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honeyandruin · 1 month ago

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Torque and Tension - Mechanic!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: mechanic!Joel Miller x Reader (also dbf!Joel)

Summary: Your dad’s best friend is a mechanic. You’ve been finding excuses to bring your car in—he’s been finding excuses to keep you close. One late night in the garage, the tension snaps.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Age gap (dad’s best friend). Praise kink (“good girl,” “you were made for this”). Sex in the garage (including over the hood of a car). Joel being big, sweaty, and losing control. Guilt, denial, and emotional restraint. Soft, intimate shower aftermath.

Word count: 6.7k

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You really did have a reason this time.

The check engine light had been blinking for two days—flickering on and off like it couldn’t make up its mind, like it wasn’t sure whether to ruin your week yet. By the third morning, your car started making a sound you could only describe as “anxiety in metal form.”

So you drove to the only place in town you trusted.

And that’s the problem.

Because Joel Miller owns the shop. Joel Miller has been fixing cars since before you were born. Joel Miller is your best friend’s father.

And Joel Miller is under your car with his shirt rucked up to his ribs and your ability to think clearly lodged somewhere between your thighs.

You shift on your feet beside the garage lift, arms crossed tightly against your chest. The fan in the corner of the bay blows hot air in lazy circles, mixing with the burnt tang of rubber and the sharp, dry bite of old oil. It smells like heat and metal and him—soap and skin and sweat, overlaid with that cologne he probably applies without thinking. That kind of clean, masculine scent that never fades. Just clings.

He’s flat on his back beneath the undercarriage of your car, a socket wrench clutched in one thick, stained hand, the other braced against the metal frame as he mutters something under his breath.

You can see a bead of sweat roll from the edge of his hairline, down the side of his temple. His shirt’s damp at the neck. There’s a streak of grease running from the side of his palm all the way up his forearm.

You’ve never been so jealous of a car in your life.

Joel’s voice cuts through the thick air, deep and rough like gravel dragged over concrete.

"How long’d you let it rattle like that?"

You blink. “Uh… not long. Just since yesterday.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters, scooting further underneath with a scrape of denim against concrete. “This belt’s dry as hell. It’s been slippin’ for at least a week.”

You scowl down at his legs—long and solid, boots planted wide, knees slightly bent.

“I didn’t know it was a big deal.”

“It’s always a big deal when a car sounds like it’s tryin’ to cough up a lung.”

You bite your tongue.

Not because he’s wrong.

Because it shouldn’t do that to you when he gets short with you. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten and your face heat. You shouldn’t like the way he throws the full weight of his attention behind a reprimand, like your stupidity is a personal affront.

You glance toward the open bay door, sunlight slanting through the wide space, picking up dust and sawed-off shadows. No one else is here. Not Kenny. Not Zack. Not your friend. Just Joel. Just you. Just the lazy whir of the fan and the rhythmic click-click-click of the ratchet in his hands.

You hear him grunt.

Then he slides out from beneath the car, slow, like a movie scene you’re not allowed to be watching.

The first thing you see is his stomach.

Exposed skin.

Not toned. Not soft. Just… real. Solid. Covered in a sheen of sweat that catches the light.

You look up fast. Too fast.

But he notices.

His brows twitch just slightly as he sits up, shirt still bunched halfway up his chest, hands braced behind him as he stretches his back.

You pretend to be deeply invested in a smudge on your shoe.

Joel wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and pulls the rag from his back pocket, scrubbing at his forearms in slow, rough strokes. You swear you hear the fabric drag over his skin.

“You’re lucky,” he says, low. “Could’ve been worse. Belt’s dry but not cracked. I’ll grease it, retighten the pulley.”

You nod, because your mouth is dry and your throat is tight.

“Thanks,” you say. It comes out softer than you mean.

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just grabs another rag from the workbench and scrubs at his arms in hard, focused strokes. You watch a streak of black fade from his wrist to his elbow, leaving behind red, raw skin.

He doesn’t look at you.

“You can sit,” he says, voice low. Almost gruff. “Be a bit.”

You hesitate, then take the bench near the wall.

He drops back under the car without another word.

And you sit in the heat, listening to the hum of the fan and the click-click of his wrench, pretending you’re not watching every flex of his arm, every shift of his shoulders, every slow drag of breath that smells like grease and soap and skin.

You hadn’t expected to leave your car overnight. When Joel told you it might take a few extra hours, you’d figured you’d linger around the garage, kill time scrolling your phone or walking the nearby strip until it was done. But then the sky started to dim and he said he wanted to run diagnostics before letting you take it back out—"just to be sure," he’d said, voice unreadable—and you knew it wasn’t a request.

Your dad offered to pick you up without hesitation. “No sense in waiting around that late by yourself,” he’d said over the phone. “Besides, I haven’t seen Joel in a while.”

