Finally, your breaths came easier, the crushing weight on your chest lifting little by little. You looked at Quinn, your face still wet with tears.

“Thank you.” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

His thumbs still traced circles on your cheeks as he sent you a soft smile. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

You stayed, sobbing into Quinn’s shirt as his grip around you tightened. He listened to your breathing patterns, looking out for a sign of a panic attack. He’d memorized you at this point. He knew the exact time to jump in, and he knew how to calm you down. 

“Quinn, I’m so scared.” You cried out, wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer. 

Quinn moved his hand from your back to your head, running his fingers through your hair. “I know.” He whispered. “I’m sorry.” He leaned back just enough to gently tilt your chin up with his fingers, his blue eyes meeting yours. They were soft, but filled with an intensity that made your heart ache. “You thought you had to want this.” He said, speaking the words you never had the confidence to say. “Doesn’t mean it’s right. It doesn’t mean it’s what you deserve.” You looked up at him, not seeing Quinn Hughes, captain of the Canucks, but your childhood best friend, Quinny, who talked you through every panic attack, walked you home from every party, and gave you a bed through every fight between your parents. That’s what you deserved. Someone willing to give you that much dedication, not some pretentious lawyer who only loves you for your accomplishments. In a moment of determination, after wiping your tears, you dramatically pulled off your engagement ring, slamming it on the railing of the deck. The sound of the ring hitting the wooden railing echoed in the stillness of the night, sharp and final. Quinn’s eyes darted to it, then back to you, his lips parting in surprise. You stood there trembling, not from fear but from the sheer weight of the decision you’d just made. Your chest heaved as the tears continued to fall. This time they weren’t from sadness, they were from release. Quinn hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer, his hand hovering over yours as if to silently ask for permission. When you didn’t pull away, he took your trembling hand in his, holding it like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

“You-” He started, his voice breaking slightly before he cleared his throat. “You did it.”

“I did it.” You whispered, almost in disbelief yourself. You stared at the ring, gleaming under the soft glow of the porch light. It had once symbolized everything you wanted, but now it felt like a chain you’d finally broken free from. 

[neocitylights]

SUMMARY: Despite the city’s fast-paced scene of street racing—in which you happen to be the name to be beaten at every race—getting to know Jeno is a steady, quiet affair. Breaking the mechanic’s walls between races and late-night rides, the two of you slowly grow closer, unknowingly surrounded by secrets neither of you are ready to reveal. Still, in a world that’s driven by speed and adrenaline like yours, surprises are inevitable—even those that end up breaking your heart before mending it. GENRE: Romance, fluff, action, street racing au WORD COUNT: 16k WARNINGS: Cursing, suggestive themes, implied sexual content, depictions of violence NOTES: Yay to the official start of the NCU series with a Fast & Furious inspired Jeno fic! Please let me know what you think!! It’s gonna make my day!!

The atmosphere feels heavy with energy, the smell of motor oil and burned rubber lingering in the air as the hum of engines blend with the pounding bass of whatever music’s currently playing in the warehouse.

A row of neon-lit and vivid colored cars line up all the way outside, the buzzing audience placing their bets as they mingle with the racers and crew alike. 

Despite its overwhelming chaos, the environment wraps you like a second skin with ease—laced with nothing but familiarity and comfort, race nights always feel like your personal sanctuary. Under the sounds of revving engines, roaring crowds and blaring music, you’d found your own twisted kind of peace, a vicious sense of belonging that only racing could give you through its unpredictability and adrenaline. 

It also doesn’t hurt that you’re good at it. 

After all, there’s a reason why your name currently holds the highest number of bets and has been for the last five races, no competitor coming close to dethroning your streak of wins. 

While a handful of racers walk past your car, their wandering eyes occasionally lingering over the red Mazda RX-7 gleaming under the warehouse’s bright lights, anticipation slowly builds in your chest as you meticulously check the final details before the official start, brain already racing ahead through the layout until a familiar voice calls for your name.

Startled, you look up just as Gigi approaches with rapid steps. The pink-haired girl quickly intertwines your arms, pulling you closer with a grin that characteristically only means one thing, especially when knowing her antics. 

“Oh, here we go,” you tease, raising an amused eyebrow at your fellow racer turned best-friend. “I wonder what piece of gossip I’m gonna have to roll my eyes at this time.”

“I mean, if you don’t want to know about the new guy from Neo Tech that just signed up to take you…” Gigi starts, offering a nonchalant shrug with a mock dramatic touch lacing her voice. “We can totally talk about something else, if you want?”

As the words hang in the air for a second, your amusement shifts to confusion as you scan Gigi’s face for any traces of exaggeration. “What?”

“You heard me, Cherry,” she continues, excitedly cozying up to your side as her grin returns with your peaked curiosity. “Jaemin says he’s been around for two weeks—”

“There’s a new guy at Neo Tech?” you cut in, furrowing your eyebrows before offering the racer an exasperated huff. “Also, why are you making it sound like I’m having sex with him? He just signed up to take me?”

Gigi bursts into a laugh, giving you a look as mischief takes over her eyes. “I’m not. You’re the one thinking of it!”

“I’m not the one who said it,” you argue, playfully rolling your eyes at her in an attempt to play off the curiosity suddenly gnawing at your thoughts. “Who even told you this?”

“Didn’t I just say Jaemin?” she taunts, holding back another laugh at your half-hearted glare. “Apparently, Taeyong’s short on crew since Mark and Hyuck are still in Seoul, so he’s been pulling in new blood.”

Although you don’t necessarily worry about your victory streak nor being challenged for it, the new information does sound… interesting. Since Neo Tech’s more than just a regular garage, the crew notoriously known for building damn near perfect cars for a few lucky racers in the city—a short list that includes you—it’s not unusual to find one of Taeyong’s mechanics listed up for a race every now and then. 

Given their knowledge, it’s always fun racing with them, which you’ve already done several times against Mark, Jaehyun and Yuta specifically.

As you’re about to fish more details from Gigi, the low growl of a particular engine pulls your attention to the far end of the warehouse. A green Nissan Skyline GT-R turns a few heads as it crosses the lot, the car’s polished, pristine exterior looking nothing but sleek under the lights. It comes to a smooth stop just a few spots away from you, the driver’s door soon swinging open under the crowd’s attentiveness.

It’s almost impossible not looking at the guy, his tall figure turning as many heads as the car did. With a glance around the bustling place, holding a posture that looks entirely too relaxed for a first-timer, his dark eyes suddenly land on you, lingering for a second too long to be just a coincidence. 

Instinctively straightening under his gaze, your curiosity doubles as he walks over to the corner where the Neo Tech’s guys are usually posted on, almost as if he’s done this a hundred times before.

“That’s him!” Gigi murmurs, oblivious to the blasting background music while gently elbowing at your side. “That’s the new guy from Neo Tech!”

You hum softly, finally breaking your gaze from him to shoot your best-friend an inquisitive look. “Do you know his name?”

“What for?” she asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow as a knowing smirk tugs at her mouth. “Why are you suddenly so interested? Don’t tell me that you actually want him to take you—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Gigi!” you interrupt, scoffing at her words as warmth spreads through your cheeks. “I just wanted to know who I’m racing against, that’s all!”

The pink-haired racer snorts, shaking her head as she gives you a side-eye. “I don’t know his name, sorry. Maybe Jaemin told me, but you know I can’t ever remember shit, so…”

Johnny’s voice suddenly echoes over the speakers, calling the racers to the starting line with one of his quick-witted remarks. Exchanging one last look with Gigi before she leaves to her bright pink Honda S2000, the warehouse’s mood has already significantly changed, a competitive streak flaring the audience into life.

Pulling your Mazda into position on the makeshift track marked outside the warehouse, your fingers tighten around the steering wheel as you exhale, ignoring the crowd outside calling out your nickname. 

Still, you can’t help a brief glance as a certain green Skyline slides right beside you, catching Neo Tech guy’s gaze through the window. As a silent acknowledgement of the challenge set between both of you, he gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod as the corners of his mouth hint a tight-lipped smile. 

It takes Johnny to break the moment, the man hyping up the crowd before starting his usual pre-race discourse, listing a handful of rules and warnings to the racers.

“You know the drill, folks!” he remarks, finishing the speech with a grin at the racers, though it seems somewhat too directed at you. “Our current five-win streak means five grand to whoever ends it!”

The words immediately light the audience into life, engines equally roaring as the sound reverberates into the night, the flag now in Johnny’s hands. 

As you focus ahead, adrenaline settles on your stomach—whether you keep the streak or give five thousand to another racer, it doesn’t really matter. You race for yourself, not for the money, not for the praise, and most definitely not for anyone else’s ego or expectations. 

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel, foot hovering over the pedals, waiting for the signal. 

Johnny raises the flag high, his voice cutting through the roaring engines and the buzz of the crowd.

“Three!”

You inhale deeply, pulse racing as strongly as your car’s engine. 

“Two!”

Your foot presses lightly on the accelerator, the cherry red RX-7 growling in anticipation.

“One!”

Johnny drops the flag. 

The car launches forward, tires screeching against the asphalt as the racers surge ahead. Despite the force pining you back, your grip is steady, holding firm enough for the car to quickly take the lead. 

As you pick up speed to a stretch of free road ahead, Neo Tech’s guy edges right behind you, purposefully touching the rear of your Mazda a few times. Despite your annoyance—it took Jaemin a long time to perfect the cherry tone you begged for—you can’t help chuckling at the attitude, definitely impressed with his skills. 

The first turn comes fast, your hands moving with precision as the car makes a perfect curve, tight enough for you to accelerate further with the bend. With the new guy matching the move, it takes a second for him to hold the Skyline side by side with you. 

You dare a brief glance at him, catching a glimpse of his focused, determined expression. It’s clear that he’s in to win it, instantly making you wonder what’s truly driving him to it—if it’s the money, the challenge or just the sense of triumph that comes from a rookie victory. 

You do also admit to yourself that he’s… stupidly good-looking.

Once you barrel into the return stretch, both looking for an opening to overtake each other, your muscle memory takes you ahead with a slightly wider inside curve, foot heavy on the accelerator as the RX-7 takes the lead again. It’s not enough for the guy to give up, his GT-R somehow pushing harder as you approach the final section of the course. As you pour everything into the last seconds of the race, heart pounding against your chest, the finish line comes into view. 

A blur of green and red cut through the finish line together, the audience erupting in stunned and thrilled reactions as Johnny waves the flag for a second time, signaling the end of the race.

As you slam the brakes, the car skimming to a stop into the swarming crowd, your breath’s still heavy as realization strikes—without the need for Johnny’s confirmation, you know Neo Tech’s new guy just broke your infamous five-win streak. 

Once you step out of the car, adjusting your skirt with an eye-roll at Johnny’s mock astonished face, the dark-haired guy quickly emerges from his Skyline, his expression nothing but calm, almost unreadable. The mass of people around opens the way for him as he walks towards you, watching the scene with curious eyes. 

Taking the lead, you reach out a hand before offering your name, a playful smile curling on your mouth as he frowns for a second, visibly skeptical of your light attitude.

“It was a cool race,” you start, smile widening at the way his eyebrows raise upon the words. “Neo Tech guys are usually fun to race against. Good to know you are, too.”

“It was a tough one,” he answers, pausing for a second before finally taking your hand with a polite nod, the tone of his voice neutral before introducing himself. “I’m Jeno.”

The simplicity of his interaction shifts something within you. As you’re left staring bemusedly at the calm, laidback confidence in the guy’s words and body language, maybe the loss should sting… for a little, at least. 

It’s a known fact between the racers that you aren’t the type to obsess over winning, proving a point or whatever that comes with the territory of racing. That’s exactly what leaves most contenders sore about their loss whenever challenging you—while they’re racing specifically to beat you, winning has always been just a bonus for you, instead racing for the fun and your passion for cars.

Now, Jeno has not only beat your streak, but also has properly acknowledged you as an equal competitor. 

Even though he did race to win, he’d raced with you, not against you.

So for the first time in a long time, you suddenly find yourself wanting the win, for whatever twisted reason your brain has fooled you into. 

“Well, enjoy it while it lasts, Jeno,” you say, smiling mischievously before letting go of his hand, purposefully locking eyes with him. “I’ll take you for a rematch if you’re back next time.”

The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, gaze unwavering from you as he nods firmly. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

As you turn around to leave, heading toward Gigi and the rest of her crew, you can’t help glancing over your shoulder. Already surrounded by a few of Neo Tech’s guys and curious spectators, Jeno’s eyes meet yours for a second before you disappear into the crowd again. 

Entering his third week at Neo Tech, Jeno has already grown accustomed to the garage’s bustling routine, the controlled chaos entirely familiar by now. 

With Tayeong running the crew under a sharp eye, it’s not a secret that the place holds an unique energy that’s equal parts professional and chaotic—the exact reason why the garage is so sought after in the first place, besides the highly qualified crew that works on and off the streets. 

After the race, the buzz of his win is yet to quiet down, especially with the stream of racers that stop by the garage for either routine check-ups or simply to scope out the new Neo Tech guy who’d taken a certain racer’s five-win streak. Despite the attention, Jeno keeps his head down, choosing to only acknowledge the crew’s interest every now and then and focusing on work instead.

Still, that’s not to say that he isn’t curious himself about you.

Even if he deliberately avoids the crew’s knowing glances towards him when your Mazda suddenly pulls up at the garage a few days later.

The familiar hum of your engine immediately pulls Jeno’s attention from his work, the RX-7’s contrasting cherry red easily catching his eye from outside. 

You climb out of the car with a flair to your step, coming to a stop at the entrance as you briefly scan the space, exchanging casual greetings with some of the guys on the way. As soon as you spot Jaemin hunched over a rebuild project, a grin immediately spreads across your face. 

Jeno discreetly watches as you sneak up behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a back hug that visibly startles the ever nonchalant mechanic. 

“Hi, Nana,” you greet, teasing Jaemin with a gentle squeeze while pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Did you miss me?”

“Do you really want me to answer?” he says, giving you a dry look over his shoulder despite the warmth in his voice. “Took you long enough to show up this time, didn’t you?”

“I know you missed me, but I’m a very busy woman,” you quip, flashing him a grin before jumping up to sit on a workstation nearby. “Besides, you of all people should know I’d never let my baby unattended if something had happened.”

Jaemin shakes his head with a chuckle, side-eyeing you suspiciously for a second. “Then why are you here, Cherry?”

“Just thought I’d drop by to see you,” you answer breezily, shrugging as your fingers fiddle with the two red hearts locked to your car’s keys. “We didn’t really talk last time and Gigi’s crew left the race earlier than usual, so…”

With a hum, Jaemin raises an eyebrow in his direction before turning to you again, eyes gleaming with purpose. “I take it you’ve met Jeno, then?”

As the mechanic gestures towards him, Jeno can’t help the tension from spreading through his body, caught off guard over suddenly being pulled into the conversation. For a moment that feels too long, it almost feels like he’s being sized up as your gaze lands on his frame, sharp and assessing. 

“Yeah,” you admit, a laugh escaping from your lips when catching the slight surprise on his face. “What’s up, Jeno?”

He nods politely, pursing his lips in a half-hearted, hesitant greeting. “Hey.”

“I bet you’ve had a lot of visitors dropping by to check you out after the race, right?” you ask, teasing him as your tone shifts to a mischievous one. “Are you sick of it enough for a rematch yet?”

Still holding your gaze, Jeno simply shakes his head. “They’re not here because of me.”

Despite his deadpan delivery, the way your eyes immediately flicker in understanding isn’t lost on Jeno, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as the implication behind his words settle between you. 

“Taeyong sure knows how to pick a crew,” you muse, mostly chuckling to yourself before raising an eyebrow towards him. “Have you been racing for a long time?”

Turning his attention back to the engine in front of him, Jeno nods vaguely. “A while.”

As you watch him, maybe a little too attentively for his liking, a mix of amusement and exasperation take over your face. “You don’t really talk much, do you?”

Jeno doesn’t immediately respond, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the tools spread over his workstation. As he gives a half-hearted shrug, the silence instantly serves as an answer for you.

“Right,” you mutter, chuckling softly before curiously peering at his engine from your spot. “That’s a cool V8 you’re working on, by the way.”

He quickly glances up at your words, his hands pausing the screwdriver in his grasp as a hint of intrigue replaces the indifferent attitude. “You know your way around cars.”

“It comes with the territory,” you answer, an amused smile widening on your face at his reaction. “Also, I’ve had good teachers… Vic taught me a lot about it, too.”

The name catches Jeno off guard, a frown betraying the confusion on his face. “Vic?”

As the loud, unmistakable rumble of a Dodge Charger R/T suddenly resonates through the garage, heads turning to the entrance over the black, pristine 1970’s model stopping outside Neo Tech, the question stays unanswered. 

For a second time, Jeno catches himself cautiously watching you—as the puzzled look on your face shifts to a smile of recognition over whoever’s arrived, you’re quick to jump off Jaemin’s workstation, hurrying outside with a demeanor he can’t quite figure out.

Behind the Charger’s wheel, sits a man that looks somewhat familiar, his appearance seemingly fitting around early to mid fifties given his rugged presence. 

As you share a high-five with him, leaning against the window of his car for a chat, Jeno notes how the man seems to hang onto your words, a visible sense of camaraderie laced to the interaction. Despite your childlike excitement, it doesn’t take long until he playfully waves you off, a giggle escaping from your lips while you quickly climb into your Mazda, soon leaving right behind him. 

It’s only when Jaemin clears his throat that Jeno breaks away from the scene, looking back to find the mechanic grinning knowingly at him.

“That was really interesting,” he starts, leaning back against a nearby tool cart before crossing his arms. “Cherry doesn’t usually have to work for it.”

Ignoring the insinuation of Jaemin’s comment, Jeno plays it off with an amused scoff. “Is there a reason for that nickname?”

“Everyone’s been calling her that for as long as I’ve known her.” Jaemin shrugs, chuckling fondly. “She owned up to it when she started racing, so we painted the RX-7 red to match her.”

Jeno hums, briefly shooting him an inquisitive glance. “You two seemed close.”

As he seems to understand the catch, the grin on Jaemin’s face grows even bigger. “Oh, it was a long time ago,” he explains, sounding annoyingly reassuring for no reason. “We mutually decided we’re better off as friends, so don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not,” he counters bluntly, frowning at the fellow mechanic before turning back to the V8 again. “Who was that in the black Charger?”

“That’s... Victor Torres,” Jaemin answers, seemingly puzzled at the question. “Vic’s a bit of a legend around the neighborhood. He’s been racing, mentoring a few racers around here for a while. Cherry’s one of his star pupils.”

Jeno pauses briefly, his eyebrows furrowing in thought over the memories from that night. “I don’t think I’ve seen him at the race.”

With a curious smirk curling his lips, the mechanic shakes his head. “The old man was out of the city for a dealership,” he explains, squinting his eyes in his direction for a second. “You’re settling in pretty quick for new blood.”

A half-hearted smile tugs at Jeno’s mouth, the answer measured with a nonchalant shrug. “Things aren’t too different from what I’ve done before.”

“So you have raced before,” Jaemin notes, an inquisitive edge to his voice despite the humorous gleam in his gaze. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned that when you signed up last time.”

“Nobody asked,” Jeno replies, looking up at the mechanic again with a taunting glance. “It didn’t seem important.”

Amused by the off-putting answer, Jaemin studies him for a beat before clicking his tongue. “Maybe you shouldn’t have raced against Cherry,” he says, shooting him a playful wink. “Winning against everyone’s favorite tends to draw attention.”