You hadn’t thought much of it until your dad pulled into the lot, familiar truck rumbling low and slow into the driveway, just as the last of the sun dipped behind the trees. Joel stepped out of the garage as the headlights flicked off. And then, in an instant, you weren’t standing next to a man who barely looked you in the eye anymore. You were standing next to someone your father trusted.

Your stomach turned.

“Been a while,” Joel said with an ease that didn’t match the way he spoke to you. “You still tryin’ to squeeze another hundred thousand outta that Ford?”

Your dad laughed like it was an old joke. “Still runs, doesn’t it? And you’re still the only bastard I trust to keep it that way.”

They clapped hands and exchanged a look that made your chest tighten. There was history between them—respect, camaraderie, the kind of bond built in shared years and broken engines. It was a good thing. Normal.

But you couldn’t ignore the twist in your gut. Couldn’t stop the guilt from blooming beneath your ribs as you remembered how your eyes had lingered too long on Joel’s exposed skin earlier. How you’d sat on the bench with your legs crossed too tight, pretending not to watch the flex of his arms, the drip of sweat at his temple, the dark smear of grease along his collarbone.

You didn’t say much on the ride home. Just stared out the window, jaw tight, heart louder than the radio.

–

You return to the garage the next morning just after opening. Your dad dropped you off with a request to “give Joel my best” and a promise he’d see you later that night at home. The air is still heavy with late-summer humidity, thick enough to cling to your clothes as you step across the gravel lot. One of the bay doors is rolled halfway up, casting a slanted beam of sunlight across the concrete floor. You spot your car immediately—hood popped, turned sideways in the center bay—and Joel standing beside it, already elbow-deep in the engine.

He doesn’t glance up when you enter. Doesn’t greet you. Just wipes his hand slowly down the length of a clean rag and gestures toward the car with a small tilt of his chin.

“Found something else.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Timing’s off. Slight knock. You’d never hear it unless you knew what to listen for, but it’ll wear out the internals if it keeps runnin’ like that.”

You step closer, the scent of motor oil and dust growing stronger as you cross into the shadow of the open bay.

“I didn’t hear anything,” you say.

Joel finally looks up. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, brow faintly furrowed. “That’s ‘cause you weren’t listenin’.”

There’s no malice in his tone—just honesty. Matter-of-fact. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

He turns away before you can respond and grabs a slim metal tool from the bench. His movements are deliberate and calm, but his silence feels thick, pressing in at the edges. There’s something different about him this morning—focused, yes, but quieter. Like something unspoken is coiled beneath his skin, just waiting for the wrong word to shake it loose.

“You’re not careful with it,” he says, his back still turned.

You blink, startled by the bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“You drive it too hard. Push it when it’s not ready. Ignore the sound of it strugglin’. It’s not invincible, you know.”

The words are soft but direct. No raised voice. No frustration. Just a quiet kind of judgment that lands harder than it should.

You cross your arms, the heat creeping into your chest. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“I’m not givin’ one.”

He sets the tool down with a soft clink and turns toward you. The sunlight hits the edge of his face, casting a sharp line down his cheekbone, the smear of grease on his temple darker now in the angled light.

“I’m offerin’ to teach you,” he says.

You falter, unsure what to say to that. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No teasing. He just watches you, steady and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

“I don’t know how to do any of this,” you admit quietly.

Joel nods once.

“Then come here.”

You step forward slowly, each footfall echoing faintly across the garage floor. The closer you get, the harder your heart pounds. By the time you reach his side, your hands feel clammy and your breath sits too high in your chest.

He points to a specific piece tucked within the open frame—metal and rubber and coiled tension that means nothing to you by name, but everything to the way the car moves.

“This is the tensioner,” he says. “Keeps the belt in place. If it’s too loose, it slips. If it’s too tight, it pulls too hard. Either way, it’ll eat through the engine.”

You nod, pretending you understand. You don’t. Not really.

“Here.” He reaches for a wrench—clean, heavy—and offers it to you. You curl your fingers around the handle. It’s warm from his hand. Solid.

But he doesn’t step back.

Instead, he shifts in behind you, one arm sliding carefully around your waist to reach for your hand on the tool. His chest brushes your back, and you freeze.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t lean.

He just breathes.

“Hold it like this,” he says, voice low near your ear, almost a whisper. “Let it lock. Then turn.”

His hand stays over yours as you move, guiding you through the motion. His palm is rough, callused, the press of his fingers steady and firm. You feel every ridge, every tendon. The heat of his body behind yours makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t move away.

You stare down at the engine, willing your pulse to slow, willing your knees not to shake.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You’ll feel the pull when it’s right.”

And you do, but not from the belt.

From him.

Then, slowly, Joel pulls his hand back. Steps away. The space between you widens, but the air doesn’t clear.

He clears his throat and wipes his hands again.

“Good,” he says.

The word hangs there. Unfinished. Weighted.

You stand still for a long time.