As Jeno stands up from his workbench, subtly signaling the end of the conversation, a touch of finality hangs to his voice. “I’m not here to impress anyone.”

“Fair enough,” Jaemin counters with a chuckle, backing off with a lazy shrug. “Just don’t think we’re not all wondering, though. People are paying attention.”

Though Jeno doesn’t react outwardly, the weight of Jaemin’s words linger over his head for the night.

Settling in at Neo Tech truly had been smoother than he’d expected—maybe a little too smooth, now that he thinks of it. Jeno knows he’s playing a careful game, but days like this make him feel like the pieces are shifting faster than he can anticipate.

Despite being as old as time, The Bluebird is considerably packed for a Friday night, the few worn-out tables of the diner all taken as you walk past through the door.

As the jingle of the bell announces your arrival, the smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee immediately surround you, welcoming and familiar as a childhood memory.

Nestled on the corner of the neighborhood’s busiest street, The Bluebird is the kind of place where the food is deliciously greasy, the coffee a little too strong and everyone knows your name even if you don’t. Though it’s not the case with Daria, one of the diner’s waitresses that has pretty much seen you grow up over your visits for their milkshakes and cheeseburgers. 

She’s quick to spot you through the diner’s buzz, gesturing for you to sit by the vacant counter with a smile. You rush through the tables, softly returning the older woman’s smile.

“I didn’t know you were back, Daria!” you start, sliding into a stool with a curious glance at her. “How was your trip? Did you see your grandkids?”

“It was wonderful!” she says, her face lighting up with warmth before setting the menu in front of you. “The little ones are growing so fast, it won’t take long until they’re taller than me.”

Leaning against the counter, you smile at her between mischief and curiosity. “What about your boyfriend? Did he go with you?”

“You know that an old woman shouldn’t kiss and tell,” Daria jokes, though her face quickly shifts as she shoots you a knowing look. “What about you? Don’t think I haven’t heard about your little things with Taeyong’s boys.”

You quickly avert your gaze to the menu on the wall, feigning a cough under her amused scrutiny. “Oh, I think I’m ready to order?”

Daria chuckles, visibly unimpressed by your poor attempt to change the subject. “I’m sure you are,” she teases, pulling a notepad from her apron. “Let me guess. A cherry milkshake, cheeseburger and fries, like always?

As you nod eagerly, a grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “You just get me, Daria.”

The older woman laughs, jotting down your order just about to head towards the kitchen when a familiar voice cuts through the chatter around you.

“Add it to my tab.”

The sudden intrusion makes you glance over, eyes instantly locking with Jeno’s as he sits a few stools away, casually holding a steaming mug of coffee. The faintest hint of a smirk plays on his lips as he notes your surprised features, having been oblivious to his quiet presence until now.

Daria raises an eyebrow at him, suspiciously glancing between both of you. She hesitates, tapping a pen against the notepad as if weighing whether to prod further or leave her curiosity alone.

With a playful shrug, you laugh reassuringly at the waitress. “You heard the man, Daria. I’m having free dinner tonight.”

She hums, looking nothing but unconvinced as she side-eyes Jeno for a second. “Alright, then,” Daria says, ultimately tucking the notepad into her apron again. “I’m watching you two. Don’t cause trouble, I’ll bring your food soon.”

As she heads towards the kitchen, leaving you two alone in the diner’s bustling atmosphere, Daria doesn’t resist smirking knowingly at you.

Shifting on your seat to face him, you regard the racer’s laidback posture with narrowed eyes. “I can pay for my own food, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jeno answers, an unexpected hint of amusement lacing his voice as he shrugs lightly. “I’ve got five grand sitting in my bank account, figured some courtesy wouldn’t hurt.”

“Oh, we’re going there now?” you argue, a scoff escaping from your lips. “There’s another race in a few days, should I expect a rematch?”

He hums, taking a sip of his coffee before offering a teasing, small smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I actually would,” you say, crossing your arms over the counter with a mock challenging glare at him. “Aren’t you talking a little too much for new blood? That entire race was mine.”

Jeno quirks an eyebrow, setting the mug down as the smile on his face widens discreetly. “Pretty sure I crossed the line first.”

“By a hair,” you counter, slumping back against your seat just as a deliberate, easy grin tugs at your mouth. “I might’ve lost but I know I made you work for it.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, the admission edged with a touch of honesty that catches you off-guard. “You really did.”

As he holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary, all traces of playfulness slowly shift to a  more thoughtful mood, a touch too serious for the moment. The air seems to shift between you—somewhat charged with something you can’t pinpoint, though neither of you back down from it. 

Before the sudden tension stretches for longer, Daria steps in, breaking the conversation’s lull with your order in hands. 

She glances between you and Jeno with an amused frown, lips twitching for a grin. “Flirting or fighting?”

Jeno snorts. “Neither.”

“Fighting,” you fire back.

Answering at the same time, the coincidence draws a snicker out of Daria before she hurries away to another customer, quickly leaving you for a second time.

“So, Jeno...” you start, attempting to lead the conversation back into your own curiosity’s territory. “What’s your deal? Taeyong’s usually so picky about his crew, I was surprised to hear there was a new guy at Neo Tech.”

Jeno takes his time to reply, almost as if weighing what to say. “Not much to tell,” he says, shaking his head before exhaling a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He needed someone on short notice, I needed the job.”

You pick up a fry in between bites of the cheeseburger, twirling it between your fingers with a hum. “How’d you get into racing then?”

“I grew up around cars. My dad used to work on a few for fun, so I spent a lot of time in our garage with him,” Jeno explains, looking suddenly a bit nostalgic. ”I started tinkering around, learning a bit. Racing just felt like a natural step.”

As you nod, a small smile curls on your lips over the straw of the milkshake. “Sounds like me, except it was my brother.”

He raises an eyebrow, visibly surprised by the words. “Does he race?”

“Nope,” you quickly answer, glancing down at the plate in front of you to pick on the few fries left. “Not anymore.”

As if sensing something there, Jeno chooses to not press further as he nods. “If it’s worth anything, you’re really good at it.”

You blink, feeling warmth spreading through your neck for a moment before quickly recovering, shooting him a mischievous grin instead. “Why did you decide to challenge me that day, by the way?”

Jeno pauses, lips threatening a smile as his fingers brush over the edge of his mug. “I wasn’t going to,” he confesses, chuckling humorlessly. “I wasn’t even thinking about racing that day.”

Unconsciously leaning closer, your curiosity now piqued, you frown at him. “Then... why did you?”

“I heard some racers talking about you—how you don’t race for the money or actually winning,” he starts, his tone somehow caught between amusement and exasperation. “Doing it against someone like that just seemed... fun. Just racing for the sake of it.”

Your grin returns a little wider, mischief slipping back into your tone. “All I’m hearing is that you’re signing up for the next one.”

His lips twitch, Jeno taking a last sip of his coffee under your intrigued gaze. “If you get a ten-win streak, I’ll think about it.”

You snort, feigning a peeved glare. “Is that a challenge?”

He tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curving into a small, teasing smile. “I don’t know.” Jeno chuckles quietly, a hand casually running through his hair. “Is it?”

The sudden shift in his behavior—from the guarded, almost apathetic Jeno you met at the garage to the current playful, teasing Jeno from today—has definitely given you a bit of whiplash. The easy smiles, his gentle confidence and the way he’s been quietly coaxing reactions out of you are a stark contrast to the unreadable, aloof man from days ago. Leaving you to wonder what else he’s possibly hiding underneath his layers, the change only spurs you further. 

There’s something there, a growing curiosity that you can’t ignore, making you eager to figure him out even if you’re not entirely sure why. 

As your phone buzzes inside the pockets of your hoodie, Vic’s name flashing on the screen once you pick it up, Jeno’s face quickly changes to a more reserved expression, politely turning away in an attempt to give you a little privacy. The call doesn’t last long, Vic ultimately bidding you goodbye as the line clicks off.

You pocket the phone into your hoodie again, turning back to him with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

Jeno nods, his light-hearted demeanor now eased into something more neutral. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah,” you reply with a small smile, lingering for just a second longer than you mean to before standing up from your stool. “Try not to miss me too much, okay? I’ll see you at the race.”

He doesn’t reply, instead only offering you an amused smile watching you skirt around the tables on the way to the door. You send him a quick, playful wink over your shoulder before finally stepping outside, holding back a smile of your own upon noticing the way he laughs. 

Heading towards your car, the glow of The Bluebird’s neon sign fading through the street, you shake off the wandering thoughts.

Back at the warehouse again, surrounded by the roar of engines and the usual heavy atmosphere that marks race day, Jeno watches the bustling crowd with attention.

It hasn’t been long he’s arrived, parking his Skyline at Neo Tech’s usual spot as a few racers stop by every now and then, attempting to find out whether his name was at the starting grid for the night. 

Though the crowd quickly turns his name into one of the most anticipated contenders once they clock his presence, Jeno knows better than racing tonight. After last time, unexpectedly battling with the scene’s most loved racer, keeping a low profile seems like the safest option for now.

As he leans against the hood of his green GT-R, taking in the line-up of cars over the warehouse, a familiar cherry red shadow easily catches his attention—except you aren’t the one behind the wheel this time. Jeno frowns, straightening slightly as he tries to recognize the figure through the windows of your Mazda until Johnny’s sudden call makes it impossible, the crowd erupting into chaos at his blasting voice.

Pushing off his car, he quickly weaves through the audience outside the warehouse, surrounding the starting line for a better view.

The pre-race procedure stays the same with Johnny listing the rules, giving a quick run-down on the night’s track before hyping up the winning prize, the crowd attentively hanging onto his words.

“We’ve got a bit of a twist tonight though,” Johnny adds, his voice laced with a cryptic touch despite the thrill on his face. “Two of our favorite racers have switched cars for today’s race.”

Before the crowd pieces it together, Jeno raises an eyebrow at his own realization. 

“In the RX-7, we’ve got Gigi taking the wheel—” Johnny pauses abruptly, grinning at the sudden cheers and whistles of both surprise and excitement coming from the audience. “—and in the S2000, we’ve got Cherry in command tonight.” 

“That’s new,” Jaemin says, chuckling as he steps beside Jeno, glancing between the two cars at the far end of the line-up with interest. “I don’t think Cherry’s ever done that.”

Following his eyes, Jeno finally glimpses your focused figure inside the pink Honda. “She seems to know what she’s doing.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he replies casually, arms crossing over his chest as a grin slowly grows on his face. “It’s not about the car with her, but I am curious as to why she’s doing it tonight.”

Jaemin gives him a sharp glance, expressive enough that Jeno immediately gets the picture he’s painting. 

Though he doesn’t respond, it feels like his silence speaks volumes. 

As Johnny finishes his speech, the roar of the engines revving up adds to the building tension. The crowd surges forward once Johnny raises the flag, pressing closer to the edge of the track as it blazes under bright headlights.

The flag drops.

Despite being at disadvantage at the corners, you easily push through with Gigi’s Honda, tires screeching against the pavement as the car takes the lead.

At his side, Jaemin lets out an amused whistle. “Yeah, she’s definitely pulling it off.”

It doesn’t take long until the cars are doubling a corner after the first long straight, the blind spot simmering the crowd with anticipation for a few minutes. As a commotion at the outskirts of the grid catches Jeno’s eyes, his attention momentarily shifts to a familiar figure stepping into the chaos. 

Victor Torres walks through the cluster of people, thoroughly scanning the place in the company of two broad-shouldered, stone-faced men right behind him. 

Jaemin notices the shift in Jeno’s attention, curiously glancing around until a puzzled sound escapes his mouth. “Oh? Vic usually doesn’t show up unless he’s got a reason.”

Trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible, Jeno clears his throat. “So he doesn’t usually watch her race.”

Though the question sounds more like a statement, the mechanic still shakes head with a thoughtful hum. “Not anymore. He could be here for literally anything, though.”

As the sounds of running engines approach, getting louder by every second, the audience quickly flares up waiting for whoever’s currently leading the race. Jeno can’t help but grin as the S2000 makes a perfect curve into the final stretch, leaving you seconds ahead as the first racer to reach the last bit of the course. 

The blur of pink easily blazes across the finish line, the atmosphere erupting with cheers and applause. Behind you, the cherry red Mazda follows close as Gigi skillfully holds the second place.

Jeno watches as you slow the car into the surging crowd, climbing out of the Honda with a thrilled glow on your face. Despite the swarm congratulating you, your attention seems to be on something else, eyes scanning the faces until unmistakably locking with his own. A grin immediately curls on your lips as you push through the handful of people, walking towards him with a poised stance.

You cast a mischievous glance at him as you approach, arms crossing over your chest. “Are you really backing out of our rematch?”

Jeno chuckles, holding a hand out for a surprise high-five. “Congratulations. That was one hell of a race.”

Jaemin clears his throat dramatically at Jeno’s side, watching you reciprocate the gesture with a frown on his face. “Oh, sure, don’t mind me,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “I mean, I wasn’t really here rooting for you the whole time, it’s fine.”

“Don’t be like that,” you coo at him, stepping closer before throwing your arms around Jaemin’s neck, hanging onto his figure with a laugh. “You know I love you, Nana.”

The mechanic hums, letting you go with a teasing side glance. “Do you?”

With a slap to his arm, an amused scoff escapes your lips. “You’re a menace,” you say, giving Jaemin a light, playful push. “You should go, Gigi’s probably wondering why you’re not hovering around her yet.”

Jaemin grins, ruffling your hair in retaliation before stepping back with an exaggerated bow. As he disappears into the crowd walking over to Gigi’s parked Honda, there’s a subtle change in the air now that you’re left alone. 

Despite the hectic post-race, heavy music now echoing from inside the warehouse as Johnny takes the DJ stand, a few curious eyes are still watching both of you, conversations pausing momentarily to become hushed mumbles. Whether it’s about your win over Gigi, the fact that you’re openly engaging with him of all people or something else entirely… Jeno can’t really tell.

As you turn to him again, your expression shifts to a mix of confusion and excitement. “Why did you come if you weren’t racing tonight?”

“To watch you,” he replies, the blunt answer clearly catching you off guard as your lips twitch, resisting a smile. “I told you, I don’t really race that much anymore.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you argue, offering a light shrug with a coy glance at him. “At least it’d be more fun for me.”

Jeno regards you knowingly, lips pursing in a small smile. “I’m pretty sure you were holding back on the straights tonight,” he notes, huffing a quiet laugh at your guilty wince. “How long have you known Gigi?”

“We went to school together,” you answer, fondness suddenly lacing your voice. “If my brother and Vic taught me everything I know, Jaemin and I taught her everything she knows.”

“She had a good teacher, then,” he says, still smiling with a thoughtful nod. “Seems like you’ve got a lot of people in your corner.”

You smile in a way Jeno hasn’t seen yet, a hint of pride flashing in your eyes. “I’m the luckiest to have them.”

As he studies you for a second, your expression unexpectedly wavering to a sheepish one, Jeno can’t help a soft chuckle from escaping his lips. “I can tell.”

A beat of silence passes before you break it with a playful sparkle in your eyes. “So… where’s your car, anyways?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder towards the warehouse. “I’ve never driven a Nissan before. When are you giving me a chance to drive that beauty?”

Jeno raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a teasing smile. “You sure you can handle it?” he asks, crossing his arms in a laidback gesture. “It’s not exactly a car for amateurs.”

“Are you calling me an amateur?” you provoke him, taking a step closer before playfully raising your chin at him. “If you think I can’t handle it, then let me take a ride to show you what I got.”

Though he laughs at the words, warmth slowly spreads through his body as Jeno leans closer to you, just enough to subtly tower over your figure. As his heart picks up, your dazed face just inches away from his, Jeno can’t help his eyes from dipping to your lips. 

It feels like something snaps in his brain as he suddenly looks up, instantly finding Vic near the entrance of the warehouse, the man’s gaze fixed intently on both of you. His posture is tense, arms crossed as if he’s been watching for a while.

Jeno takes a step back, exhaling sharply at the way your expression falters, looking genuinely confused by his sudden attitude.

As his voice falls into indifference again, he offers you an apologetic glance. “It’s getting late, you should probably go home.”

You huff a short laugh, a mix of bewilderment and defiance crossing your face. “Right... I probably should.”

Before Jeno can say anything else, you quickly turn around to leave—not before giving him a final, lingering look with arms crossed over your chest. As he watches you cut into the remaining crowd, your name slips from his mouth before Jeno can consciously stop it. 

“You’ll have to buy me dinner before I let you ride it.”

A grin slowly tugs at your lips before you offer him an eye-roll.

“We’ll see about that, Jeno.”

The streetlights cast dark shadows over the rows of cars parked outside Neo Tech, its large doors already halfway closed as you slowly come to stop, the engine of your Mazda humming gently in the silent neighborhood.

Inside, you can spot Jeno’s figure still moving around, his back towards the entrance as he seems to finish up for the night, clearing his workstation with a relaxed posture. 

As your fingers tap the steering wheel, you debate with yourself for a second—you hadn’t exactly planned on stopping by the garage this late, yet you’re still there with a takeout bag ready to be shared, unpretentiously anticipating his reaction over the surprise.

After the race, Jeno had left you feeling something deeper than just curiosity, especially with a certain little moment lingering at the corners of your mind for the following days. Given how much he’s changed since first meeting him at the garage, you can’t help the growing expectation inside your chest, though you’d never be one to openly admit so. 

Though before you can talk yourself out of it by overthinking, the sound of a door rolling open draws your attention. 

While throwing a few goodbyes to the crew over his shoulder, Jeno steps outside, eyebrows instantly furrowing in surprise as he spots you. Closing the garage behind him, shrugging a black hoodie jacket on, he walks towards your car with a knowing smirk breaking into his face. 

As he approaches, Jeno bends down to your window, holding an arm over the car’s roof. “If you’re here for Jaemin, he left a few minutes ago.”

“I’m here for you, actually,” you say, holding back a grin of your own at his bemused expression. “You said I should buy you dinner first, so that’s what I’m doing.”

His eyebrows shoot up briefly, the smirk widening into something caught between disbelief and amusement. “Dinner, huh?” Jeno repeats, tilting his head as if to get a better read on you. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d keep tabs on promises like that.”

“Well, I’m trying to keep things interesting for you,” you quip, starting the engine again before looking up at his figure, still leaning against your car. “I’ve got food and I know a place. Are you coming?”

Jeno just shakes his head, laughing softly as he steps back towards his GT-R. “Lead the way, let’s see what you’ve got.”

You can’t help the spark of satisfaction warming your chest as his car rumbles to life, soon pulling onto the neighborhood’s main street right behind your RX-7. Glancing in the rearview mirror every now and then, Jeno’s got the same expression from the day he’d raced you, serious and focused enough that you almost don’t resist suddenly pulling him into a challenge. 

The road stretches out ahead to a highway shortcut, the city glowing in the distance as both of you escape from it for the night. 

As the buildings and bright lights start giving way to rolling hills and open fields, you lead Jeno onto a dirt road, following it until a secluded, almost undetectable clearing. The space’s quiet, surrounded by trees, with a clear view of the stars above and the city’s skyline far ahead. 

Jeno steps out of his Skyline first, looking around with attentive eyes. “Nice spot. How’d you find this place?”

“My brother,” you answer, the diner’s bag in hands as you join him with a small smile. “He used to bring me here when I was a moody, grumpy pre-teen.”

Taking a seat on the hood of his car, Jeno hums softly. “Not anymore?”

Debating with yourself as you watch him for a moment, the words slip from your mouth with surprising ease. “He passed away, so not really,” you say, snickering softly at the quick change in his expression. “It’s been a long time though, don’t worry about it.” 

“I’m still sorry,” he starts, voice shifting to a quieter tone. “Can I ask what happened?”

You sigh wistfully, moving to sit beside him on the GT-R’s hood before starting to set up the food between you. “Would it be weird to say that I have no idea?”

Jeno frowns, visibly caught off-guard by the odd answer. “What do you mean?”

“I still don’t know what happened,” you repeat, humorlessly huffing a laugh as you pick up a fry to start. “He just… went out of town for a race one day and never came back. Vic was the one to break the news to me.”

A flicker of something you can’t read crosses his face, though he quickly recovers by offering a half uneasy, half reassuring glance. “I’m not sure what I should say—”

“It’s fine, Jeno,” you interrupt, deliberately lighting up the mood with a growing grin on your lips. “We should probably talk about how you’re letting me drive your car back to the city today.”

As Jeno chuckles, his gaze is steady but softer than usual. “You really don’t waste time, do you?”

“What can I say?” you joke, taking a sip of your milkshake with a coy shrug. “I’m a very focused person and right now my focus is exactly getting behind the wheel of your GT-R.”

Still not breaking eye contact, he shakes his head to resist his grin from growing. “So you win a few races and suddenly think that earns you the keys to my car?”

Your fingers are playing with the straw of the cherry drink as you smirk at him, tilting your head for added effect. “I mean, I did buy you dinner like you asked,” you counter, clicking your tongue. “The least you can do is uphold your promise.”

“Was it a promise?” Jeno asks, feigning confusion with a quirked eyebrow. “I don’t remember that.”

“Do you want me to remind you?” you shoot back, leaning just a little closer to taunt him. “You said that I should buy you dinner before you let me ride it. Remember that?”

As he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head again, there’s a subtle hint of a blush dusting Jeno’s cheeks. “You’re relentless.”

You smile teasingly, leaning back on your hands against his car. “Well… you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You barely finish the sentence before Jeno suddenly leans over your frame, closing the distance between you without hesitation. The kiss catches you completely off guard, your breath hitching as his lips meet yours. For a moment, your mind goes completely blank, overwhelmed by his unexpected action. 

Jeno’s hand firmly holds your jaw, anchoring you in place with the same intensity as he’s kissing you—almost as if he’s acting on an impulse after holding himself back. You can’t help giving in, something warmer and deeper quickly melting the surprise as you instinctively kiss him back, your fingers tightening around his hoodie. 

As he pulls away, exhaling a laugh against your mouth, his forehead lingers close to yours. “Sorry, that wasn’t part of the deal.”

You blink at him, trying to pace yourself again as heat rushes through your cheeks. “Not really,” you admit, grinning softly with a light-hearted shrug. “I’m not complaining, though.”

Jeno rubs the back of his neck, the action laced with a hint of bashfulness that contrasts with his usual composure. “Maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“I hope you’re not implying I’m a bad kisser,” you cut in, squinting your eyes in mock annoyance before pulling back with an exaggerated gasp. “By the way, was that you giving your car to me or is this just an attempt to trick me out of it?”

He laughs, the sound coming off low and genuine, his eyes almost sparkling under the dim light. “What if it’s both?”

A grin immediately tugs at your lips before you lean forward, pressing a quick smooch to his mouth with a giddy laugh. “I’m racing your GT-R next time then, just so you know.”

Jeno shakes his head, holding back a smile as he purposefully looks away to the city’s horizon in the distance. “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

Your laughter softens as you settle back against the hood of his car, attentively watching his profile. “So I’ve been told a few times,” you answer with a playful shrug. “I prefer to think of myself as ambitious, though.”

He smirks, glancing sideways at you with raised eyebrows. “Ambitious is definitely one word for it.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease cheekily, bumping your shoulder lightly against his with a smile. “I know you like me, it’s okay to admit it.”

Jeno hums, shaking his head as something akin to tenderness flashes in his eyes for a second. “I’ll admit you keep things… interesting.”

The weight of his words subtly change the mood, especially as your heart takes the lead by racing annoyingly fast for your liking.

As the night stretches on, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm of conversation in between bites of your usual order from The Bluebird, exchanging a few stories and memories here and there. The night air feels cool against your skin by the time both of you finish, momentarily falling into a comfortable, yet charged silence. 

Jeno breaks the pause with a deep breath, glancing at his watch with a touch of reluctance. “It’s late,” he says softly, offering you a knowing glance. “We should probably head back before someone finds us here.”

Though you know that nobody’s going to find the secluded place so late, you hum softly before hopping off the hood of his car. Just as you’re about to take a step towards your Mazda, Jeno holds you back by the arm. You watch as he silently takes off his hoodie, draping the fabric over your shoulders with a satisfied nod.

Before you can thank him, he gently grabs one of your hands, pulling it out of the long sleeve with a chuckle.

Then—the keys of his green Skyline GT-R are in your palm.

Your jaw drops as you stare down at them, blinking in both disbelief and excitement. “Are you serious?”

Amused by your reaction, Jeno smirks challengingly. “You wanted to drive it, didn’t you?” he asks, leaning closer as his voice drops. “If you make it to the city in under 10 minutes, I’ll let you actually race it.”

You can only snort, tiptoeing to press another kiss to his lips. “We’re on.”

Driving his car through the highway as you head towards the city again, watching him closely follow behind with your Mazda, you can’t help but feel like the night has set something in motion—something you’re more than ready to see through now.

Looking around, Jeno can’t remember the last time he’s been in a conference room.

The place smells like burnt coffee, the hum of its fluorescent lights almost serving as white noise to mask the unnerving silence surrounding him. 

As he sits in the large, secluded corner at the agency for the first time in three months, Jeno can’t help nervously clasping his hands over the table, waiting for Doyoung to arrive.

The walls, covered in bulletin boards that display very specific files and photos, are a twisted reminder of the reason he’s there in the first place. A folder lies in front of him, his jaw tightening at the sight of it every time he glances at the worn out edges and stained cover. 

As the door suddenly clicks with a loud sound, Doyoung is quick to step inside, his sharp, intimidating features immediately softening upon seeing him in person again. Holding another handful of files, the oldest manages a brief side-hug, offering a pat to Jeno’s back before settling on a chair at the head of the desk.

“It’s good to see you in one piece,” Doyoung starts, leaning back against his seat with a knowing glance in his direction. “Sorry that we pulled you out on short notice, the order came from high-up—”

Jeno shakes his head, pursing his lips in a tight line. “It’s fine, I was probably up for a check-in anyway.”

The agent regards him for a second, humming in agreement despite the flicker of reservation in his eyes. “You were,” Doyoung admits, nodding curtly. “We’ve been looking into your intel, and it adds up with what we have so far.”

“I thought we’d already established that the last time we talked,” Jeno answers, glaring at his co-worker impatiently. 

“We did,” the man agrees, resting his elbows against the desk before huffing a peeved scoff. “Except Victor’s not a middleman like we thought, he’s actually the head of the entire thing.”

Jeno leans back against his seat, the weight of the information settling in after a second. “You’re telling me Vic’s the one running the smuggling operation?”

Doyoung nods again, sliding a file over the desk. “Everything points back to him—the money trails, the coded messages, the shipments’ timing,” he explains, his expression seemingly hardening by each word. “He’s not just managing the cargo, he’s intercepting it and passing it forward internationally.”

His jaw tightens, eyes quickly scanning the pages. “What’s his deal with the races?”

“Recruitment ground, maybe? That’s what we gathered from your intel, anyway,” Doyoung clarifies, offering a shrug. “He needs good drivers, fast ones. What’s a better way to have that than making them yourself?”

The memories of his conversations with Jaemin instantly resurface in Jeno’s mind.

Despite the relationships you’ve built through your brother, most with the guys from Neo Tech, Victor has still played a key role in your life by guiding you, eventually molding you into one of the best racers in the city. The connection isn’t just a passing detail— now it feels deliberate, purposeful. 

If Victor’s been intentionally shaping and recruiting racers, then his investment in you isn’t just about talent and skills alone. 

Jeno exhales slowly, voice giving away a hint of stress. “What’s the next step then?”

“There’s new shipment coming next week. They’re planning to take it out of the city, so we’ll be looking out for that,” Doyoung starts, leaning back with an apologetic wince. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but we can’t bring him in without solid evidence... we’re getting close, Jeno.”

“Can I join the team on that?” he asks, his expression hardening.

The agent raises an eyebrow, clicking his tongue at the request. “It’s risky but I’ll see what I can do,” he answers, hesitating for a second before shooting Jeno a meaningful glance. “I know I’ve asked before, but I just want to be sure we’re still on the same page about—”

Even though he knew it was coming, Jeno’s stomach still twists at the mention of your name. “She’s not a problem,” he firmly cuts in, body quickly growing tense. “She’s just there to race, nothing more.”

The oldest studies him carefully, visibly cautious despite the insistence. “Are you sure about that? Victor needs good drivers, and if she’s the best one in the scene—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupts again, his fists subconsciously clenching under the desk. “She’s not part of the operation.”

“You know that I trust you, Jeno,” Doyoung says quietly, though not looking entirely too convinced. “I hope you know what you’re doing. If you get too close, it’s not just you who could get hurt.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Jeno argues, glaring at the agent in a way that looks too forceful to feel genuine. “I’m undercover and she gets me closer to the scene, that’s all. I’m not about to compromise the investigation, Doyoung.”

The agent simply nods, sliding another file across the desk. “We’ve also got something new from the surveillance team. Do you recognize these names?”

Scanning the list of names printed on the paper, Jeno points at the last two ones. Shotaro and Sungchan. “I’ve seen these two race before… Vic’s drivers?”

“It seems like it, at least for the next shipment,” Doyoung confirms, regarding him with a knowing look. “If you can scout anything about them at the garage...”

He nods, closing the file before roughly pushing it over. “Sure, I’ll get back to you.”

As Doyoung gathers the files together, a deep exhale suddenly escapes from his mouth once silence settles in the conference room again. 

“Now, I’m asking you as a friend, not as a co-worker or an agent,” he starts, almost sounding exasperated under his characteristic concern. “It’s been three months. Are you sure you can keep doing this?”

The agent watches him attentively, his cranky professional facade slipping for a moment as Jeno clocks a hint of apprehension on his face. 

Doyoung has always been more than just a co-worker, having stepped into an older brother role from the moment he’d joined the agency as a fresh-faced, out-of-school rookie. 

Over the years, the oldest had become a steady presence in Jeno’s building career as one of the top agents in the team—whether through a firm warning when he pushed too far on something or simply seeing his potential when no one else would, there isn’t a single doubt that Doyoung holds a significant place in his life now.

Still, Jeno can’t help hesitating over the question, ultimately nodding despite the weight behind his words. “I’m fine.”

The agent doesn’t answer right away, watching him as though waiting for something. “Well, you don’t really seem like it,” Doyoung counters, standing up from his seat with the files in hands again. “You look like a guy who’s starting to lose sight of what side he’s on. I’d know about that.”

As the oldest steps aside to leave, the silence feels heavier than before, settling between them like the unspoken truth that Jeno’s been tightly safeguarding. Opening the door, Doyoung squeezes his shoulder in reassurance, nodding firmly despite the softness in his eyes.

“You’ve got this, Jeno.”

The sound of tires crunching against the gravel outside your place immediately draws your attention, a familiar engine’s hum echoing through the quiet evening. A small smile tugs at your mouth as recognition settles in, the sound almost unmistakable by now. Peering outside the window, you watch as Jeno’s green GT-R comes to a smooth stop into your driveway, a quiet warmth blooming in your chest.

It’s been a couple of days since you last saw each other, both staying busy enough with work and life between race days. 

In the three months since Jeno first challenged you, your relationship—or whatever that you can possibly call it—has slowly become something that’s been lingering in a space with no definitions or expectations.

Though neither of you are entirely sure of what to call it, even under the occasional teasing quips from Neo Tech’s crew, you’ve come to realize that you don’t really mind it. There’s a certain comfort in not overthinking it, trusting Jeno to exist in your life in the way he does—steady but gently, with an ease that feels very characteristic of him.

The evening chill rises shivers on your bare legs as you step outside, smirking at the way Jeno’s figure is sitting on the hood of his car, hands tucked into the pockets of a bomber jacket. His head lifts slightly at the sound of your quick footsteps, a groan escaping from his lips as you jump against him, arms wrapping around his neck in a tight hug. 

“Hello to you too,” Jeno starts, sounding nothing but amused as you pull back, a hint of surprise giving him away for a moment. “Didn’t think I’d get this kind of welcome today.”

“Why? Did you think I’d only do that when we’ve got an audience?” you ask, your tone playful as you stand between his legs, arms now loosely holding him. “I’m a loyal girl, Jeno Lee.”

He nods solemnly, a sudden flicker of seriousness catching his eyes. “I know you are.”

“You could’ve texted me,” you argue, sighing dramatically as you give him a glare. “We could’ve gone out if I knew you were coming tonight.”

Jeno smiles, his hands lightly squeezing your hips before pulling you closer. “What if I wanted to surprise you?”

Rolling your eyes, a grin spreads through your face before you can stop it. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today,” you tease, taking a step back again as you reach for his hand. “We can order some dinner then, I’ll know just the place—”

“I can’t stay tonight, Cherry,” he cuts in, gently stopping you with an apologetic glance. “I’m leaving town for a few days, I just wanted to see you before I go.”

As the words catch you off-guard, you blink confusedly at him. “You’re leaving? What for?”

“Family stuff,” Jeno answers, a heavy sigh escaping from his lips. “It came up suddenly but I’ll only be gone for a few days, a week at most.” 

You frown, pursing your lips in a pout before giving him a playful curious glance. “Family stuff? That’s all I get when there’s probably gossip?”

Jeno laughs, shaking his head in amusement for a second. “Gigi’s been rubbing off on you,” he teases, voice soon dropping to a mix of reassurance and tenderness as he exhales. “It’s not that exciting, I promise. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You could’ve told me earlier,” you mutter, your fingers playing with the zipper of his jacket, purposefully avoiding his gaze. “The next race’s gonna suck if you’re not going to be here.”

His fingers grasp at your chin, lifting your face up until your eyes meet. “You’re the main part of these races, so I doubt that’ll happen,” he counters, clicking his tongue with a sly, playful grin tugging his lips. “I’d let my car with you but I’ll need it, so…”

With a scoff, you half-heartedly swat his chest. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He doesn’t answer, instead pausing the conversation for a moment with a soft brush of his thumb along your jaw, the warm touch contrasting against the evening. You lean closer first, but Jeno’s quick to capture your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and lingering, his hand moving from your face as he gently cups your neck. 

In the comfort of his arms, you completely lose track of time—the sounds around you become white noise, fading into the background between his embrace and the softness of his lips, one kiss turning two, then three, and so on. 

The loud rumble of a specific Charger pulls both of you from your shared bubble. Jeno’s arms drop slightly, though his hands remain resting at your hips as Vic suddenly comes into view on the street. The atmosphere instantly changes it, Jeno subtly tensing while watching the man pull up beside his Skyline. 

You don’t seem to notice the skeptical look on Victor’s face, greeting him with a smile once the car comes to a stop. “Vic? What’s up with you guys surprising me tonight?”

“Great minds think alike, Cherry,” Victor says, glancing between both of you with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just came by to say goodbye before I head out for a job.”

As Jeno’s eyes harden at Vic’s words, the quiet shift in his demeanor isn’t lost on you. There’s something in the way the two men regard each other in that moment—not hostile, but definitely not friendly either, leaving curiosity to gnaw at you. 

With a half-hearted huff, you ignore the edge in their interaction, instead glaring at both of them. “Great, I’ll just ignore the fact that you’re both suddenly leaving and just wish you a safe trip, then.”

The man’s eyes flicker to Jeno for a second, a look of subtle recognition in his gaze. “I’m sure we’ll be back soon,” Victor answers, eyes returning to you again in a sharp glance. “You and I’ll talk when I get back.”

Puzzled by the striking weight in his tone, you hum with a hesitant nod. “Take care, Vic.”

It doesn’t take long until Victor’s car disappears down the street, the red tail lights slowly growing smaller into the evening. Jeno remains quiet in front of you, his hands still resting lightly on your hips, almost as if he’s distracted. You glance up at him, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his gaze’s been fixed towards the direction Vic’s just headed to. 

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you raise an eyebrow as he glances back at you again, a touch of agitation in his eyes. “You okay?”

He blinks, expression softening slightly at your touch. “Yeah,” Jeno replies after a beat, his tone calm but not entirely convincing. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” you ask, gently hoping to pull him from whatever had him so lost in thought.

As he stands up from the hood of his car, moving both of you by a step, a half-hearted smile curls on his lips. “Nothing worth worrying about.”

“Everyone’s running off tonight,” you say, sighing in mock exasperation upon realizing that he’s leaving soon too. “Should I start taking it personally?”

“You should go visit Jaemin at the garage while I’m gone. He’s been missing you these days,” Jeno jokes, brushing his fingers against your cheek. “I’ll be back before you can even miss me.”

Not resisting the faint smile that tugs at your mouth, you roll your eyes. “Bold of you to assume I’ll miss you in the first place,” you taunt, though a little softer than intended. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to go bother him then.”

He’s the one to lean down for a kiss again, though it’s a gentle, soft one to your forehead first. It’s enough for you to tug him by his jacket, pressing your lips to his with a sigh against his mouth. When Jeno pulls back, he regards you for a second, almost as if he’s trying to commit your features to his mind. 

You watch as he climbs into the GT-R, the engine roaring back to life in its familiar growl. Giving you one last look through the open window, a faint smile plays on Jeno’s lips. 

“I’ll see you soon, Cherry.”

Crossing your arms, you smile tauntingly at him, the words slipping with a touch of fondness.

“We’ll see about that, Jeno.”

Outside the windows of his apartment, the city’s skyline is casted with a deep orange glow as the sun sets, drawing a picture that Jeno rarely indulges in whenever he’s at home. 

Now that he’s back, the sight quietly tugs at the strings of his heart, especially after everything that has happened in the last few days. It sets a strange, confusing impression in his mind—one that makes him distinctively remember Doyoung’s words from last time. 

The whiplash of feeling at home without really being at home rings several alarms in Jeno’s head, even if he’s been purposefully ignoring them for a while now. He still doesn’t know how to feel about the ease in which he slips in and out of… whatever this is supposed to be, having been toying so effortlessly with the line that draws his two personas. 

Still, despite the noise in his head, you’re the one thing that Jeno’s felt recklessly sure about. He might not know what the mission can possibly mean to the future, but he knows what it means to him, at least for now.

The knock at the door leaves him anticipating something Jeno can’t quite tell.

It almost feels like he hasn’t seen you in months, his lingering eyes getting caught as you step into his place, walking past him with a smirk on your lips. 

“Hi,” you say lightly, the familiar teasing touch in your voice pulling at his chest. “Did you miss me?”

“I don’t know,” Jeno counters, raising an eyebrow as an amused chuckle betrays him. “Did you miss me?”

As you pause for a second, your gaze suddenly hinting a mix of softness and apprehension, the last thing he’s expecting is to feel your arms wrapping him in a firm, almost distraught hug. The suddenness of it takes Jeno by surprise, his hands hovering in the air for a moment before settling reassuringly against your back. 

“Hey, look at me,” he calls, pulling back just enough to catch your eyes as his voice drops to a concerned tone. “Is there something wrong?”