Neither of you speaks.

—

You don’t hear the bell at first.

Your shop is too warm, too quiet. The kind of stillness that settles when you’re alone with routine—focused not by calm, but by the familiar rhythm of your hands. You’re stripping peony stems at the prep table near the back, thumbs slick with sap, the faint cut of green staining the pads of your fingers. The water’s cold against your skin where it splashed your forearms earlier. You’ve been too busy to wipe it off.

The scent in the room is thick and clinging. Wet leaves. Rosewater. A sharper, bitter green where eucalyptus hangs to dry in bundles from the rafters. Everything around you feels alive—stems reaching, petals opening—but there’s no sound besides the slow rustle of your hands moving, and the steady beat of your heart, louder than it should be.

Until the bell above the front door rings.

You glance up, mildly surprised. The morning rush is long over. No one usually comes in at this hour except the mailman, and he never—

It’s Joel.

Your hand stills.

He stands framed in the doorway, backlit by sunlight, boots planted solid on the threshold like he’s deciding whether to come all the way in. He’s in the same navy work shirt as yesterday—buttons undone at the collar, sleeves rolled halfway to the elbow, the edges of his white undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. There’s a smudge of something dark near his wrist. Oil, probably. Or maybe grease. His hair’s a little mussed, like he’s already run a hand through it more than once.

You don’t say anything. Not at first.

Neither does he.

Eventually, Joel steps forward, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. His boots are loud on the wood floor, the sound somehow more invasive in the softness of the shop.

You go back to cutting stems, or at least pretending to. He stops a few feet away, just close enough to fill the air with that familiar scent—soap, sweat, whatever cologne he wears that clings too deep into his skin to be store-bought.

He doesn’t browse. Doesn’t look around. Just stands there watching you work, like he has every right to.

“I tried calling earlier,” he says after a pause.

Your hand doesn’t slow. “I saw.”

“You didn’t answer.”

You reach for another stem. “You didn’t leave a message.” You glance up, “I figured you’d call back if it mattered.”

Joel’s expression doesn’t give much away. But his hands are in his back pockets, and you’ve seen him long enough to know that means he doesn’t trust them right now.

“What do you need?” You ask, voice calm. Cool, even.

His eyes flick to the flowers. Then to your hands.

“Just checkin’ in on the car.”

You don’t smile, but something shifts behind your ribs. That same pressure you’ve been carrying since the garage. Since you left his space and came back to your own, only to realize neither really feels neutral anymore.

“It’s running fine,” you say simply.

Joel nods once. Slow. His gaze lingers for a second longer before dropping.

There’s a bucket of hydrangeas on the floor to your left—half-submerged in murky water, their stems a tangled mess. You nudge it toward him with your foot.

“If you’re going to stand there, you might as well do something useful.”

He raises an eyebrow but crouches down anyway. Lifts one of the dripping stems with care he probably doesn’t even realize he’s showing. He holds it up awkwardly.

You reach for it.

The water rolls off in a slow line down your wrist.

“Clean the end. Diagonal cut,” you murmur, barely glancing up. “About an inch off.”

Joel watches you for a second, then steps closer. The flower still rests in his hand, suspended between you. You reach for the shears, grip light but steady.

He doesn’t move away.

Not even when your fingers brush his.

Not even when the cut lands too close to the base of his thumb.

The scent of the flowers is heady here. Sweet. Almost cloying. But it’s his breath you feel. His eyes you sense. The tension in your own body has nothing to do with the work and everything to do with the silence stretching taut between your bodies.

Joel looks down at your hands—your bare forearms, your stained fingertips. The soft pull of your mouth as you focus. He doesn’t speak again.

He doesn’t need to.

The weight of his gaze says enough. Too much.

You drop the stem into a clean vase and step back before you can do anything stupid. Before either of you says something that can’t be unsaid.

But Joel doesn’t move.

He stands there longer than necessary, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder. He’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch—like he’s weighing something in real time, trying to decide whether or not to let instinct win.

Then, slowly, his hand lifts.

You don’t flinch.

He reaches just past your ear, fingers brushing the edge of your hair as he pulls something free—a small, green leaf caught near the base of your braid. He holds it between his fingers for a second too long. Doesn’t look at it.

Doesn’t look at you, either.

Then his eyes flick down to your chin, and his brows pinch—just a little. Like he notices something out of place.

“Hold still,” he mutters.

You do.

He lifts his thumb, presses it gently to the corner of your jaw—light, dry, careful. He wipes away something—sap, maybe. Or dirt. You don’t know. You can’t think with his hand on your face.

The pad of his thumb drags over the soft line of your skin. Not a caress. Not quite.

But close enough.

Too close.

You feel your pulse jump in your throat, sharp and sudden. His touch is too warm. His breath too steady. You feel him before you see him—the weight of his stare, the quiet fall of his focus as he lingers there, not quite pulling away.

Then Joel blinks.

And the moment shatters.

He steps back like he’s burned.

“Shit,” he mutters. Not loud. Not angry. Just… resigned.

His hand drops to his side. He glances toward the door, jaw tightening.

“I shouldn’t—” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “I need to go.”

You don’t say anything.

You couldn’t if you tried.

He turns and walks out without another word.

The bell chimes once behind him, sharp and bright against the silence he leaves in his wake.

And you stay there, heart pounding, cheek still warm, wondering how much longer either of you is going to keep pretending.

—

The garage lights are off when you pull up in your dads car, except for one dim bulb still glowing behind the open bay.

The rest of the lot is dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that settles when the world has moved on for the day—when businesses are closed, sidewalks are empty, and the only sound left is the cooling tick of your engine as you park.

Your heart is already pounding.

You told yourself you were coming for your wallet. That you thought maybe you left it in the center console after your dad dropped off your keys that morning. It’s a stupid excuse—thin and see-through—but it’s all you could come up with when you hit call on his number.

He didn’t answer.

But the door was unlocked.

You step into the bay before you talk yourself out of it, the soft echo of your boots on concrete announcing you before you speak.

He doesn’t turn right away.

Joel is bent under the hood of your car—again. Elbows braced, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. There’s music playing somewhere in the background—something low and twangy on a half-broken radio, the notes floating around like smoke.

You see him pause. Hear the click of the ratchet stop.

Then he exhales and straightens slowly, his movements tight. He glances at you just once before turning toward the utility sink near the corner of the bay.

You watch as he pumps soap into his palms, head down, shoulders tense. The water runs loud for a moment—harsh and quick—while he scrubs his hands under the stream. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t linger either. When he shuts the tap, he wipes his hands off on the worn towel beside it and finally turns back to face you.

His shirt is still damp. His hair curls behind his ears. And even from where you stand, you can still smell the oil on his skin. It clings to him like heat—faint and bitter and unmistakably Joel.

“I left you a message,” he says, voice low and rough. “Heard from your dad you’re driving upstate this weekend. Figured I’d check the plugs. Run a final scan.”

You nod, like you’re grateful. Like you’re not dizzy from the way he’s looking at you now.

“Wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you manage. “I thought I left my wallet.”

Joel tilts his head slightly.

“Didn’t think you were comin’ back tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

“I thought I left my—”

“I know what you said.”

He says it quiet. No edge, no push. Just a statement. Heavy with something he won’t name.

You don’t move.

The silence stretches.

He tosses the rag onto the bench without taking his eyes off you.

“Find it?” He asks.

“What?”

“Your wallet.”

You swallow. You haven’t even taken one step towards your car, “No.”

Joel takes a step forward after closing the hood of your car.

Just one.

The lighting is bad. Harsh overhead, buzzing faintly. It casts long shadows across the concrete and catches on the sweat at his collarbone, the dark smudge near his temple. His fingers are still streaked with oil.

You don’t know if you want to touch them or fall to your knees.

He doesn’t get closer, but the air between you tightens. Pulls taut like a cable ready to snap.

“You need to stop,” he says suddenly. Voice quiet. Hoarse.

Your breath catches.

“Stop what?”

Joel shakes his head once. Slow. “Comin’ around like this. Lookin’ at me like that.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

His tone isn’t cruel. It isn’t even angry.

It’s worse.

It’s regretful. Raw. Like he’s already halfway through losing this fight and trying to pretend he isn’t.

You force a step forward.

Maybe two.

The scent of the shop rises up—rubber, fuel, sweat. And underneath it, faint but familiar, him.

He watches you like he’s daring you to keep going.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

That lands hard.

You stop walking. Swallow.

He’s still standing perfectly still, jaw tight, chest rising a little faster now. His fingers flex at his sides like they want to grab something. Hold it. Break it.

You want to say something sharp. Deflect. But nothing comes.

You meet his gaze, and the silence between you stretches tight, drawn so thin it could tear with a whisper. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you breathes. And then—almost imperceptibly—he shifts.

Joel moves first.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just one slow, deliberate step forward, and then another, like he’s already made up his mind and his body is only now catching up. There’s no hesitation in the way he closes the distance—only weight. Only heat.

Like this was always going to happen.

Then his hands are in your hair and your back hits the side of the car hard enough to knock the breath out of you.

His mouth finds yours before you can gasp—hot, rough, desperate. All teeth and tongue and punishment. Like he’s mad at himself. Like you’re a sin he can’t stop touching.

Your fingers claw at the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it whole, one hand cupping your jaw, the other anchoring low on your hip. His thigh wedges between yours, hard and hot, pinning you in place.

“You have any fuckin’ idea,” he growls into your mouth, “how hard I’ve been tryin’ to be good?”

You shake your head, dazed, drunk on him already.