You’re quick to shake your head, offering a half-hearted smile in an attempt to brush it off. “It’s nothing,” you say, stepping back from his embrace with a glance around the place, expression shifting into something lighter. “What are we having for dinner today?”

Despite his hesitation at the moment, Jeno reluctantly moves on, the dinner eventually starting off easy enough with you raving over your love for the take-out menu he’s picked. It feels that way for a while as he listens to you recount updates from the crew at Neo Tech, your win at the last race that’s just marked your second five-win streak, a few tidbits about Jaemin and Gigi fooling around with each other. 

Still, even through your laughs and the way you accept his touch every now and then, there’s a quietness about you today, an edge to the smiles that doesn’t reach your eyes. 

The subtle pauses between your words, the heavy way your eyes linger on his figure whenever you think he isn’t looking—Jeno knows there’s something on your mind, even if you’re not saying it. 

It isn’t until later, after the plates are cleared and the hues of oranges have faded to a blue evening outside the windows of his place, that your voice breaks the silence of his room. 

“You’re not really a mechanic, are you?”

The soft flow of the bedside lamp casts a warm glow to your features, seemingly devoid of any emotion. With your head resting against his chest, your fingers have been idly tracing patterns against his skin, though it immediately stops as you feel his sudden tension. 

The question hangs in the air for a second, Jeno’s heart beating hard enough that he’s sure you can hear it. 

You lift your head to look at him, your eyes quietly searching for answers. “I mean… you’re good at it, you’re an amazing racer, but—” you pause, exhaling deeply despite the ease that you continue. “It just doesn’t add up, Jeno. I think you’re something else, and… I think I know that.”

It’s clear that you’re giving him a chance to deny, to tell you that you’re wrong. The tiny hint of hope in your eyes slowly fades away as his silence stretches, serving more than a spoken confirmation as it quietly tells you everything. 

“Vic told me,” you say, voice barely a whisper. “He said you’re an agent.”

As you acknowledge the truth in the open, Jeno’s stomach sinks, a wave of unease crashing over him. He’d known that this moment would come, but not like this, not there or today or with you looking up at him like that. 

“Is he telling the truth?” you ask, arms wrapping around knees as you sit up. “Is that why you’re here? Is that why you’re… with me?”

Jeno can’t seem to find the right words to answer, hating himself the longer his silence grows between you. It seems to be your breaking point too, leaving the bed to stand up a few feet away from him. 

A look of exasperation settles on your face, sharp eyes glaring at him. “You’re not denying it, Jeno,” you urge him, your voice breaking for a second before you huff a bitter laugh. “Are you kidding me? Was any of this real or just part of your job?”

The answer is quiet, his voice almost cracking. “It’s not like that—”

“Right, then what is it like?” you snap, raising an eyebrow in a mock challenge. “I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ve been lying to me the whole time.”

Jeno exhales shakily, a frown set between his eyebrows. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Didn’t have a choice?” you repeat, an ironic chuckle escaping from your mouth. “You had a choice to not approach me at all, you had a choice to lay me off ages ago, you had a choice to tell me the truth. How’s that for you?”

“It’s not that simple,” he argues, running a hand through his hair, jaw tensing for a moment. “I wanted to tell you, but… I just couldn’t. It’d put you in risk and I wasn’t about to do that.”

“So what? You just use me instead?” you start, anger crashing down as you suddenly grow quiet, your voice trembling. “Get close to me because it’d help with whatever you’re doing here?”

Jeno’s fists clench upon the tears brimming in your eyes, his breath turning shallow as he avoids your gaze. “No,” he mutters, firm enough to contrast against the flicker of dejection on his face. “This is not what this is.”

For a moment, he wonders if you’ve picked up the white lie, your expression unreadable as you simply watch him. He hates himself for lying to you, for letting you get close when he knew he couldn’t give you the truth. More than that, he hates how much he cares—how much losing you is feeling like losing something more important than his own job, than the entire investigation itself. 

Shaking your head with a finality that’s almost meant to defy him, you harshly wipe the tears off your eyes. “Let’s just not do this anymore.”

Once the words click, Jeno can’t help but freeze for a moment before panic surges through him as you walk around the room. With shaky hands, you quickly gather your clothes, not sparing a single side-eye towards his direction.

“Look at me,” Jeno calls, voice raising to a rougher tone as he sits up, trying to get a look at your face. “Hey, look at me!”

Your movements remain frantic as you shrug a jacket on, continuing to ignore him as if you hadn’t noticed the hard change to his demeanor. Without a word, you head straight to the door, the tension between you thick enough to feel suffocating. Jeno groans, his chest twisting in frustration and regret as he scrambles off the bed. 

Just as your hand reaches for the doorknob, his hand closes around your upper arm, pulling you back with a careful force.

You finally turn around to face him, hurt and anger laced to your features. “What?”

“I don’t want to see you at the next race,” Jeno orders, the weight of his stony eyes visibly surprising you for a second. “Don’t go.”

As you frown, your confusion is evident, body almost relaxing under his touch. “What?”

With a glare, he makes sure that the words are not a request, but rather a command. “Don’t come to the next race, Cherry.”

The anger in your gaze hardens into something more painful as you pull your arm from his grasp. “Fuck off, Jeno,” you say, the venom in your words cutting deep as you open the door, this time without hesitation. “I’m the one that doesn’t want to see you at the next race.” 

The door closes with a simple click, sounding miserably loud to the silence of his apartment now. 

Jeno’s fingers curl into fists at his side, a ragged breath escaping from his lips as he stares blankly at it. Though the thought feels just as hollow as his lies, Jeno tells himself that maybe it’s better this way. After all, the job does demand sacrifice—relationships, connections, anything that can possibly jeopardize his missions. 

Now left with the company of his heavy heart, Jeno wonders how many times he’ll have to tell that lie in order to convince himself instead.

The night air feels thick with tension as Jeno comes to a stop outside the warehouse, parking in a spot away from the usual crowd and their curious eyes. The race’s just about to start, a few cars already lining up with the blasting music in the background as usual. 

Race days are always charged with a raw energy that he’s grown accustomed to, one that never failed to make him feel alive—but today, it feels skeptically different.

Jeno can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong tonight, despite Doyoung having already warned him about the change of plans in the investigation after his cover was blown by Victor. For a moment, he wonders if that’s just his mind playing games. While keeping his distance from you, Jeno has been subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop, anticipating you to eventually expose him. 

His arrival plays out as nothing out of the ordinary though, Jaemin and Taeyong waving off from a distance as he steps out of the car, walking through the swarm of people to scan the racers of the night. 

A part of him knew it was futile to warn you off the race, no matter how much he didn’t want you anywhere near the place tonight, regardless of the operation falling apart or not. It almost surprises him to not spot your Mazda at the starting line until he sees you, standing a few feet away from the grid while talking to Gigi, both of you visibly bickering.

He knows that your presence’s probably making things a lot more complicated to him. 

The frustration quietly builds in his chest, mostly out of his own impotence than your choice to disregard his instruction. After all, the more he thought about it, the more he realized—if Vic knows about him and has kept quiet the entire time except to turn you against him, Jeno can’t really protect you, not without giving himself away or ruining the investigation entirely. 

Given they most definitely are getting too close to Victor’s home, it feels fitting for the man to pull his own strings somehow. 

The man’s presence at the race today is a dead giveaway of that, standing by his black Charger with a few of his shady-looking guards, watching the audience with an air of stress to his face. Jeno can’t help noticing the way his eyes keep flickering through the lot and the racers, almost as if expecting something. 

Not having enough time to prod further, Jaemin suddenly approaches with a pat to his back, eyeing him with a flicker of both curiosity and exasperation in his gaze.

“You should probably fix whatever happened between you and Cherry,” the mechanic starts, snickering almost bitterly. “If neither of you are racing, who’s going to make this entire thing exciting?”

A chuckle escapes from his lips, Jeno relaxing for a second as he shakes his head at the guy. “I bet Gigi would love to hear that.”

“Please, it doesn’t seem like it but Gigi worships her,” Jaemin discloses, the playfulness on his face quickly fading to a mock warning look in his direction. “Don’t tell Cherry that if you don’t want Gigi to fuck you up.”

Before he can respond, the cars roar to life with Johnny’s voice, revving engines interrupting the conversation as the usual procedure starts. 

The crowd tenses once the countdown starts, flag up in the air. 

Then, a sharp screech of tires breaks through, the sound of approaching sirens getting louder by the second, flashes of blue and red lights quickly surrounding the warehouse. The crowd scatters around in a frenzy, running off in panic while the racers attempt to break through the chaos through a few secret exits. 

This is part of his job—the chaos, the unpredictability, the apprehension. Jeno knows better to keep it cool, keep the cover intact for as long as he can despite everything, even if it means keeping you out of it.

But you aren’t leaving. 

With Jaemin hurrying off, shouting something about meeting at the garage and finding Gigi over the booming sirens, Jeno’s eyes easily find you in the havoc of people. You’re frozen in place, simply watching the commotion with wide, confused eyes. 

“Get out of here!” he yells, shoving through the crowd as he rushes towards your direction, his outstretched hand waving you off. “Cherry! You need to fucking leave!”

You barely acknowledge him before staring at something else. Following your fixed gaze, Jeno finds Vic standing still at the same spot, unphased by the madness surrounding him.  

Something about his calmness, his tranquility in the middle of the chaos doesn’t sit right with Jeno. It’s been long proved by the investigation that Victor Torres isn’t exactly on the up-and-up, but seeing him there, just watching the mess unfold in a way that feels almost detached makes a pin immediately drop in Jeno’s mind.

Whatever’s happening tonight was not an accident—it was planned.

As he approaches you, Jeno quickly grabs your arm, guiding you away from the commotion when a sudden bang echoes through the air. Over his shoulder, he watches your body suddenly lurch as something sharp seems to cross your shoulder. You stumble, your hand instinctively reaching for the spot as Jeno pulls you closer, holding you steady as his eyes frantically search for something.

The sight of blood running from your neck and down your arm surprises him, anxiety rushing through his body as he exhales shakily. “Fuck!”

“Jeno,” you call, eyes wide with shock as your shaky hands fist his jacket. “What the hell is happening?”

“I don’t know,” Jeno answers, trying to keep his voice steady in an attempt to mend the visible fear in your eyes. “You’re going to be okay, we’ll get out here.”

A burst of gunfire sends the place into mayhem again, both of you almost losing balance over your feet as Jeno half-carries you, shielding you with his body on the escape. 

It feels like a lifetime until you reach his car, the way your body grows weaker by each second sending chills down his spine. He’s quick to help you onto the passenger seat, slamming the door shut and rushing to the driver’s side, barely managing to reach for his phone before emergency-calling Doyoung. 

It rings once, the agent’s distressed voice coming off the speaker just as Jeno starts the engine. “What’s happening?”

“You fucking tell me, Doyoung,” he starts, the tone suddenly ragged in anger as he reverses out of the corner, picking up speed while expertly dodging the few stray racers still around. “Why the fuck is the police here? I thought the plans had changed—why the fuck are they here opening gunfire out of nowhere?”

“The police’s there?” Doyoung asks, giving away his aggravation even through the phone. “We didn’t send anyone, the plans really have changed. Can’t you identify them?”

“There’s no time for that,” he bites back, hands tightening around the steering wheel as he takes a look at your unmoving, quiet figure. “She’s been shot, I’m taking her to the hospital.”

“Shit,” the agent curses, an uncharacteristic behavior that feels fitting to the sudden weight of the situation. “I’m calling the team, we’ll see what we can do. I’ll meet you at the hospital, wait for me.”

The call disconnects as Jeno takes a back exit inside the warehouse, acutely aware of your silence. You’re gripping the seat with loose fingers, breathing uneven as you stare ahead, eyes unfocused. As his Skyline reaches an empty alley on the way out of the lot, Jeno presses the accelerator harder, feeling as if there’s not much time left. 

“Look at me,” Jeno calls, the words ironically bringing a bad taste to his mouth as he presses you, still not looking at him. “Cherry, look at me!”

As you turn to him, your eyes are looking far too unfocused and dazed for his comfort. “Where’s Jaemin and Gigi?”

“At the garage,” he says, rushing to answer with an ease that he isn’t currently feeling. “They’re fine. I’ll call them—they’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Jeno feels his composure crack the longer he looks at you, taking in the blood staining your clothes and the way your breath’s slowly growing uneven. The road stretches ahead as he speeds further, though all he can focus on is the time slipping through his fingers no matter how fast he’s driving.

Pulling into the hospital’s entrance, the tires of his GT-R screeching against the asphalt, Jeno doesn’t even bother parking properly. 

As he hurries to your side, his movements grow increasingly desperate upon noticing you abruptly losing consciousness. Swinging the door open, Jeno scoops you into his arms, your head falling against his chest as your breathing slows down. 

The staff immediately rush to him as he walks through the sliding doors of the ER, fast to take you from his hold. The sight of your unconscious figure on the stretcher feels crushing, leaving him to just stand there with clenched fists as a sense of helplessness seems to weigh him down on the spot. 

It’s just when Jeno hears Doyoung calling for his name that he breaks out of the trance, turning around to find the agent’s disgruntled, but worried figure quickly approaching him. 

“Hey,” Doyoung greets, the low tone not masking the urgency laced to it. “How’s she doing?”

Stepping back to lean against the hospital’s wall, he can’t help huffing humorlessly. “What the fuck was that, Doyoung?”

“I’m still not sure, our team’s still looking into it,” the agent answers right away, sighing tensely as he glances knowingly at the youngest. “It definitely wasn’t us… but taking a wild guess? I don’t think the police were part of it.”

Jeno’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Are you saying that was Victor?”

Doyoung shrugs, scoffing a dry laugh. “He’s got the means for it, that’s for sure,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest with an eye-roll. “With us pushing back the operation, he had more than enough time to plan something.”

With a frustrated exhale, Jeno runs a hand over his face, features hardening into a frown for a second. “Listen, I don’t think my cover’s blown—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Doyoung interjects, cutting him off with a firm, yet reassuring nod. “We’ll handle the fall-out, Jeno.”

Over the older agent’s shoulder, Jeno suddenly spots Jaemin hurrying into the hospital. The mechanic’s eyes dart around the room for a moment until finding him, suspiciously eyeing the scene before taking a few steps closer. Noticing the shift on Jeno’s face, Doyoung follows his gaze, raising an eyebrow as Jaemin stops beside them. The agent is quick to take the hint, clapping Jeno’s shoulder before leaving with a mumble about needing coffee. 

Jaemin breaks the silence first, his usual playful features heavy with a mix of concern and exhaustion. “What happened? Is Cherry okay?”

Unsure of how much to reveal given his position, Jeno can’t help hesitating. “She got caught in the middle of gunfire,” he replies, pausing for a moment before glancing apologetically at the mechanic. “I got her out as fast as I could.”

“We’ve been safe for years, the cops have never bothered us before,” Jaemin argues, nervously running a hand through his hair, frowning in confusion. “Why today?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jeno answers, trying to keep the tone as steady as possible despite the truth behind the words. “It didn’t seem like they were targeting anyone specific, if that’s worth anything.”

As Jaemin regards Jeno for a second, a chuckle escapes from his mouth, the sound coming off sharply. “She told me.”

He feels his chest tighten, taken aback by the unexpected twist. “What?”

“You’re a cop, right?” the mechanic asks, voice down to a quieter, solemn tone. “Cherry told me everything and made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even you or Gigi.”

Shaking his head with a deep breath, Jeno feels the weight of his persona pressing down on him heavier than ever. “I’m sorry.”

Jaemin shrugs, surprising him by huffing a short laugh. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” he says, a flicker of something softer crossing his eyes. “Just… whatever you’re planning, make sure it doesn’t screw both of you over more than it already has.”

The nurse’s voice suddenly cuts the conversation, Jeno faltering for a moment as both of them look up at the same time, their shared tensions immediately replaced by a sense of relief with over words.

“One of you can go in and see her now.”

The soft beeping of the monitor fills the silence of the hospital room, contrasting with the lingering, annoying buzz still echoing in your ears. The bandage on your neck feels perfectly snug, covering the bullet’s graze almost down to your shoulder. 

After the chaos of earlier, you can’t help but feel misplaced once the nurse leaves, unconsciously replaying the entire night in your mind—the loud, sharp gunfire, the panic in his voice during your escape, the detachment you’d fallen into. It doesn’t take long until Jeno slowly steps into the room, features guarded despite the softness in his eyes upon meeting yours. 

There’s a sense of hesitation in the way he moves, almost as if he’s unsure of his own presence around you. Taking a seat by the chair beside your bed, the silence between you holds for a second, only for Jeno to break it with a tired sigh first. 

“Hey,” he greets quietly, glancing at the bandage on your neck with a touch of attentiveness. “How are you feeling?”

You shrug instinctively, the stiffness in your movements betraying a light discomfort. “It wasn’t as bad as it felt,” you say, placing a careful hand over the bandage with a dry chuckle. “It was just a graze. I’m just bad at handling stress and blood, apparently.”

Jeno leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at you, his features looking nothing but distressed. “I’m really sorry, Cherry.”

Your lips twitch for a moment, a bitter smile almost tugging at your mouth. “For what, exactly? The cops raiding us or the lies you’ve been telling me?”

“For all of it,” Jeno answers, the words firm and steady, willingly taking the bite behind your question. “I know it’s not an excuse, but my team’s not involved in whatever happened. We’re looking into it, but…”

At the sudden pause, you lean back against the pillows on your bed, letting out a weary sigh. “Why do I feel like I know what you’re going to say?”

Jeno chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head with a grimace. “I think… I should tell you the truth about me first, right?” he begins, taking a deep breath before locking his eyes with yours again. “I’m an undercover agent. I was assigned to this case a few months ago, to investigate Victor and his crew.”

You swallow hard, doing your best to keep yourself from reacting despite the weight of his confession, the implications subtle. “What does Vic have to do with this?”

“He’s the head of an international smuggling operation in the city,” he reveals, almost looking apologetic over the words. “Everything you can think of, he’s got it—money laundering, trafficking, weapon deals. We’ve been looking into his business for a while, but it’s… complicated. He’s careful, his crew’s good.”

“Is that why you got involved with me?” you ask, the tone of your voice thoughtful, yet not particularly soft. “Did you think I was working for him?”

As he frowns, Jeno’s gaze hardens for a moment. “I’m not lying to you anymore, so I won’t say that I didn’t.”

With a hum, the words are quick to slip out of your mouth, almost too casually for the situation. “I’ve been looking into him too, you know,” you admit, chuckling quietly at the surprise on his face. “After that night, I started digging a little. I’m sure you know how easy it is to connect the dots if you keep your ears open around the racers.”

Jeno sighs, his eyebrows furrowing apologetically. “Cherry—”

“I’m not working for him,” you interrupt, frustration and disappointment laced to your broken exhale. “I don’t know what you know, but I—”

Reaching over for your hand, Jeno gently stops you from fidgeting. “I know you’re not,” he cuts in firmly, his gaze locking onto yours, the heaviness in his voice softening. “I know, baby.”

The unexpected nickname hangs in the air, catching both of you off guard. As the surprise breaks through your frustration, Jeno seems just as much taken aback, his lips parted as if realizing the slip a little too late. For a moment, the weight of the moment shifts, leaving a charged silence between you.

“So, what are you going to do now?” you ask, clearing your throat as if to recompose yourself, looking away from him. “Are you keeping the cover and continuing the investigation?”

“The investigation’s compromised now so…” Jeno hesitates, huffing a peeved laugh before slumping back against his seat. “I’ll probably have to leave. Victor knows who I am and if I stay… it’ll be just dangerous for everyone.”

You nod slowly, heart aching in a way you hadn’t anticipated. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” you say quietly, managing a playful smile despite the tears burning in your eyes, threatening to fall. “For what it’s worth, I don’t regret any of it. It was nice trusting you, Jeno… even if only for a little while.”

He looks at you then, his expression pained as a shaky sigh escapes from his mouth. “Cherry—”

Shaking your head, you silently fist his jacket to pull him up, Jeno immediately following as he stands up with a step closer to the bed. As he leans closer, carefully holding himself over your figure, you cup his face gently. Your fingertips brush against his cheeks, moving to his lips before you close the distance, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth. 

The struggle in his eyes is clear as you pull back, though Jeno doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just nods, forehead resting against yours for just a moment more before he stands up.

With a long look at you, Jeno pulls a set of keys from his jeans, reaching for your hand and dropping them into your palm. A genuine, incredulous laugh escapes from your lips over the realization, immediately drawing a small smile out of him. 

“You take care of yourself, Cherry,” he says softly, the nickname carrying more emotion than ever before.

You nod, a half-hearted, teasing smile slowly growing on your face despite the ache in your chest. “I’ll see you around, Jeno.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, you know that this the end of whatever it was you’d built together—but only the beginning of something you’ll have to build alone now.

“I can’t believe this is your first vacation since joining the agency.”

Stepping out of the elevator, Jeno lets out a soft laugh at Doyoung’s exasperation, the man walking beside him as they make their way through the lobby.

Despite the cool air conditioning of the building, the bright sunlight slipping through the glass doors hints at another warm, heavy summer day outside. Jeno tugs at the tie around his neck, loosening the knot before undoing the first buttons of his shirt.

“Taking days off under orders is hardly a vacation,” he replies, his tone dry but laced with humor.

Doyoung huffs, shaking his head as they near the building’s exit. “God knows you need some time off,” the agent argues, glancing at him knowingly. “Maybe you should go to the beach these days, you could use some vitamin D—”

As his friend continues the spiel, Jeno quickly glances outside, about to step through the glass doors when his attention’s caught by an unexpected, but familiar sight. 

Outside the agency’s building, the green Nissan Skyline GT-R contrasts with the muted, neutral colors from the other cars driving through the same street. Sitting at the hood of the car, flipping a cherry red lollipop between your fingers, you look like a mirage to Jeno’s eyes, maybe a vision brought by the heat from outside.

“—not listening to me?”

He blinks at Doyoung after a second, startled by the agent’s hand waving in front of his face. “What?”

With a suspicious frown, Doyoung trails his eyes in the same direction, a sound of surprise instantly escaping from his lips. “Is that who I think it is?”

He nods, resisting the smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah.” 

As recognition suddenly flickers in the agent’s gaze, a scoff escapes from his lips over the car, his tone laced with disbelief. “So that’s where the Skyline we gave you went?” 

Jeno chuckles, offering a half-hearted shrug at his friend. “I paid for it.”

“She’s technically a criminal,” Doyoung starts, more playful than anything, giving him a mock indignant glance. “You do know that, right? It might not seem like it but street racing is illegal—”

“I’ll see you later, Doyoung.”

Jeno’s voice cuts the oldest’s teasing, moving to step ahead through the door as Doyoung snickers behind him, shaking his head in amusement. 

It doesn’t take long for you to notice him approaching, your lips soon curling in a soft, somehow teasing smile. Despite his surprise, Jeno doesn’t hesitate stepping closer, moving to stand between your legs in a familiar move.

“Hey,” you greet, offering a pat to his chest in a coy manner. “Long time no see, huh?”

“Seven months, exactly,” Jeno answers, giving a firm nod before raising a curious eyebrow at you. “I’m not complaining, but what are you doing here?”

You sigh exaggeratedly, tilting your head at him. “You know words are quick to get around, right? I heard your first vacation ever starts today.”

“You’ve heard it right,” he says, smirking at your antics as if the past months hadn’t happened, a sense of familiarity settled between you.

As you smile, something softer flickers in your gaze. “So I was thinking… if you’ve got some time off, maybe you’d want to spend it doing something cool,” you start, shrugging lightly. “You know, like going for a drive or racing with someone?”

For a moment, Jeno can only stare at you, still taken aback by your abrupt appearance. Then, without thinking twice, he suddenly closes the distance between you, hands reaching for your face as his lips finally meet yours again. Smiling against his mouth, you lean back as your palms rest against the car’s hood, the kiss so unhurried and lingering that Jeno almost pushes you down against it after a while. 

When you pull away, his lips still following you for a split second, a smile grows on your face.

“So,” you say softly, your voice laced with amusement. “Is that a yes?”

Jeno grins, hands on your hips as he pulls you off the Skyline, arms holding you closer as if you’ve never left.

“Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @saranghoeforanton @tywritesstuff

[norrisjpg]

hands to myself

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summary: in which, lando is a little nervous about the beginning of his world championship campaign, but he's got his favourite lucky charm there with him to keep his head in check.

content: tooth-aching fluff, insecurities, mentions of alcohol and drugs, physical touch is lando's love language (i'm convinced!!) 

pairing: lando norris x fem!oc

rora's thoughts: hi everyone! this is officially the first part of the 'open arms' series, even though i published 'cool about it' before this (oops!) - but the saudi arabian grand prix had your girl in some type of (devastated) way, so that's to blame for my blip in better judgement. anyway, i hope you enjoy, and don't forget to comment, i love reading your thoughts!!

════════════════════════

METAPHORICALLY, lando norris had turned into a fucking turtle over the past few hours - hiding under a solid exterior, to shield the soft emotions and nerves that had been building up from the world.

it was early on sunday morning, the day of the australian grand prix, and lando was on pole, what better place to be starting from?

but he was getting in his head, overthinking and borderline spiralling into an abyss of anxiety. this season was supposed to be his season, and he was desperate not to fuck it up, not that he'd fucked up last year - second in the drivers' championship when he'd only won for the first time that year was pretty good, right?

it was oscar's home race, so he knew that the australian would be extra determined to snatch the win from him today and take the lead in the drivers' standings - but lando wasn't going to let that happen, right?

"lando, you awake?" the familiar voice called softly through the door, knocking briefly afterward.

"yeah," the british driver yawned, rubbing his eyes as lily entered the bedroom. “come in.”

the door glided open, revealing the tired and slightly dishevelled model, not completely awake from her slumber quite yet.

“good morning, lils.” lando spoke softly, a sleepy smile on his face.

“morning, lan.” lily yawned, covering her mouth and padding into the room, before clambering onto the bed with him. “how are you feeling about today?”

“good, yeah, good.” he nodded, not sure why he was even trying to lie to her.

“you’re a shit liar,” she mumbled, rolling over so she was closer to him, still facing him. “so, tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

lando was blushing before she’d even finished the sentence, his cheeks flushing an adorable pink and the tips of his ear ringing red. a shy smile spreads across his face and he briefly avoided eye contact with her.

“i— i’m just nervous, that’s all.” the driver brushed it off, shaking his head. “i’m just being silly, don’t worry about me.”

“but you know i do.” she said lowly, bringing a hand up to muddle with his curls. “so come on, spill.”

“what if i fuck it up and lose the lead?” he mumbled, sighing quietly. “this is supposed to be my year, and i really don’t want to mess it up.”

“you’re not going to,” lily reassured him, tracing a finger down the side of his face and across his jaw. “you put it on pole yesterday, correct?”

“yeah, but—”

“—ah, ah. you put it on pole yesterday, yes?”

god, she knew him too well for his own good — she way the girl had quickly tilted his chin upward, toward her, when he’d looked down and muttered his cut-short response.

“yeah.” he mumbled, sounding slightly defeated when she interrupted him, but he knew she was right in what she was implying.

“so you’re the fastest, lan.” she nodded, gently tugging on the curls at the nape of his neck. “stop doubting yourself, you’ve worked hard on your starts and it will have paid off, i promise.”

“but you don’t know that.” he said quietly.

“no, you’re right, i don’t.” lily agreed, speaking gently to him. “but i believe in you, and you should too, you know?”

“i know.” he huffed, placing his hands on her back and running them up and down.

“i hate it when you’re like this.”

“like what?” lando furrowed his eyebrows, frowning a little.

“when you’re hard on yourself, i don’t understand how you don’t see what i see.” she told him honestly. “lando norris, you are going to win today, you hear me? even if you don’t— which isn’t going to happen, i’ll be proud of you anyway.”

a smile finally graced his lips, “how do you always know what to say?”

“i know you better than you think.”

• • • •

THE GARAGE was buzzing, humming with the possibility of leading both championships. yes, it was a shame oscar wouldn’t finish on the podium, but well… he shouldn’t have been chasing his teammate, should he?

“lando norris, wins the australian grand prix — and takes the championship lead from max verstappen!”

the venue erupted in papaya cheers and screams, hugging and celebrating lando’s dominant win at albert park. she wasn’t surprised, she knew he could do it, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t emotional.

she was in awe, stood at the forefront of the barriers when he hopped out of the car victoriously — jon had made sure she was there, his claim being that lily was and always had been lando’s ‘reset button’ or his ‘mediator.’

so there she was, proud and practically beaming with joy as he hurried over to her. within moments, his arms were around her and his lips were on her cheek, whispering sweet words of affection.

“i’d hate to say i told you so,” she giggled softly, after hearing his murmured thanks for believing in him. "but, i did say—"

"shut up," lando laughed softly, breath fanning across her face. "see you in the garage later, you'll be watching me on the podium, yeah?"

"as always." lily nodded with a sweet smile, kissing his cheek this time, leaving him with a pink hue on his expression — disguised by his already sweaty face.

of course she was there, underneath the podium, admiring him as he stood tall with the steering-wheel-inspired trophy wearing a huge grin on his face. lando, obviously, looked for her in the crowd — it was like she was his girlfriend or something, instead of his best friend — and sent her a cheeky wink.

but, her favourite part about the whole ordeal, was the post-race glow he'd carry when he swaggered back into the garage, which always gleamed a little brighter and looked a little cockier when he'd just podiumed — let alone won, and was leading the championship.

"hi." she'd smiled, tilting her head up when he'd approached her, hot and sweaty and dripping with expensive champagne.

"hi pretty girl." lando mumbled, leaning down and burying his head in her shoulder while he hugged her.

"lando!" she practically shrieked, feeling the slightly warm liquid seep through her white shirt.

"what?" he laughed lowly, pulling back but leaving his hands planted firmly on the dips of her hips.

"my top." she sighed, gesturing down to the now practically transparent material sticking to her skin, the outline of her lace bra easily visible to the naked eye.

"oh." he said out loud, eyes shamelessly trailing to her chest, brows raising as his gaze zeroed in on the curve of her breasts. "i'll get you something to... cover up."

"thankyou." lily nodded, not failing to notice the way his eyes lingered for a little too long — but she knew that if she pointed it out, the response she'd get would probably make her melt into a puddle.

it was around seven when the pair left the track together, heading back to their hotel together, lily sporting lando's twojeys quarter-zip he'd worn to albert park in the morning.

the sun was setting and the air was just about warm enough, but not warm enough for lando to refrain from complaining he was cold.

"well, if you could stay out of my personal space, you wouldn't be cold, would you?" lily retorted to his groan of being cold, and how it was going to affect his performance, jokingly of course.

"not fair, you know i can't keep my hands to myself around you."

"maybe you should learn to," she shrugged, sending him a sickly-sweet grin. "not that i don't like it."

"oh, you like it do you?" lando teased, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they approached the car.

"shut up."

"besides, wouldn't want you to show the goods off to everyone else, would i?"

lily audibly laughed, "you're such a perv."

• • • •

THE SOFT LIGHT of their hotel room reflected the affectionate giggles and gentle compliments being exchanged between the pair. the lights were off, curtains open to allow the fading sunlight to creep across the carpet and onto their practically entwined bodies.

"but seriously, you need to stop doubting yourself," lily mumbled, body actually on top of his, lando's knee slotted between her legs as she lay over him. "i mean it, lan."

"yeah, yeah." the british driver brushed it off. "don't you worry that pretty little head of yours with me."

"but i do," she nodded, fighting for her life to not give in and blush. "and don't disregard my worry because it's completely valid — you drive round at two-hundred miles-per-hour and expect me to be cool about it?"

"i forget you actually care about me sometimes."

"hey, i don't want to lose my favourite person." lily frowned. "also, who on earth would pay the rent then?"

"i'm going to ignore that last part." he mused, shaking his head gently. "favourite person, huh?"

the girl simply nodded, moonlight having taken over from the sunlight previously filling the room — a soft yawn signalling it was definitely her bedtime or past it.

"i'm honoured," lando whispered, lips kissing her temple affectionately. "goodnight lils."

"goodnight, lan."

════════════════════════

i do not give permission for my works to be re-written, re-published, or published on any other platform.

© norrisjpg 2025

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stark Contrast 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, lies, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online friend isn’t who he claims to be.

Characters: Tony Stark

Sister series to Captain’s Orders

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You close yourself in a stall and nearly scream. What the heck? This can't be real. Tony Stark. Eddie. One and the same. It's impossible. 

Think about it. Last night, you texted, then right there, you saw him on screen, check his phone. Coincidence. But then, how did he know your username? He's really good with tech, right? You could easily dox yourself. But then, what about Eddie? Why would he pretend to be some engineer. He is an engineer... 

It's adding up. But it can't. You can't have been talking to Tony Stark for the last year. That's impossible. Not you! 

Alright. You are not going to be his joke. You're going to go out there and tell him you know exactly what he's doing. He's making fun of you and it's not funny at all. Should he, some rich dude, probably the richest dude, have better hobbies? 

You push the stall door and grunt. It's pull. Right. You open it and slip through. 

You hurry to the door and slip in an errant puddle of water. Yeah, it's not your turn to deal with that. Don't stop, don't lose your nerve.  

Who are you to tell off Tony Stark? A billionaire? An avenger? Oof, the more you think about it, the closer you get, the worse an idea this all seems. The more scrambled the words in your head grow. 

You look down the aisles, retracing your steps to where you left him. He's not there. Yet, you hear him. His familiar, quite notable voice, carries in the dead store. Ugh, how did you not realise sooner? Now, you hear it. 

You storm down the soap dish aisle and see him standing casually as he talks to Julie. She doesn't look impressed. You come closer, slowing as his words grow clearer. 

"Yeah, she's quitting." He declares. 

You stop short and do a double take. He's not talking about you. 

"What?" Julie hisses. 

"Yeah, the job sucks. Shit pay," he puts one finger up, his other hand in his pants pocket, "uniform does nothing for that ass, and you're kind of a bitch, Julia." 

"Julie," she snarls and her eyes dart over to you. 

You gulp and sputter. Tony glances at you over his shoulder and smirks. 

"What's going on?" You squeak. 

"Well, sweetheart, I was just sharing the good news that you're moving on to greener pastures." He taunts and turns back to your manager. He tilts his head defiantly. "Not like you'll be hurting. Place is a ghost town." 

You blink as your mouth hangs open. Oh gosh, just when you thought things couldn't get worse. 

"No, I-- I'm not. I don't know him. I don't know what he's talking about--" you argue. 

Julie curls her lip. 

"Ech, you," she points at you, "get out of my store. Now." 

You flinch and look between her and Tony. He steps closer and brings his hand to your lower back. He pushes Julie's hand down. 

"Listen, Julianna, don't point at my girl like that," he warns. 

"Excuse me? This is still my store," she blusters. "I don't care who you are." 

"Uh huh," he clucks and drags his hand along your lower back as he stands straight. He reaches under his jacket and takes out his phone. "Hey, hun," he says as he dials out and puts the phone to his ear, "do me a favour, what's the store number?" 

She scoffs, "go to hell." 

"Fine, whatever," he snickers then leans into the phone, "Hey, Happy, do me a favour, look up the big box store..." he rambles on your city and the location. "Yeah, uh huh. Buy it. No, no, don't ask. Just do it. Thanks." 

He hangs up. You frown and push your shoulders up. This can't be real. 

"We'll wait for the paperwork and all that messy stuff to go through, Jenny," Tony slides his phone away. "But when it does, you're fired. Hell, I might come back just to see you hand in your keys." 

He snorts and swoops his arm around you. You wince as he ushers you forward. You're too dumbfounded to react. What is he doing? What did he do? 

You get outside before you snap back to earth. You plant your feet and try to pull away. He faces you but keep a hold of your arm. 

"So, how about some shwarma--" 

"What did you do? I need this job! I'm-- I'll lose my apartment! Oh, gosh." 

"Relax, that's not going to happen--" 

"I don't-- I-- but--" 

"It's not going to happen, babe," he brings his hand up to frame your face and steps closer, "because you're not gonna be living in that apartment. Say goodbye to this shit heap. You're moving on. Big leagues. New York. I got a nice big condo. A whole tower--" 

"Oh my god," you wriggle free of his grasp and spin away. "Oh, I'm gonna barf. This isn't real. It's not-- Tony-- Eddie. You," you face him again. "Look, this little game, it's not fun for me. You just ruined my life." 

"I bought the damn place. You want a job, I'll put you top of the pay roll--" 

"No, it's-- er--- jeez." 

“Good, because you’re not going to have time,” he goes to grab you and you dodge away from him. 

“Why? Why are you doing this? What are you doing?” You stay just out of reach. 

He smirks, “sweetheart, do you know how many women dream of this? Of me? A handsome billionaire sweeping you away from your boring life.” 

“Other women. Go find them.” 

He laughs. “You’re funny. It’s what I like about you.” 

“Please. Save us both the trouble and just go so I can beg my manager for my livelihood back--” 

You go to step past him and he catches your upper arm. He moves you back and tuts. He’s not smiling anymore. 

“You don’t get it. I’m Tony Stark. I don’t ask for what I want.” He squeezes until you whimper. “So let’s get going. Jet’s waiting.” 

“Jet-- but--” 

“What? Anything you leave behind, I’ll buy a new one, a better one. Now, come on.” He nudges you around and quickly hooks his arm around you. You stagger but he has you scampering. “I’m an important man and you’re about to be a real important woman.” 

“You--you can’t--” 

“I can. I am.” He says coolly as he walks you away from the store. “I flew all the way out here, I told your manager to kick rocks, and now I’m going home with what I came for.” He curls his fingers around your side as a shiny car chirps ahead of you. “Oh, and we both know how you are, sweetheart. You’re not going to stop me.” 

“But-- I--” 

“Private jet’s waiting. I went to all this trouble--” 

“My stuff! My apartment!” You twist out of his grasp. “Wait, wait, wait. This isn’t-- this is a joke.” 

“I’m a funny guy but I have a better sense of humour than that,” he says as he extends his arms. “I’m all yours, baby.” 

You gape at him, “I don’t-- I don’t want... that.” 

“Don’t want me? Don’t want an upgrade?” He scoffs and comes closer, grabbing your hand. “Let me tell ya something. You wouldn’t be so bitter if you weren’t so insecure.” 

“I’m not--” 

“Look, baby, it’s not a bad thing. I’m trying to build you up here. Alright? You hung up on me because you feel powerless, well, I’m gonna give you that power. Money, clothes, diamonds--” 

“Ed-- Tony—I--” you stammer. He’s right. You are helpless. 

“I mean, think about it. Who’s going to stop me?” He grins. “Not you.” 

Your eyes round and you grimace. He laughs again. It irks you. 

“You got no job, soon enough, you’ll be out of that shitty apartment too.” 