He kisses you again—filthy, possessive, not asking.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he mutters against your throat, licking a stripe up the skin before biting down gently. “And I sure as hell ain’t supposed to be doin’ this.”

“Then stop,” you whisper.

He growls.

“Too late.”

He lifts you effortlessly—hands under your thighs—and sets you down on the edge of the workbench with a low grunt. Tools rattle somewhere behind you, but neither of you notices.

Joel grabs your face with one hand, his thumb stroking roughly along your cheek as he stares down at you, breathing hard.

“You want this?” He asks.

You nod.

He shakes his head.

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

The rest comes undone fast.

Joel surges forward like he’s been waiting years for permission—like the second those words leave your mouth, there’s no universe where he doesn’t ruin you for anyone else.

His mouth crashes into yours again—open, messy, all heat and breath and hunger. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t precise. It’s needy. The kind of kiss that tastes like restraint finally giving out. You moan against his lips and it only spurs him on, his hands already sliding down the backs of your thighs, gripping hard like he doesn’t trust himself to let go.

He lifts you without warning, big hands digging under your legs, your back arching as he sets you on the edge of the workbench with a grunt. The cool metal bites into the backs of your legs, a stark contrast to the heat rolling off him in waves. Tools clatter somewhere behind you from the movement, but neither of you registers the sound.

All you can feel is him.

His fingers spread wide over your skin, anchoring you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

And when he leans back just enough to look at you—forehead pressed to yours, sweat slicking his brow, eyes gone dark and hungry—you forget how to breathe.

“You want this?” He asks again, his voice wrecked. Like maybe he just needs to hear it one more time to believe he hasn’t dreamed this.

You nod. Your voice barely comes out. “Yes.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Say it.”

And God, you want to be good for him. You want to give him everything.

“I want you,” you whisper, breathless, shaky.

His eyes flutter shut for half a second—like it hurts to hear. Like he’s been waiting for this and dreading it at the same time.

And then he drops to his knees.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t speak. Just spreads you open with both hands, and drags your skirt up so fast the fabric scrapes your skin. His breath hitches when he sees what’s waiting for him—slick, swollen, glistening under the dim light.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “No fuckin’ panties…”

You flush, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I didn’t plan on—”

“You didn’t plan on gettin’ fucked in my garage?” His voice is strained, but he’s already leaning in. “Coulda fooled me, sweetheart.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Open. Devastating.

He moans into your pussy like he’s starving—like he needs it to breathe. His tongue drags through your folds, slow and deep, and your head snaps back against the wall with a loud, broken gasp.

Everything goes hot.

The pressure of his palms on your thighs, the humid air clinging to your skin, the obscene sound of his mouth working between your legs—it’s all too much, too fast, and not nearly enough.

“Fuck,” he mutters into you. “This—this is what I’ve been thinkin’ about. Every night. Every time you walked through my shop like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.”

His tongue flicks your clit and your legs jerk.

He groans, low and filthy, like he’s grateful for your reaction. Like he needs it.

“You’re so sweet, baby,” he whispers, lips dragging across the sensitive skin there. “So soft. So wet for me. Fuck—you were made for this. Made to sit right here and let me taste you.”

You whimper. You don’t care how loud. You grind against his mouth because you can’t not, and he lets you. Encourages it. Holds you down with one arm across your stomach while he devours you like he’s trying to bury something in the act.

Your body burns. Your toes curl. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you pull, hard.

He groans and pushes a thick finger inside you.

You nearly scream.

“Jesus—Joel—”

“That’s it,” he breathes, pumping it slowly, curling it just right. “Fuck, baby. You’re squeezin’ me so tight. So fuckin’ good for me.”

His mouth finds your clit again and you shatter.

The orgasm hits like a truck—fast, hard, all-consuming. Your whole body locks up, your thighs clench around his face, and you cry out, loud and wild and unfiltered.

He moans against you while you fall apart, keeps licking like he can’t get enough, doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and panting and trying to push him away.

When he finally stands, he’s breathing hard. His beard is soaked with you. His lips are pink and swollen and glistening.

And he looks completely fucked.

“You okay?” He asks, voice hoarse.

You nod, unable to speak, your whole body still buzzing.

His hands go to his belt. His eyes never leave yours.

“You want me to fuck you now, baby?”

You nod again.

“Tell me,” he breathes.

“I want you inside me.”

He growls—actually growls—and frees himself with shaking hands. He fumbles with a condom, cursing under his breath, and when he rolls it on, you see how thick he is. How long. Your mouth goes dry.

He steps between your thighs and drags the head of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Shit,” he groans. “You feel that, darlin’? That’s how bad your pussy wants me. You’re so fuckin’ ready.”

You whimper again and he presses in—slowly, gently, watching your face.

Your mouth drops open. Your head falls back.

You’ve never felt so full.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, hips shaking. “Takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ right—Jesus, you were made for me.”