“That’s not--” You blink. “Why?” 

“Why? Do I really have to answer that?” 

You stare at him. 

He raises your hand and puts it on his shoulder as he yanks you closer, hooking his other arm around you. You lean away from him as you brace his shoulder. He nuzzles your cheek. 

“I came to take what’s mine,” he growls. “I put too much time into you, sweetheart. Tony Stark doesn’t walk away empty handed.” 

“I’m not... I’m not a thing,” you whisper and look him in the face. 

“No, you’re much more than that,” he assures you as he brings his hand to your chin. “So, let’s get a hop on it.” He drops his hand down your back and taps your ass. “I’m gonna take you back to New York, get you all dolled up, wine ya, dine ya, you know the rest.” 

Your lashes flutter. You’re dizzy. This can’t be real. You keep telling yourself that but here you are. No escape. 

“Alright,” he turns and keeps his arm across your back and checks his watch. “That pilot hates me so better not piss him off. I’ve been in enough crashes.” 

Enough? It’s probably the least concerning thing he’s said. No, it’s just another brick in the wall he built right at your back. 

🔴

You’re so rigid your bones hurt. You grip the arms of the leather chair and stare, wide-eyed, choked into silence. The situation is suffocating enough but it’s that other fear that has you paralysed. 

The thrum of the jet engine has you shaking. You’re still on the ground but not for long. You’re not ready to take off, let alone to go with this man. 

“Have some scotch,” Tony nudges your shoulder from beside you. “It’ll help.” 

You don’t react. You need to get up and leave. He can’t just spirit you away like this. It doesn’t matter if he is Iron Man. Well, you should go but you can’t move. 

“Sweetheart,” he touches your hand. “This your first time?” 

You whimper. 

He snickers and spreads his hand over yours. He peels your grip from the armrest and lifts it. Your trembling intensifies as your chest tightens. You can only think of gravity and its deadly consequences. 

“Here,” he wraps your fingers around the cup of scotch, “drink.” 

You can’t resist him as he guides the brim to your lips. He tilts your hand in his and you swallow before you can gag on the strong liquor. You drain half the glass before he pulls your hand back. You stick out your tongue in disgust. 

“Uck!” You grimace. 

“You’ll get used to the expensive stuff,” he chortles and sits back, emptying the rest. “Is this your only first or should I be gentle tonight--” 

“Stop, please,” your voice quavers. 

“You do know who I am, right? This thing falls apart, I got my suit. I’ll get us where we need to go,” he puts the glass down and sits back. “Besides, it’s safety checked and it’s Stark manufactured. That means it’s not going to go down. I will though, just in case you’re wondering.” 

You look at him and he winks. You look forward and shudder. He grabs your hand and you try to rip it away. He’s too strong. He kisses your knuckles. 

The intercom beeps. The pilot comes on, the one he said hates him, and announces that they’re ready to take off. You close your eyes and push yourself into the seat.  

The plane begins to move. Your breath clogs in your chest. You force it out only as your head begins to pulse. 

Tony pets your hand, “ah, baby, don’t worry. Ton’s here.” 

It’s not helping. It’s just a reminder that this isn’t what you want. That no matter what you say or do, or how you feel, that you have no choice in this. He knows that. He doesn’t mean it. He’s not trying to comfort you. He knows exactly the point he’s making. 

He’s going to do whatever the hell he wants, and you’ll do the exact same. Just like this flight, you’re along for the ride. 

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 4

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: In a moment of quiet kindness, you cut The Winter Soldiers Hair.

Warnings: Captivity, angst, needles, and fear. Fake and very uneducated medicine :)

Authors Note: Please Comment and be kind!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

There was a revolting type of guilt that sank inside of you every time you pressed a needle through a rat's skin. You were condemning them, torturing them. But it was better than testing them on the one person you were tasked with keeping alive.

“I used to want to be a vet,” you blurted, pulling the needle out of the white rodent. “I’ve always loved animals. They’re so much more peaceful than humans.” You tossed the syringe and began scribbling in a notebook. “I have two cats, you know? Love them to death.”

You didn’t bother looking back to check if the Soldier was listening. You knew he was. Though he was much less likely to give you a reaction while they were under the watchful eye of Hydra. Four guards, in each corner of the room, stood silently.

“It’s a good thing I have a roommate. They’d have starved on their own, with me here.” You muttered to yourself as you pulled a chair up to the man. “Anyways…”

“I’ve started testing the effects of the serum I’ve been working on. I’ve been injecting the rats with a variety of degenerative muscular viruses- ones I think will closest match yours.” You spoke, still scribbling on your notebook. “I gave them a few days for it to take effect, so now I’m testing the effects of the antidote. Truthfully, there's a few antidotes- I’d like to see which one delays the side effects the longest.”

You’d taken to the habit of explaining your steps to him. You felt he deserved to know what you were doing to his body- or rather, what you would be doing to it. You had gathered that he had been so long deprived of basic autonomy, you wanted to allow him as much dignity as you could.

You glanced up at him. “I think I’m getting close.” You said quietly. “At least I hope I am…” 

“Your hair is getting long.” You observed, sitting at his feet as you used a small metal tool to clean beneath his bloody fingernails. Over the days, your duties of caring for him had grown. “I could cut it, you know.” you glanced up at him.

He stared down at you. “I’m trying to give you an opportunity to choose,” you said gently. His brows furrowed at you.

“You talk about choices a lot.”

You tried not to shiver at the sound of his voice. It was the second time hearing it to date. It was rough and throaty, like he rarely used it- evidently. He was quiet, like a mutter. “I gathered you don’t often get to make those.” You scraped under his ring fingernail.

He swallowed, his gaze growing distant. 

“I don’t have to cut it,” you whispered, setting his hand back down in his lap. “I just thought you might like it. I cut my own- used to. I used to cut my own. So I’m no stranger with a pair of scissors.”

A long bout of silence stretched between you, and you quickly started to regret ever suggesting the idea.

“Okay.”

You straightened. “Yeah?”

He nodded. 

You combed through the tangled strands with your fingers, pulling it back over his shoulders. You stood behind him, doing your best to not yank his hair out. “How long do you want it?”

You gave him the time to respond. It was almost awkward for him to admit something he wanted. “Short.”

“That’s not very detailed.” You held your hand out for the scissors. He slipped them in your hand. “When I first got here, they told me you’ve been around for a while. I gather that you’re kind of old,” you suppressed an ill timed smile. “I could try to go for something older fashioned.”

He stiffened, his palms curling up in his lap.

“Just below my ears is fine.”

You felt immediate regret, watching him close back up in real time. “Okay.”

You pinched locks of dark hair between your fingers and clipped them shorter. His hair was much longer than it had been when you first met him. It made you begin to question time. But then again, you surmised that his rapid hair growth could have been caused by his regenerative cells.

It was quiet for a long time. Not the usual quiet, the kind that stretched and ached and burned. But more like a solitude. Silence that exposed raw nerves. Silence that was shared and observed and respected.

“I used to keep my hair really short. I thought it was much easier to deal with, especially in the lab.” You snipped. “But I started growing it out after I graduated. It was freeing. I like to get pretty, dress up and do my makeup. Having more hair made that a lot more fun.”

Your chest ached for a brief moment as you recalled the current state of your hair. It was knotted and tied back into a braid, frizzy strands sticking out at all angles. You hadn’t seen much of yourself except for in passing windows and in the reflection of your monitor. You had showered a few times since they had taken you, but it was in a small closet built to fill mops. 

It felt more like hosing yourself down.

“Do they let you shower?” You blurted. 

You expected silence, but earned a short huff of breath. What a shocker. 

“Sometimes.”

You wouldn’t say he smelled bad. He just smelled like a man. Every time you saw him, it seemed to be after some big event. He was always a little dirty, maybe with a dash or two of blood. You could smell his sweat whenever you got too close, but it wasn’t foul. 

“Is it wrong to say I’m shocked?”

“It’s accurate. Not wrong.”

You snipped, combed with your fingers, then continued cutting. “Do they give you bubble baths?”

He turned to look over his shoulder at you, causing you to cut a lock of hair much too short. You cringed when your eyes met. “You can’t see the back of your head, so you don’t need to know what I just did.”

He huffed again, something you were starting to assume was a laugh. “What’s a bubble bath?”

“You’re kidding right?”

Silence.

“It’s really self explanatory. There's certain types of soap that make huge piles of bubbles, so it feels like you're bathing in a cloud. It’s usually something only kids or women use.”

“I was joking.”

You stared at the back of his head in shock. “Joking?” 

Silence. 

“We need to work on your sarcasm.”

You crawled around the base of his chair mechanism, sweeping stray shavings of hair into your palm. When you glanced up, the Soldier was pinching the ends of his hair, staring into the distance. “It’s not my best work, but you look nice.”

You shook the hair off into the bin.

“Thank you.” 

Your spine straightened. The shock quickly faded, followed by deep guilt. You felt like you had only added to the damage. You may have done something he wanted, but you had offered it to him, like a child. You had played into the game of taking from him, then acting like a hero when you gave something back.

“Don’t thank me, please.” You muttered.

You could feel the weight of his stare against your back. You could hear the creak of his metal arm as he lowered it to rest in his lap. You took a second to clean your hands, took a breath, then faced him.

“Do you-do you ever get phantom pain?” You blurted. “In your arm.”

He glanced at the metal. “Sometimes.”

“Is it bad? I’ve heard that it’s bad. I once had a classmate that lost her foot and she said it ached the worst in winter. I was such a prick in school because I used to ask to see the stump all the time. I’ve heard that's also a pretty intimate thing for amputees.” You rambled, organizing the tray of barber supplies. “Does it ever get weird when you take it off? I mean- you must be so used to seeing it- having an arm there, and then it can just be gone in a second.”

“I don’t take it off.”

“Really? Never? I mean- it doesn’t rust from the shower?”

“They care for it while I’m asleep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever seen your stump?”

He nodded. “Not in a long time.” He paused. “And it’s not a stump.”

“It’s not?”

He drew his fingers across the shoulder of the false arm. “It starts up here. There's metal worked into my body to hold the arm in place.”

You didn’t mean to gape, but you did. He lifted a brow at you. “Have you-” you blinked. “Ever thought about what it would look like if  you lost some of your muscle mass? I mean, if you lost weight, you’d have one really buff arm and one skinny one. That would be pretty awkward.”

He blinked at you, like you had just said something so outlandish he couldn’t process it. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s really something I need to worry about.”

You pressed your knuckles to your lips, holding back a smile. “Right,” you didn’t want to laugh. “Right, yeah.”

There was something about the sound of his voice that made you feel just a little less alone. It made you want to keep rambling and prying and finding ways to make him respond. It made you feel just a little less insane.

A/N: Another kind of short one, but this is one of my favorite chapters.

@jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff

[dckweed]

SWEETNESS, andrew ‘pope’ cody

summary: in which pope’s new neighbor is a generally sweet but heart broken musician that declares him her friend and for some reason..he just can’t say no, not when she's so sweet to im and he's he’s so damn attracted to her, and certainly not when she’s begged him to fuck her oh so sweetly...

warnings: PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION FOR THIS CHAPTER, MENTION AND DEPICTION OF ANIMAL DEATH. graphic violence, graphic mentions of sex, choking, spanking, marking, spitting, mean dom!pope, soft dom!pope, crybaby reader, musician reader, you're a slut for this man !! bust open like a can of biscuits whenever he wants it kind of slut and ngl im not mad at it !! there will be mentions of death at some point, eventual pregnancy, eventual description of death, kidnapping, physical violence, mentions of mental health struggles

hello loves, its not as in depth/emotional as i wanted it to be, but it's SOMETHING. im not able to spend too much time typing/editing anything due to the injury to my hand (also found out i have the beginning of carpal tunnel and im not supposed to spend alot of time typing because of that too), the next one however, is going to be absolutely filthy and slutty. ALSO, sweetie is a musician, i will be using songs that alot of people already know and just rewriting them to fit the story/sweetie whenever she perfoms or sings..song from this cap is called hot girls in hell by lolo

series masterlist here.

PART TWO: hot girls in hell?

The weekend passes by all too quick and before you know it, you’re back in your classroom. The bright lights glare off of the white tile, the few students that elect to take your class are off doing their own things and somehow, you’re still thinking about Andrew.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. The way your stomach tightens every time you hear him unlock his front door, the way your ears perk at the sound of his voice through the thin beachside walls. You’ve been spending more and more time around him lately — always with a reason, of course. You’re not just throwing yourself at the man. (Even if you sort of wish you were.)

“Do you know how to change a lock?” You had asked last week, twirling your house key around your finger, lip between your teeth.

Andrew looked up from the tire he was patching outside, sweat already dotting his brow, black tee clinging to his chest in the worst/best possible way. “Yeah,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Why?”

You shrugged, trying to look casual. “Jake still has a key. And I don’t want to deal with that.”

He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded. “I’ll grab my tools.”

And then he was at your house, crouched in front of your door, muscles flexing under that stretched-out tee as he yanked out the old deadbolt like it personally offended him. The air was thick with salt and sawdust, your heart pounding as you leaned against the frame watching him work.

You’d never wanted someone to fuck you through drywall so badly.

You started dressing a little differently around him after that. Not obvious. Just... smaller shirts. No bras. Shorts that hugged just a little tighter. Tank tops with the thinnest straps known to man. You caught his eyes flicking down more than once, caught the way his jaw clenched when you bent to pick up a box or reached for something high.

He never said anything. But God, you knew he was looking.

And you knew you liked it.

That’s what made it so easy to start spending your afternoons next door. Sometimes helping him clean up, sometimes pretending to help with whatever project he was working on, sometimes just curled up on his too-small couch with your feet in his lap, a book open but unread as you pretended not to notice the way his hand settled on your ankle.

He never moved it. And you never made him.

Last night? He was sat on your love seat, watching you strum on one of your guitars, smiling around a beer as he listened to you sing your silly little breakup song..he didn’t think it was silly though, that was what you had called it, he thought it was sort of neat..hated that you were writing those though, that someone had hurt you enough to cause you to write breakup songs in the first place..

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting, you’re good for nothing..you told me you loved me, you don’t fuckin love me.,” He was pretty sure that he fuckin’ loved you, pretty sure he was even insane enough to say that shit, to believe it when you hadn’t even fuckin’ kissed him yet, when he hadn’t taken you out and called you his yet. You were his though, whether you knew it or not..you’d been his from day one, from the moment you yelled at his brothers in your oversized tshirt, hair wild and eyes sleepy.. “You think that you’re special, i think that you’re mental, I hope there’s no hot girls in hell..”

Andrew hoped there weren’t any hot girls in hell too, for your sake. Hoped that he never landed a nice piece of ass again, hoped that he got some chick pregnant and was left with the meanest, bitterest baby mama imaginable.. “How could you do this? You’re mean and you’re stupid..you’re getting wasted and im getting too thin..” He got the feeling that this was a song you’d written about this man awhile ago, you hadn’t lost any weight..if anything you were packing it on, thickening up with the food Andrew had been bringing you and taking you out to eat almost nightly..he loved watching you do your little happy dance in your seat when you took the first bite of food, loved watching you smile and be a little goofy around him. “You should be crying, painfully dying, I hope there’s no hot girls in hell..”

“Don’t you think that there would be hot girls in hell though? Aren’t some demons called succubus or some shit?” He asks, sipping his beer. You toss your guitar pick at him, it bounces off of his forehead and you snort in laughter, choking a little bit on your beer. He loved the way you laughed, how it always came from deep in your belly..it wasnt pretty by any means, it was just fuckin’ funny, so fuckin’ you. He fell asleep on your little loveseat, lanky legs stretched out to the floor, body slumped somewhat to the side. You slept right next to him, head on his shoulder, his arm around yours, chest rising and falling with yours, reruns of the dumb reality show you had coaxed him into watching with you playing on the tv, the cat curled up on the arm of the love seat, snoozing. He hated waking up, and so did you. 

The day it happens, it’s a Tuesday.

You’re at school late, cleaning up after your final class. The marching band has a parent meeting you offered to help set up for, and Andrew’s off somewhere with his brothers doing prep for a job. You texted him earlier — something stupid about the new coffee place opening on 3rd — and he left you on read, which wasn’t like him. But you figured he was busy.

It’s already dark by the time you pull into your alley. You know something’s wrong the second you get out of the car. The porch light is out. The front window is shattered.

Your stomach drops, hands clenching tightly around your car keys. You hear a voice in your head telling you not to go in there, to call for help. It’s the smart thing to do, the best option, really..but..cops would take forever to get out here, you don’t have forever to wait, don’t have the fucking patience to sit in your car and stare at your home, you just fucking dont. 

Against better judgement, against the fucking nagging voice in the back of your head, you race up the steps and throw the door open. Glass litters your floor, the window broken from the outside for sure, door left cracked open like someone left in a hurry. You note the scuff marks on the outside of it though, like someone tried to kick it in. 

The heat hits you first. It’s sweltering in there, the heat hitting you like a fist to the face as soon as you step in, like it had been trapped inside waiting to get out. “What the hell?” You know it was Jake. Who the hell else would have trashed your entire living room, but not touch the most expensive items sitting in the corner, your keyboard and guitars, the easiest things that he could have taken. No..no he went after something else, the drawers of the end ables were ripped out and turned over the, shit littered from the couch to the hallway, and probably to the fuckin’ bed room too if he went after what you think he went after. 

The smell hits you next. Burnt hair, fried skin..

You gag, hand over your nose, heart hammering. “Snickerdoodle?” Your voice cracks, frantically looking around what part of the house you could see for your cat, your chunky little man. 

You step inside, glass crunching under your shoes, and that’s when you see it.

The oven. The flicker of heat. The light still on.

A crutch wedged up against the handle.

No.

No.

No.

You scream.

You collapse.

Your knees hit the floor so hard you barely feel the sting of the glass shards burying in your skin. Tears stream down your cheeks as you scramble forward to the kitchen, wrench the oven open with bloodied shaking hands only to be hit with a wall of heat and the smell of burning flesh. You scream again. The kind of sound that tears something in your throat.

Your cat. Your fucking cat.

Jake did this.

You fumble for your phone. Hands slipping. You can’t see through the tears. Can’t even breathe.

You hit the first contact you can think of.

“Sweetness?” Pope’s voice crackles through the speaker.

You don’t speak. You just sob.

“What happened? Where are you?”

“Home,” you choke. “He—he broke in. Andrew. He—Snickerdoodle—”

“Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

The line goes dead.

You’re still sobbing on the floor when he bursts through the front door less than ten minutes later.

You don’t even hear him come in — not over the sound of your own grief. But then there are arms around you. Strong ones. Holding you tight against a broad chest as you fall apart in his lap.

“I got you,” he mutters, voice shaking with fury. “I got you, sweetness.”

You cry until you can’t anymore.

When you finally speak, it’s a whisper: “He used his crutch to hold the door shut.”

Andrew doesn’t respond. Not out loud. But you feel it — the way his entire body tenses. The way his jaw grinds against your temple. The way his hand curls protectively around your waist.

“You’re not staying here.”

“Andrew—”

“You’re not, the windows busted out, he nearly got the door kicked in based off the scuff marks..” he growls, standing and hauling you with him like you weigh nothing. “You’re not sleeping another fucking night in this house.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. He helps you up, crouches down and picks the glass shards out of your knees. You cant tear your eyes away from the oven, away from it. You don’t hear what he says, but you know he’s talking to you, large hands cupping your bloodied knees in a manner so gentle that it surprised you. 