He doesn’t move for a moment. Just holds you there, bottomed out, letting you feel all of him.

Then he starts to move.

He fucks you slow at first, like he’s trying to make it last.

His hips rock into yours in long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch, your thighs tremble, your body arch. His hands are everywhere—cupping your jaw, sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist so tight you know you’ll feel the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The smell of oil and sweat still clings to him, thick in the air, mixing with the sound of skin meeting skin and the ragged, breathless groans spilling from his throat every time he sinks back into you.

“That feel good?” He grits against your ear, voice shaking with restraint. “Feel how tight you are, squeezin’ my cock like you don’t wanna let me go.”

You nod, gasping, already wrecked—and he kisses your shoulder, your neck, your mouth like he can’t pick where he wants to be.

But after a few more strokes, his rhythm stutters. His breath catches. And you feel it—the need, the desperation building behind every thrust.

Joel pulls out suddenly with a sharp, choked sound, and you gasp at the loss.

“Up,” he pants, grabbing your hand. “Come on—c’mere. Over here.”

You stumble down from the workbench, legs shaky, knees weak, and let him guide you across the bay—until the cool metal of your car’s hood hits the backs of your thighs.

He turns you gently, presses your palms flat against the surface, and says, low and breathless, “Bend for me.”

You do.

And then he’s behind you again—hot, heavy, hands greedy as he spreads you open, tilts your hips just right.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters when he slides back in. “That’s it. That’s the fuckin’ angle, baby.”

You cry out—louder this time. The stretch hits deeper now, every inch filling you so perfectly, so thoroughly it feels like he’s reaching parts of you no one else ever has. Your cheek presses to the hood, fogging the metal with your breath as he starts to thrust harder, rougher, the slick drag of his cock making your thighs tremble beneath you.

Joel groans behind you—long and low and needy—and his hand comes down on your ass in a firm, claiming grip.

“Goddamn, look at that,” he breathes. “Look at me, baby. Look at how pretty you’re takin’ it.”

You lift your head, barely, just enough to glance toward the windowed wall of the garage—and catch his reflection in the glass. His eyes are on you. Or more specifically, on the spot where his cock disappears inside you again and again, glistening and perfect and obscene.

“You see that?” He pants. “You see how good you look like this? Bent over your car with my cock buried deep in your tight little cunt?”

Your breath stutters. He presses deeper, and you feel your muscles start to tighten again, pressure coiling low and fast in your belly.

“Joel,” you whimper.

His hand slides up your back, slow and hot, until it curls around the base of your neck. He leans forward—chest against your back, mouth at your ear.

“You’re bein’ so good for me, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Takin’ every inch like you were made for it. You feel me right here?”

He presses a palm against your lower stomach and thrusts once, deep.

You cry out.

“Incredible,” he groans. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. My good girl.”

That wrecks you.

You come with a sob, body locking up, cunt pulsing around him so hard he nearly drops his head to your shoulder and curses into your skin.

“Shit—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he pants. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me—shit—gonna make me come—”

His rhythm breaks, thrusts getting sloppy, desperate.

And then he groans, deep and raw and wounded, as he spills into the condom with a final, shuddering thrust.

For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the lights above, the soft click of cooling metal beneath you, and his panting breath as he leans against your back—sweat-slicked, trembling, completely undone.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, finally. “What the fuck are we doin’?”

You don’t answer.

You just feel his hand slide around your waist again, holding you close.

Because you both know—this isn’t the end.

Not even close.

—

The silence after is loud.

Joel doesn’t say anything when he pulls out. Just exhales, rough and uneven, and rests his forehead between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to remember how to breathe. His hands stay on your hips—one tight, one shaking—until your legs nearly give out beneath you.

Then he moves.

He tucks himself away, peels the condom off, and tosses it in the shop bin without looking at you. The air in the garage is cooler now. Your skin sticky with sweat, your heartbeat still trying to find its rhythm.

You’re about to speak—ask what happens now, what the hell that was—when his voice cuts through the quiet.

“C’mon.”

Just that.

He slides a hand beneath your shirt again—gentler now, fingers warm on your spine—and guides you toward the side stairwell, one that leads to the apartment above the shop. You follow him barefoot, legs unsteady, your skin still flushed and sore in the best kind of way.

The upstairs is small. Just a kitchen that opens into a living space, dimly lit, with a narrow hallway beyond it. Joel doesn’t pause. He just leads you straight to the bathroom, flicks on the light, and turns on the shower.

You stand there while steam begins to fog the mirror. Joel doesn’t look at you as he moves. Just grabs two towels, sets them beside the sink, and pulls his shirt off over his head. It’s only when he reaches for the hem of yours that his eyes finally meet yours again.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t have to.

His hands are slow this time—soft, careful—as he undresses you, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. When you don’t, he finishes pulling off what’s left of your clothes, then his own, and steps into the shower behind you.