You stand outside, dazed, as he calls Deran and Baz and makes them box up your entire life. You watch him carry your guitars with reverence, your clothes with care, your makeup like it’s sacred.

An hour later, he’s locking the door to his house. Tossing your keys on the counter next to his. Tugging a blanket around your shoulders as he settles you on his couch,  stretching your leg out so it’s perched on the surface, a first aid kit right next to your foot. You wonder how many times he’s had to patch up his own wounds, or his brothers’. 

“You’re here now,” he says softly, kneeling in front of you. His eyes are wild. Dark. “You’re with me. And no one’s ever fucking touching you again.” 

You believe him.

Even if part of you is still too broken to say so out loud.

But your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt as he starts to work, cleaning all the little wounds, blowing on it to make the stinging stop. He doesn’t seem to mind you holding on, touching him. He’s safe, he’s strong, he’s warm.. He’s never hurt you, never made you feel anything but safe and okay in his presence. 

And that’s enough for now.

taglist: @thatchickwiththecamera @sidneysidney123 @cheyennerenee10 @thvxr

[back2bluesidex]

Slippin' Under - JJK (18+) [Part 2]

Pairing: Bully!Jungkook X Fem!Reader

Theme: angst, toxic workplace settings, bullying, class difference, haters to lovers au

Word count: 1k+

Summary: "You're toxic, I'm slippin' under"

Warnings: workplace bullying, insulting the reader based on her social stature, class difference, Jungkook is a shit.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon (For early access)

Minors, I am not responsible for what you consume online. So, act more rationally and stay away.

A/N: here we go. also, taglist requests are closed for now.

Previous | Next [Patreon]

Fate is a fickle thing - or something that only the privileged ones can consider fretting about. People like you, on the other hand, can’t entertain the idea of fate or destiny. You have to eat whatever is thrown your way. 

And you are doing so with very little to no self-preservation left. 

You can feel the heel of your left shoe slapping against the underside of the sole. It’s coming off. Your hold on your tray goes extra hard as you pray for it to stick around for the next few hours, you will glue it well after reaching home.

However, your life seems to have a different plan because as you step ahead to serve yourself the next dish, your heel refuses to cooperate and you end up tripping. The tray full of rice and soup goes flying in the air. 

When you manage to pick yourself up on the floor upon collecting the tray and the bowl, you hear people giggling, grasping, some straight out cursing you. 

They hate you already and now- 

“What the hell- You! You are just good for nothing!” it’s a low growl, spoken more with rage than with actual words but you know who it belongs to. 

You turn your head slowly, it’s very dizzying and you are not ready to go through his rage again after what happened a week ago. 

Jungkook’s eyes are ablaze. The soup has splashed all over his front, making his white shirt see through - you can see his honey-tanned skin underneath. His expensive blazer and shoes are drenched as well. 

A small part of you is extremely happy. For the first time you want to believe in fate. 

This was fated for you, Jeon Jungkook. This is what you get for insulting me. You say to yourself. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Jeon.” you apologize in a loud and clear voice. How much of the apology is genuine, that’s a question though. 

Jungkook’s fiery eyes pierce through yours, you feel your skin burning with fear, anticipation and your own anger. 

“See me in my cabin in an hour.” he growls passing by you with an extreme amount of disgust pouring from his face just like the translucent soup. 

It’s better to die rather than admit that your fingers are nor trembling as you knock on Jungkook’s office door. 

You are not afraid of him per se. You are afraid of the comments and insults that he would shower you with. 

You have met rather ignorant people in high school and university and were never once bullied for your parent’s financial capabilities. While no one ever considered you as a member of their friend’s group, they never picked on you either. 

Lack of having friends is always better than having bullies. And you thought things were going to be similar at your workplace too, you thought people would just ignore your existence altogether and would leave you alone. 

But wrong you were - because one Jeon Jungkook has taken it upon himself to make sure your life is nothing short of a nightmare. 

You knock again, upon not getting a reply during the first time around.  

This time Jungkook shouts a loud ‘come in’, annoyance clear in his voice. 

You follow his order. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Jeon. I should have been careful. I am deeply regretful of the damage I caused.” you apologize again, daring not to look into his eyes.  

“You really think I care about how sorry you are” Jungkook’s words come pressed against his perfect set of teeth. You look up, see him standing with his shirt half open - you lower your eyes immediately. 

“You ruined my clothes, do you understand that? Do you even have an idea how much those cost?” he screams at the top of his lungs. You flinch but stay on your spot, head lowered in something akin to fear. 

“Tell me how are you going to repay me.” the man takes a few hurried steps towards you. His shiny, now ruined, shoes come into your view but you still don’t look up. 

And then you feel Jungkook’s fingers latching themselves under your chin and forcing you to look at him. 

“Look at me and fucking tell me how are you going to repay me?” Jungkook shouts on your face. 

His face is too close - everything feels hazy, sticky and ruined. 

“I- I don’t know, Mr. Jeon. I can’t afford to pay for your clothes.” and that’s the truth. You can’t even afford to buy yourself a new pair of shoes and paying for Jungkook’s clothes is a daydream. 

“You did it all to take revenge, didn’t you?” a smirk grows in his devilishly handsome face. 

Yes, you reply internally. “So you know you have done something worthy of taking revenge, huh?” you smirk back, standing head to head with the devil himself. 

You expected Jungkook to get even angrier with your retort. But no, his smirk grows even more sinister. Jungkook presses his body on yours, chest to chest, your entire body ornate with goosebumps. That weird feeling you felt a week ago, comes back. 

“You know what?” Jungkook starts, a hand of his circles around your waist to pull you closer to him, “The only thing I like about you is how you fight.” he whispers in your ear. 

You shiver as his breath touches the delicate skin of your earlobe. 

This.. whatever this is… isn’t going the right way.

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[surftrips]

BAD REPUTATION | LUKE CASTELLAN

BIG REPUTATION — CHAPTER 01

pairing luke castellan x fem!ares!reader

summary upon her arrival at camp half-blood, y/n quickly captures the attention of the gods and the heart of a certain brunette-haired boy.

author's note so excited to make this an official series! please let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist for bad reputation and other works featuring luke. this is going to be a mix of social media posts / short fics.

→ installment of this au read for context

As a child of Ares, you were stubborn, short-tempered, and walked around camp with a permanent angry resting face. At the same time, you were known to be loyal, protective, and funny. If being funny was the same thing as being sarcastic.  

The younger campers were scared of you, the older ones around your age respected you, but everyone admired you in some way or another. If not for your excellent fighting skills, you had a demeanor that not even the gods above could ignore. The way you carried yourself was captivating, so much so that your father had claimed you within the first week of your arrival at camp, and ever since then, you had proven your worth to anyone that watched. 

Perhaps one camper kept the closest eye on you, the curly-haired brunette boy did not believe in love, let alone love at first sight— not until he saw you. You and him had arrived at camp around the same time, but your paths did not cross until a Capture the Flag game weeks later, when you both happened to be on the same team. 

Word had already gotten around about your talent with the spear. Clarisse had introduced the weapon to you, and you had caught on quickly. You were in the middle of fighting off multiple campers on the other team when Luke appeared beside you. 

“Need a little help?” he asked.

“Nope, I got it under control.”  

“Are you sure?” 

Even though you were strong, it was still three against one. 

You relented, “Fine.” 

Luke chuckled, hopping in with his sword. You couldn’t help but admire him out of the corner of your eye, and you were glad that your helmet hid the expression on your face. 

You had gone on to win that game and many others alongside each other, in an unspoken allyship. In time, both of your reputations had begun to precede you. 

Each week, campers awaited to hear if they would be playing on the same team as you and Luke, and each week, they would be disappointed to hear otherwise. But your fighting skills were not the only topic of conversation, it was becoming abundantly obvious that a certain boy had fallen for you. 

“Dude, what’s going on with you and Y/N?” Percy asked Luke over dinner one night. 

“What do you mean?” Luke responded, still chewing on his food.

“Come on, you’re not exactly being stealthy about it.” 

Luke laughed, “Yeah, alright, you got me.”

“So you do like her!”

“What? No, who said that?”

“You literally just admitted it.”

“I said, ‘you got me.’”

“Exactly, I figured it out. You have feelings for her,” Percy declared.

You happened to walk over at that moment, interrupting them. “Feelings for who?” 

Luke coughed, allowing Percy to respond for him. “Uh, uhm… no one!”

“Percy, I literally heard you.” Even though he was one of the younger campers that you were close with, the blonde boy still found himself scared of you on occasions such as this one when you were staring at him dead in the eye. 

“Sorry, Luke, you’re on your own for this one,” Percy blurted out before running away.

You turned towards Luke, who had since finished recovering from his coughing. He was nervously smiling at you, some color had slightly rushed into his cheeks. 

“So, who’s the lucky girl?” you asked, smirking at him. 

“Oh, you don’t know her,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Are you sure? I feel like I know pretty much everyone here.” 

“She…. uh… doesn’t go here.” 

You couldn’t help but let out a suppressed laugh. “She doesn’t go here,” you repeated.  

“Nope! I’m gonna go get some dessert.” With that, he left you alone at the table, quietly laughing to yourself. 

You weren’t totally oblivious, you knew that you must have come up in conversation for the two boys to have behaved that way. However, you were content to see how far this would go, and how much teasing you could get away with before Luke got the courage to do anything about it.

Besides, you had a reputation to keep up, and being soft all of a sudden was not part of the plan. 

[attapullman]

Robert From Next Door | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: You've lucked out with the perfect neighbor, a kind and overly helpful WSO. He puts up Christmas lights, lends his lawn mower, and grabs your morning paper. But what happens when he's out of peppermint tea one night?

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings & Notes: Robert "Bob" Floyd x gn!reader, extremely fluffy, food mentions, heavy making out, shirtless Bob, only referred to as Robert for the series, unrealistic expectations of next door neighbors, 18+ as always. This idea hit me like a bus while walking the dog (where I almost was hit by a bus) and has been fully unable to leave my brain since then. Cozy, sweet, overly helpful Neighbor!Bob is literally all I want for Christmas. And he's my holiday present to all of you!

robert from next door | if only the neighbors knew

“I have a ladder you can borrow.” You look up from the box of Christmas lights you’re detangling in the garage to see your neighbor standing in the opening to the street. Coffee mug in hand as he watches you loop out another knot. He’d noticed your garage open that morning, too early for a Saturday, and came to investigate or possibly offer assistance. If there is one thing Robert Floyd does best, it’s help his neighbors.

You had moved into the tidy bungalow just under a year ago, placing a potted fern on the doorstep and painting over the dated beige walls. It was finally starting to feel like a home. Now with the holidays approaching (as reminded by the entirely too jolly Santas everywhere in town) you were excited to start new traditions in your humble home. And it started with putting twinkling lights on the house, lights currently tangled in the cardboard box you haphazardly threw them in twelve months ago. 

Threading out another knot, you give him a playful smile. “How do you know I don’t have a ladder?”

“Lucky guess?” He’s not going to admit he’s scanned and memorized nearly every inch of your garage.

The day after the moving truck came and went, you were thrilled when your first new neighbor rang your doorbell. While you had expected some middle aged woman with a plate of brownies and a plea for babysitting, you were pleasantly surprised at the man in a flight suit (Lt. Robert Floyd according to the stitching) with the striking blue eyes who stood there instead. He didn’t have brownies, but he happily gave you the lowdown on the neighborhood as you sat amongst moving boxes drinking lemonade out of paper cups. 

As the months passed, an easy friendship had developed amongst neighbors. In the morning before making his way to base, Robert would scoop up your morning paper and walk it up the seven steps to your porch. The paper boy always threw it short. And despite numerous pleas to leave it be - you didn’t mind the short walk - every morning when you went for the paper, there it sat neatly on your mat along with any misdelivered mail.

And when he wasn’t saving kittens from trees in his free time, Robert was a shining example of a great neighbor. Driving his truck for a trip to get plants at the nursery, lending his mower when yours broke in the heat of July, cleaning your gutters when the leaves fell…you shouldn’t be surprised he’s now offering up his ladder so you can enjoy your Christmas lights. Looking down at the tangled mess, you hadn’t even thought about how you were going to get them actually on the house. Nails? Did you even own nails?

Not even an hour later you’re standing on the sidewalk facing your home with a hot cup of coffee in your chilly hands. Propped up on a ladder with detangled lights in one hand - and a tool belt around his waist like your personal Mr. Fix It - Robert hums to himself as he hammers nails into the trim before wrapping the first strand of lights in place. 

You had accepted his ladder graciously, but mentioned you needed to hit the hardware store first for nails. With a nod of his head he left your garage and you continued on the lights. It was a tedious project, but rewarding once the final strand lay flat against the concrete floor. You were digging around in boxes for tools when your neighbor reappeared. He had a ladder and his tool belt, a full box of nails clutched in his large hand. Cheeks warm, you assured him you would buy your own. He let out a playful pfft.

“Nonsense. It’s Saturday, the hardware store will be packed. Consider them an early Christmas gift.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Let me at least trade you for them? A cup of coffee?”

“Do you still have those Kona beans?” His ocean blue eyes are hopeful.

Your smile widened as you nodded. The overpriced beans you had expensively shipped every month were a favourite of the weapons systems officer. Last month you had hosted the homeowners association meeting (for the first and hopefully only time) and Robert had raved about the coffee you served. He was used to the basic stuff they made on base, his own home brewing not much better. Your coffee was the best.

When you came back to the garage after whipping up a carafe - hot mug in hand - you shouldn’t have been surprised to see your neighbor already up the ladder, deep into the project.

You holler up to him. “Robert, get down! You don’t need to do that!”

But he waves you off, insisting that he had already started and might as well finish the job. He would just drink your delicious coffee once he was done. And so you were relegated to the sidewalk to make sure everything looked straight from the street. 

From this distance you could admire him innocently. The military-issue wire frames that catch the morning sun. Broad shoulders under the neat canvas barn coat he recently replaced when the corduroy collar ripped. His strong hands shielded from the chilled wind under his workman’s gloves. Because someone like Robert Floyd follows safety precautions and owns workman’s gloves. 

At this angle you can see the slight smile on his lips as he strings lights along your porch. For the next hour you watch him put up lights, him occasionally turning back and asking you how they look.

“Are you sure they’re straight?” You promise him they are, but he meticulously checks his work anyway. He wants your house to look perfect. 

The wind has tinged both your cheeks a deep pink and the cold is starting to seep through boots. Robert has nailed the last of your lights to the trim and deemed them faultless. He comes down the ladder and walks to stand beside you to admire his handiwork. Hands on hips - with that damn tool belt still astride his waist - he turns to you beaming at a job well done. It’s impossible not to beam back, thinking how long it would have taken you to do even a job half as good.

“Thank you for putting up the lights. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.” He isn’t sure whether your cheeks are red from the cold or something else. “I’m so lucky to have you as a neighbor.”

His smile is permanently stuck at your compliment. He opens his mouth to make a joking comment about the coffee you owe him - anything for more time together - when he feels the telltale buzz in his pocket. Pulling it reluctantly out after shedding a glove, he sees it’s Phoenix and is only semi-annoyed. They have lunch plans, which he’s running late for. And while he’s sure his front seater would approve of him blowing her off for the neighbor he can’t stop talking about, he’s a better friend than that.

Turning back to you, where you’re enjoying your freshly strung twinkling lights, Robert rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I have to head out…lunch plans. Rain check on that coffee?”

Nodding through your disappointment, you help him gather up his ladder and assure him that coffee is his whenever he wants.

The following morning you pad toward your front door, eyes bleary from a deep sleep. The house was cold and you pull your robe tighter around you. Through the glass panel in the door you can see your paper on the mat, as always, ready for you to consume over coffee and toast. As you open the oak door and scurry to shut it with the paper secured, something - or rather someone - catches your eye. 

Robert stands in the doorway of his own bungalow, calmly watching the neighborhood. The thick fair isle sweater covering his wide shoulders looks incredibly cozy, and he nurses a mug between both hands. He exists in that moment without worry, and you’re envious. 

His placid expression is broken when he feels your eyes, turning his head to see you, bedhead and newspaper clutched in your fist. His lips turn in a warm smile and he raises one hand in a slow, friendly wave. Your heart flutters, utterly taken away with how surely he carries himself, how sweetly he treats others. An emotion quickly squashed when you realize you are still standing in a bathrobe and knobby socks, flying back inside and shutting the door with heated cheeks. 

As you go about working on your Sunday chores, you keep picturing Robert’s face, that small happy smile you can’t get out of your head.

Later that night, after hours of tossing and turning in the sheets unable to find peace, you finally trudge down the hall into the living room, settling under blankets on the plush couch with a cup of chamomile. You’ve lost details of the plot of the movie you started, brain racing as your fingers fidget with the mug. 

The faint trill of your phone on the coffee table breaks you from your thoughts.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Bo-Robert…from next door?” You yawn a hello while checking the clock. It was nearly one in the morning. “I just wanted to check if everything was alright? Noticed your lights were on.” 

A warm feeling spreads through your chest at his concern. Picturing him peering out his kitchen window with the striped cotton curtains, filling up his own kettle, distressed that your house lights were on so late. You’d like to think he wore tartan pajamas, neatly buttoned. Those would suit him. 

You settle back into the cushions as you reply. “Everything’s fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”

His thoughtful nod can practically be heard through the phone.

“Better question is, what are you doing up so late?” 

The whistle and clink of boiling water and china crash over the line. A sigh pulled from his lips before responding. “I was going to make myself a cup of tea while I finished some reports, but appears that I am out.”

You glance down at your own mug of tea. It’s late, but not that late.

“What kind of tea do you like?” He muses on about his lack of preference - an equal opportunity tea lover - before admitting he was looking forward to a cup of peppermint. You make your way to the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear as you both open your cupboards. Your voice feels small as you offer, “I think I might have some.”

A silence lingers on the line. An unspoken late night implication that neither of you knows what to make of it. Your fingers flip through boxes of tea that take up too much cupboard space. Pomegranate, green, oolong. You don’t even drink tea that often. But right as you think you have too many white teas, you see the striped box of peppermint tea, one lone bag waiting for its turn.

You empty the box and walk to the window in your kitchen, where you can see the faint light on through his curtains. You clear your throat. “Look out your kitchen window.”

To your disappointment, Robert does not wear tartan pajamas to sleep. Although you are delighted to see his shirtless chest, defined from years of Navy training. He waves at you through your respective kitchen windows, holding up his mug of hot water. You lift up the tea bag, and his face splits into a toothy smile.

Before you can offer to bring it to him, he’s already turning toward his front door, speaking into the phone, “I’ll be over, just a minute. Need to find my coat.”

By the time there’s a soft knock on the door, you’ve turned on the kettle and gotten a fresh mug for him. You open the door, greeted by the tip of his nose and ears a merry red, the cold kissing his features. He’s been outside all of a minute. You usher your neighbor in, watching him observe how you’ve put up garlands and festive knickknacks in the entry since his last visit.

He slips off his boots, bare feet settling on the cold hardwood, and fingers the collar of his canvas barn coat. In his rush to come over he’d thrown his coat on forgetting his bare chest. It feels obnoxious to be half naked in your home, so he keeps his coat on and follows you to the kitchen. 

“Peppermint still good?” You tease, the packet of tea leaves in your hand. He nods, slightly distracted by how cozy you look in your soft loungewear and the robe from this morning. Dunking the bag into the hot water, you search for a topic to pass the steeping time. But when you turn to talk to him, words catch in your throat because he’s right there.

Eyes so blue the sky is jealous. Shy smile so friendly it warms the room. Your thoughts dirtily flit to the tool belt around his waist on the ladder, fingers adeptly wielding a hammer. Fingers that brush yours in the proximity. He’s so close and your brain blanks as bodies simultaneously take action.

Your mouths find each other effortlessly, bodies pressing together as if they know the moves the two of you were just figuring out. The low-lying tension building for the past year breaking the surface as the dark of the house gives you both the bravery needed. His hands are cold as they find your waist, your hands too warm on his chilled jaw.

His mouth is all soft lips and hard pressure, the faint hint of toothpaste in his taste. It’s exactly as you imagined, but better.

Lips become more desperate the longer you connect, your back suddenly against the counter as he presses into you. This moment has been building since he’d watched you first walk up the front steps with that too big moving box. A hand slips into his sun-bleached locks he always has so perfectly combed. He moans into your mouth, a sinful noise in the quiet kitchen. 

Before sense can interrupt, you’re reaching for the zipper of his coat, revealing every inch of his toned pale chest as the zipper slowly comes down. You slide a hand over the skin, a low gasp slipping out at the strong muscle. You’ve been attracted to his mind for so long, it feels unfair his body should be attractive too.

He shrugs out of the barn coat and follows you to the lowly lit living room, where the couch is softer on your back than the counter edge. Sitting side by side, knees knocking, he’s more hesitant to touch you in this context. Despite his body screaming to explore every inch of his pretty neighbor’s mind and body, he knows he’s basically barged into your home and immediately stuck his tongue in your sweet mouth. You get to set the pace. 

“This okay?” His hand encompasses your knee, thumb rubbing smoothly through the fabric. You nod, tilting your head toward him to continue kissing. He’s warmed up now, your home and body bringing him to temperature. Robert smiles into your kiss. You can’t get enough of him, wanting to consume him fully. He’s delicate with you in the most delicious of ways; gentle kisses pressed to your soft lips before sliding his tongue across to politely ask for access.

Your mouth can’t open fast enough.

You place you hand on his hip, enjoying the warm skin and lean muscle beneath your fingertips. Groaning lightly into your mouth, he blindly reaches for your hips to bring you into his lap. His tongue takes its time to taste you, learn every intricacy of your flavor. Administration so thorough your eyes roll back in your head. The sounds escaping you music in the darkened room.

Fingers dance across skin, finding purchase on thighs, shoulders, chests. You can’t get close enough to him, resting one hand on the back of his neck as your swollen lips press harder to his. Robert loves the way your thighs straddle him as he leans against the couch cushions, his warm, large hands along your back bringing you closer to him. Your sharp inhale as one hand toys with the waistband of your lounge pants.

When his lips trail down your neck, praising the delicate skin, you can’t hold back your declaration any longer. “I…I’ve wanted this for a while.”

His lips pause, brow furrowed. “This?”

“You.”

That gratified smile will forever be imprinted along your neck. “I’ve wanted you since the day you moved in.”

The whimpers that rip through you when he nips the thin skin behind your ear have him grabbing your chin and swallowing your sounds. Reveling in the shared passion you’ve both had simmering beneath the surface. Can’t help his hips rutting up into yours, glorious friction he’s been craving satisfied. You giggle through a moan against his lips.

“So, we could have been doing this all year long? What a shame, lieutenant.” 

You ground down in his lap, running your own tongue along his lips and savoring his taste. Thoughts of what he tastes like after his peppermint tea have you wrapping your arms tighter around his bare shoulders. Behind his head, outside the window, the faint glow of the Christmas lights he strung up shines in the winter night. How did you find this perfect man, and how is he your neighbor?

You express your gratitude for him with your mouth along his jaw, licking along the skin while he deliciously whimpers in your ear.You can only take so much before you’re sealing your lips over his again, inhaling his every breath.

As lips finally reach exhaustion - brains well past tired as the clock strikes a new hour - Robert and you pull apart with content smiles. Already cold without his warmth, you immediately lean back into him. He’s practically a furnace now under your ministrations. Unspoken words pass between as you invite him to sleep on your couch with you. A throw blanket produced from the nearby chair as the two of you tangle your limbs. There’s something comforting in the way he rests your head upon his arm, your knee upon his thigh. Again, it’s like your bodies know the actions like they’ve been waiting for you to finally figure them out.

You’ve just settled your head upon his warm chest when a thought strikes you, prompting you to lean up to look at those sleepy cerulean eyes. The small curious smile he gives you melting your heart.

“Did you still want your tea?” 

He shakes his head with a chuckle, using the last of his energy to tuck the blanket tighter around your body. “It’s okay. I got what I really wanted.”

Your heart feels two sizes too big as he presses a kiss to your temple before sleep takes you both. 

When the winter sunrise streams through your curtains the next morning, you refuse to get up. Perfectly warm wrapped up in the thin throw and your neighbor’s arms, you are purely too content. When Robert blinks open his eyes and gazes at your face, he sees the same placid smile he wore the morning before. The same one he’s had since you moved in next door. 

Despite both being all too happy to remain entangled on the couch, sharing small kisses on any skin within reach, the responsibilities of Monday morning dawn and you must get up. Reluctantly you release him, watching him fold the throw neatly upon the sofa arm before helping you stand. Warmth blossoms down your spine the more you’re in Robert’s presence, the little things he does meaning so much to you. Especially as he strides through your home shirtless, musing about the whereabouts of his coat on the kitchen floor.

Your eyes flit to the cold mug of abandoned peppermint tea as you offer him coffee. But he’s intent on getting home for his flight suit, the drive to base longer than he’d like. Of course, he would ideally spend the morning drinking your expensive delicious coffee and listen to you go on about the neighbors down the street with the atrocious holiday decorations. If you’d let him, he would spend every morning like that for the rest of time. But his admiral would put him in drills all week if he was any later.

You walk him to the door, robe pulled tight across your chest to keep out the cold. He’s pulled on his boots for the short walk and wraps his arms around you in an intimate embrace, disappointed this perfect night must come to an end. You bury your nose in his jacket-covered chest to enjoy the last of his herbal and citrus scent, hands reluctantly slipping from his middle. He turns to leave and both your hearts pang.

When Robert reaches the end of your path, he bends down and picks up the paper, thrown too short as always. He turns around and retraces his steps, walking back up the steps and straight up to where you reside in the doorway still. Fingers brush as he hands you the newspaper, saving you the walk as he always does. Only this morning he tips his head to press a kiss to your lips.

You’re already adding peppermint tea to your shopping list as you walk back into the house. Just for him.

see what antics happen at the next HOA meeting

taglist: @callsign-mongoose

[topscarkiller]

“i need you.” — abby anderson

hi hi! sorry it took me so long to get to this second part, i’ve been going through a lot mentally and have just been trying to get my head around things. i genuinely hope this teeters to your satisfaction ♡ thank you for all the likes on pt 1 !

summary: after tending to neglected needs, it takes 5 words to turn the tables. notes: nsfw, scissoring, oral sex, (r!receiving) fingering, (r! receiving) slight dacryphilia, a bit of hair pulling, softdom!abby, sub!reader. wc: 2,793 | tags: none

read pt 1 of " i need you " here!

moments prior,

abby’s braid slid graciously past her shoulder as she pulled away from your short lived embraced, already missing the warmth of her sun kissed skin. it seemed like she was in a hurry, scurrying out of the gym in the blink of an eye. as you took a moment to gather yourself, you realised that she’d left her bottle behind, and her bench remained uncleaned. you stood there dumbfounded, what could she have planned that was more important than gymnasium hygiene? after all, it was her that taught all you know.

when you were nothing but a baby wolf, abby took notice of you as a new recruit and instantly saw potential in you, taking you under her wing and training you like hell to fulfil your true abilities. although you were nowhere near as burly or as experienced in combat as her, you were quite good with weaponry and crafting, as well as adapting to your surroundings, making do with what you had on you during critical times.

she calls you ‘the scavenger’ when you were not present. it was her unique way of honouring how far you’d come since joining the WLF, how she paved the way for the indestructible soldier she firmly believes you’ll grow up to be one day. it’s also just her adorable little nickname for you that she beckons nobody uses in her place.

she has the upmost faith in you. growing closer with each patrol, each gym session, and sometimes just casually hanging about the FOB or at each others rooms. your friendship was something others envied; it was pure, full of trust and built upon mutual respect. but those closest to you knew it meant more than what first meets the eye.

abby was out of sight in the blink of an eye, you look around in a suspicious daze, trying to follow her whereabouts. she was quick, but not quicker than you.

you had a long-overdue session to finish, but abby looked relatively… uneasy. something was wrong, and you could feel it. the line between instincts and curiosity began to blur as your feet developed a mind of their own, your duffel bag and towel long gone as you’d already turned the corner outside the gymnasium.

maybe you were overreacting, maybe it was overkill to automatically assume the worst was happening to her. but if something was really up with abby, you wouldn’t live it down if you didn’t initiate help.

the look on abby’s face as you stared at her through the firmly rimmed glass, her beautifully arched eyebrows furrowing only ever illuminating her intense eyes — a million thoughts a minute ran through your mind, instinctively charging for two heavy silver doors and up a random stairwell. you could smell the scent of pine and sweat — that was definitely abby.

all reasoning for your unexplainable shenanigans flew out the window as you approached abby’s room, a series of shuffles followed by a supposed muffled voice echoed from the opposite side.

your hand hesitantly reached up to knock, only to realise the door was never locked to begin with. abby could never be that careless, — maybe manny, but regardless — she would sometimes recall times where she’d have to remind him to lock up before leaving during your sessions at the gym. she’d never make a mistake she so harshly scolded people for.

your face inches closer to the door, the cool solid wood sending a kiss of shivers across your exposed shoulders as it welcomingly swayed open.

with each step, the unintelligible noises grew much clearer, and it was becoming more palpable as to what that was entailing.

you’re heart only dropped to your gut at the sound of your name, uttered by a helpless, whining mess.

“please… please.”

the door conditionally, and gently swayed closed on its own behind you, a little clck locking the door in full as you took a couple steps closer. was this a figment of your twisted imagination? the soft whimpers and subsequent cries of your name begged to differ. it was no secret now. abby had a thing for you. you were almost too afraid to move as each whine only grew more vehement.

with a couple more stalled footsteps, you froze at the sight of abby, completely ruining herself at the fate of her own hand.

your eyes widened instantly, the warm air prickling your eyes as would salt water. seeing her all ruined over the thought of you was enough to lift your hands over your mouth in keen disbelief.

you attempted to gather yourself, debating whether or not confronting her on this was the best idea — but no normal person would just walk away and forget this ever happened — forgetting the image of abby anderson, issac’s top scar killer, ramming her slick-covered fingers inside her wet cunt all while repeating your name under a dumbed spell? it’s not something that can just leave your mind at the drop of a hat. it certainly wouldn’t later, neither.

while lost in your thoughts, your tense arms dropped to your sides as your feet followed closer, the sound of your boots shuffling against the smooth concrete floor not catching her attention,

“abby?”

you watched as her oceanic eyes shot open, the abby you once believed would simply chuckle and brush off the idea of this, now scurried to find something, anything to cover her herculean figure, freckled arms still just poking out the sides.

it took more than an ounce of self control to not let yourself run wild at the fact that the abby anderson had a rather strong fancy for you, not to mention she was fucking herself to the thought of you.

as your initial astonishment subsided, your body beamed with want. seeing abby flushed and heated clouded your acclaimed critical thinking.

“…can i have a turn?” slipped from your lips after tending to abby’s own neglected desires.

and here you were, moments passing almost at the speed of light. you laid flat on your back, tits perked up from the arch of your back with abby towered over you. her estranged braid slid off her shoulder with her eyes staring you down. your neck generously splayed with bruises and bite-marks, only reminding you that she’s been wanting this for god knows how long. unbeknownst to her, you did too, you just never believed you’d live to ever experience it.

her hand lightly grazed over your tit, meticulously attending to your swollen nipple. her thumb teased at it, rubbing the area in circles to provoke a much anticipated and equally expected reaction. with her hand on your chest and her lips returning to attack your already purpled skin, you stifled a whine, bottom lip bit between your teeth. she kissed along your throat, from the point of your jaw to the crook of your neck.

she continued toying with your body as her tongue traversed to your waist, laying another round of sloppy kisses to your hip bones and abdomen.

it was like your skin grew ten times more tender whilst under her touch, each breath of hers against your skin feeling like a gentle tickle, accompanied by her large and surprisingly delicate hands palming your tits, it was growing to be too much, too much being your style, anyways.

her hand left your chest to firmly grip onto your hips, pulling you closer to her lap. she took her already soaked fingers, prodding at your pussy like you’d done previously. your breaths grew shakier with each flick of your clit.

her eyes returned to that intense, fiercely glare from back at the gym, so that’s why she was so concentrated, or rather in her own dreamland.

her tongue laid a generous coat of saliva along her lips, staring at your pussy like the starved woman she was. for how long she’d ached for this, you had no clue. this was bound to be a moment to remember.

your cunts were practically hugging each other, the feeling of being so close to her pussy only added fuel to the fire that gleamed in your core. the longer abby stared, just taking in your breathtaking body, the stronger the feeling of being exposed grew.

her head dives below your eye view, feeling her nose bump at your clit. she savours it, her tongue peeling out at an antagonisingly slow pace as she glares at you through her arched brows. she could taste it all, her juices mixed with yours..

your hand gently took rest within her blonde locks, hooking into the back of her braid.

“abby,”

you huffed, sounding more like a plead than anything. with each soft, trembling breath, she’d drag her tongue along your cunt in sync.

her face would dig further into you, arms slithering to wrap themselves around your thighs. even if you begged for her to slow down, your needy hole that clenched around nothing, desperate to be touched, told her otherwise.

abby would stare at you longingly, finally able to die happy between your tensing thighs as she rapidly swabbed your clit with your tongue, dragging it along in circles and the likes.

your body jerked at the sudden change in pace, back arching instinctively off the bed. the whole lower half of your body fired up, tingly and numb. her muffled grunts sent you haywire, violently gripping onto her hair. she was like a leech that wouldn’t let go, sucking and lapping around that sweet spot like her life depended on it.

“stop squirming.” abby would demand as she shoved your hips back onto the mattress, not once detaching herself from you.

you could barely comprehend anything she’d say as she was practically suffocating herself between your thighs, and you’d both be lying if you said you didn’t love it.

abby teased your cunt with her fingers, carefully slipping her thick digits inside of you. your legs squeezed around her head at the sensation of feeling so full. her fingers, let alone hands, were thicker than yours. and they felt much more fulfilling.

your moans would blend harmoniously, both equally experiencing pleasure from the other as you climbed the ladder of your climax.

abby’s suppressed grunts would only ring through your ears. where was the abby that was so shamelessly call out your name moments ago?

your grip on her hair tightened, practically dragging her face along your cunt to accumulate as much friction as your body desired. her fingers would work wonders, unforgivingly pumping in and out of you as her tongue would rub against your clit. each time she would flick against it you’d jolt, back arched with a shy hand over your mouth.

in a matter of seconds, abby had pulled away — both her tongue and fingers. just as you were about to reach the peak, you’d tumble down with your high dropping in seconds.

“wh.. why’d you stop?” you breathed out, tears that rimmed your eyes beginning to dissipate.

as if abby could read your thoughts, she placed a leg over yours, dragging your helpless body closer to her. your cunts were mere centimetres apart, the slick that built up from your pleasure mixing with hers.

“wanted to rile you up..” she muttered, her beautifully eager smile spreading from ear to ear as she strategically began kneading her pussy against yours. abby let out a stifled whimper, her perfectly toned arms pulling your leg almost over her shoulder.

you whined as she slowly dragged her pussy back and forth. the only thing ruminating through your mind in the moment was how you wished you’d done this sooner. way sooner. if given the opportunity any earlier, you’d have jumped at it like an animal in heat.

tears generously coated your plump cheeks as abby picked up the pace, she muttered curses under her breath with each drag of her swollen cunt. it was evident she was close, her arms would needily latch onto yours in an attempt to pull you closer than you already were.

the sounds of timid whines and skin slapping echoed through the room. you hoped that nobody would mention a peculiar series of moans to you or abby the next day. but all you could focus on was her slick engulfed thighs, her chest and the hickeys that’d covered her tits. her neck that was equally as bruised, and her face that contorted into a smile once she noticed you were staring.

“this feel good?” she asks, a sudden grunt spilling from her lips a second after.

all you could do was nod. you were afraid once you spoke, you wouldn’t be able to stop. abby, abby, abby, abby, was all you could think of. how strong she was and how easily she could throw you around if she wanted to, how easily you could tug on her braid while she fucked you dumb. it drove you insane how she wanted you and nobody else. she fucked herself to the thought of you and nobody else.

she disapprovingly shook her head, slapping your thigh playfully.

“mm mm, i don’t take nods, use that pretty mouth,” abby grinned, her cunt grinding viciously fast against your own. you whined dumbly, the pleasure overpowering your body. you felt numbing tingles along each cell of your body.

you whined shamelessly loud, “it feels.. so good.” abby’s face enlightened, her hips picking up pace from your undying cooperation. anything for her to keep going.

she squeezed a handful of your thigh and massaged it, letting out her pent up urges that she was only able to let out now.

you dumbly mumbled a bunch of nonsense yes’, keep going’s and abby’s, initially climbing the tower of climax yet again. and abby was, too. as much as she tried to hide it, nothing could excuse how her hips would dig into your abdomen from how quick she practically humped your cunt.

abby held your thighs close to her, gaining the upper hand in creating more friction. her clit would bump against yours almost ever second. both your whines enveloped the air around you as the coil inside you snapped, your pleasure releasing out into a white pool underneath you.

but abby was far from finished.

she pulled your hips closer, with pussies rubbing against each other and whines echoing through the walls. you wouldn’t doubt for a second that someone could hear you.

with more than a couple grunts and calls for your name, abby came down from her own high, her hips faulting and slowly grudging to a stop.

you both panted relentlessly. you swore if she kept going you would’ve came a second time at the snap of a finger.

trying to regain your breaths, abby lets out a chuckle.

she doesn’t say anything, but she shakily pulls herself off of you, propping herself up by her elbow next to you.

a sudden wave of embarrassment washed over you as the reality of both your actions settled in. there was no hiding your attraction to one another now, none of this would’ve happened otherwise.

the never ending pining, hanging out one on one every chance you got and saying it was ‘just to train you’. you don’t know why you were surprised at the fact that abby would think about these things behind closed, or more so unlocked doors.

“..so?” abby’s voice was soft and meek, her hand fidgeting alongside her waist as her head rested on her other hand.

you hesitantly locked eyes with her, your previous shyness fading away as she planted a kiss to your forehead. something as cheesy and cute as a forehead kiss was enough to make you blush, subsiding all the things you both just did.

“..that was better than i expected.” you finally replied. abby’s eyebrow quirked, head tilting to the side.

“oh, so you thought it’d be bad?” she kids in a sly tone, that familiar smile returning once more.

you playfully punched her arm in response, the both of you knowing in reality, it felt like heaven on earth.

“does it look like it was bad?” you poke back, pointing to all the hickeys and bite marks along both your bodies.

only now did you realise how much of a mess you made. there was cum all over the bedsheets, saliva all over your cunts and what not — this place was really overdue for a cleanup.

you chuckle as you examine the aftermath.

“we should clean up..”

“we?” abby questions.

“i don’t mind, i made it too, no?”

abby couldn’t argue with that. she sighs, pulling you up and off the bed so you could both clean up. not without peppering your body with kisses first.