The water hits first. Hot. Heavy. You lean into it instinctively, and he follows—arms bracketing you, one hand on the wall above your head, the other sliding gently up your side like he can’t help himself.

He doesn’t touch you like he’s trying to start something again.

He touches you like he’s still stunned you let him.

His fingers find your hair, work through it slowly. You close your eyes as he massages shampoo into your scalp with firm, steady hands, lathering without a word. When the soap rinses clean, he switches to your shoulders, down your arms, the curve of your spine, the backs of your thighs.

He scrubs the sweat and oil from your skin in reverent silence. Not a word spoken between you. Only the sound of water hitting tile, the gentle scrape of his calloused hands moving with surprising tenderness.

Eventually, you turn to face him.

He looks exhausted. Damp curls sticking to his forehead, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t come all the way down yet. His eyes trace your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

Then he lifts one hand—just one—and wipes the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. His hand lingers.

And before either of you can think better of it, he leans in—slow, hesitant—and presses his lips to yours.

It’s not like before.

It’s soft. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology wrapped in something warm. His mouth moves gently over yours, no hunger, no heat—just something quiet and aching, like he’s trying to say all the things he never will.

When he pulls back, your fingers find his face.

You touch his jaw first—just a ghost of contact—and then cradle his cheek in your palm. The coarse stubble, the heat of his skin, the way his breath catches when you do it—it’s too much and not enough all at once.

He leans into your touch.

Like it hurts to be seen that way. Like it’s been so long since someone’s touched him with anything other than need.

And for a moment, the garage, the rules, the guilt—all of it—just falls away.

It’s only him. Only you.

And the silence in between.

“I shouldn’t’ve let that happen,” he murmurs.

You don’t reply.

Not because you disagree—but because it’s already too late.

Later, in the quiet of his apartment, you find yourself standing in front of his dresser while he digs through the bottom drawer.

“Here,” he says, tossing something soft your way.

You catch it.

It’s an old garage tee—black, worn thin, with a faded logo over the left breast: Miller Automotive. It smells like him. Like grease, pine soap, and something warmer. Something that makes your stomach twist.

You pull it on without a word. It hangs long on you, brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Joel watches the whole thing from where he stands by the door, his expression unreadable.

“Bed’s this way.”

He nods toward the back room.

You follow.

The sheets are clean. The room is dim. When you climb in, he doesn’t hesitate. Just clicks off the bedside lamp and settles in behind you, one hand flat on the mattress between you like a line he doesn’t trust himself to cross again.

But he stays close.

So close you can feel his breath on your neck.

So close his voice, when it finally comes again, is barely more than a whisper.

“Shouldn’t’ve happened,” he says again, quieter now. “But I don’t think I could stop it even if we tried.”

You don’t say anything.

Just lay there in his shirt, still damp from the shower, the scent of him pressed into your skin, your body warm from where he’d touched it—held it—like something he wasn’t ready to give up.

Eventually, you fall asleep to the sound of him breathing beside you.

And the feeling of something unfinished still hanging in the air.

____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°

Here’s another one shot, you freaky little fiends. I hope you enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, requests—whatever, send me a message and I’ll try my best to make it happen💚

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #tlou #joel smut #smut #joel tlou #joel x reader #tlou joel #dbf!joel

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mystacoceti · 2 years ago

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HARVEST 2023 IS FINALLY FUCKING OVER WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE I AM

#fuck all rancheros who mix soft and hardshell varieties fuck the ones who bring in their crop before it's dry and open fuck the ones who hav #and fuck the girl reading this if she lets her sweepers scoop up river rocks and concrete blocks

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charlotteking27 · 4 months ago

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Please stand up if Bruce Wayne was forced to marry the reader and then one day discovered that she was a superhero like him

The Hero's Bride

Bruce Wayne x reader

Summary: You are the daughter of a wealthy businessman forced into a marriage with the prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne. But secrets within your marriage start unfolding.

Warnings: Sorry, it is not as long as my usual fanfics

It was a field day for the tabloids as Bruce Wayne, their prominent bachelor prince, was getting married to the daughter of a wealthy businessman.

The newspaper reported on the events of the power couple, with your picture and Bruce Wayne's featured prominently in the middle of it all. The headline 'our playboy billionaire finally settling down'

The crystal chandeliers of Wayne Manor cast dancing shadows across the marble floors as Bruce Wayne adjusted his tie for the thousandth time. Another charity gala, another performance of the billionaire playboy. Except tonight was different. Tonight, he was meeting his future wife.

"The arrangements have been made, Master Wayne," Alfred said, his voice carrying its usual mix of concern and dry wit. "Though I must say, agreeing to an arranged marriage seems rather... medieval, even for Gotham's standards."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "The Wayne Foundation's reputation is everything, Alfred. After that disaster with the Gotham Gazette's exposé on my... nocturnal activities, the board thinks a stable relationship might help." He didn't mention how those 'nocturnal activities' involved more timely distractions to uphold his secret.

________________________________________________________

You stood in an elegant emerald evening gown, waiting anxiously to leave and get home, but tonight was different. Tonight, you are meeting your future husband.

The arrangement had come as a surprise. Your father, CEO of one of Gotham's largest tech companies, had presented it as a "mutually beneficial partnership." Bruce Wayne needed to stabilize his public image, and your family needed stronger ties to old-money Gotham. You'd agreed, if only because it provided the perfect cover for your nighttime activities.

Wayne Manor looms before you, gothic architecture stretching toward the clouded sky. Your driver opens the car door, and you step out, automatically scanning the perimeter – old habits die hard. The massive wooden doors swing open to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, Wayne's butler, and behind him, Bruce Wayne himself.

He's more imposing in person than in photos. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes that seem to catch every detail. Including, you notice, the way you've already mapped every exit in the room. Interesting.

"Miss," he says, extending his hand. "Welcome to Wayne Manor."

"Mr. Wayne." Your grip is firm and professional. You notice a faint bruise near his collar, poorly concealed by makeup. Curious. Several things ran through your mind, the obvious one: how much of a playboy Mr. Wayne really was.

The weeks before the wedding pass in a whirlwind of public appearances and private arrangements. Attending numerous galas and other events to show the public the perfect couple.

You find ways to maintain your secret life – slipping out at night, patrolling the streets of Gotham in your specialized suit, complete with built-in stealth tech of your own design. If Bruce notices your occasional limps or mysterious absences, he doesn't mention them. Then again, he has his own habit of disappearing at odd hours.

The wedding is a spectacle worthy of Gotham's elite. You play your part perfectly – the accomplished businesswoman, the perfect bride. No one notices how you scan the crowd for threats, or how your bouquet hides reinforced knuckles that could crack concrete.

Life at Wayne Manor settles into an odd rhythm. You and Bruce orbit each other like binary stars, together but separate. You respect each other's privacy, never questioning the mysterious phone calls or unexplained injuries. During the day, you attend board meetings and charity galas. At night, you slip away to protect the city in your own way.

"Late night?" Bruce asked one morning, not looking up from his newspaper as you slipped into the breakfast room at 6 AM, still in yesterday's clothes.

"Charity gala planning committee," you lied smoothly, hiding your limp. The drug cartel you'd busted hadn't gone down without a fight. "You?"

"Board meeting in Tokyo." His tie was perfectly straight, but you spotted foundation covering a fresh cut along his jaw.

They were good lies, practiced lies. The kind that came with years of maintaining double lives.

It's during your fourth month of marriage that everything changes. You're tracking a human trafficking ring through the warehouse district, your suit's electric blue accents dimmed for stealth. The intel suggests Batman might be investigating the same case, but you've always managed to avoid him before.

Not tonight.

You kept your operations separate from Batman's territory, focusing on Gotham's tech-driven criminal underground. You had history there – scores to settle with your father's former partners who'd turned your family's Technologies' innovations into weapons.

But Gotham had a way of bringing its heroes together, whether they wanted it or not.

You'd avoided Batman for months, but now, crouched in the shadows watching him work, something felt familiar about his movements. The way he disabled the security system matched a technique you'd glimpsed Bruce using on their home's alarm panel.

The second you closed your eyes and reopened them, he was gone in the dark.

You sense his presence before you see him – a darker shadow among shadows. You turn to flee, but he's faster than expected. A grappling hook wraps around your ankle. You counter with a move learned in the mountains of Nepal, breaking free and landing in a defensive stance.

That's when you see his face in the moonlight, cowl knocked loose in the scuffle. The realization hit you like a thunderbolt

"Bruce?"

He stares at you, equally shocked. "You're the mystery vigilante?"

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you start laughing, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls. "So this is why you're never around for midnight snacks."

"Me? You're the one who keeps claiming yoga classes run late." His voice carries a hint of admiration. "The tech industry's break-in last month – that was you?"

"Had to destroy some evidence of illegal weapons manufacturing. My father's old partners aren't as clean as they pretend to be." You step closer, studying his suit. "I always wondered how Batman got his tech. Wayne Enterprises explains a lot."

"How long have you known?" he asked, removing his cowl.

"About thirty minutes." She deactivated her mask, letting it dissolve into her suit's collar. "You?"

"I suspected something when you took down that smuggling ring last month. The tech they were using came from one of your family's Technologies' old subsidiaries."

"Cleaning up family messes." She shrugged. "Sound familiar?"

His laugh was unexpected – rich and genuine in a way she'd never heard from Bruce Wayne, socialite. "Alfred is going to love this."

"Alfred already knows," she said. At his surprised look, she added, "He's been leaving medical supplies in my bathroom for weeks. That man sees everything."

"The two-year gap in your resume," he says. "Training?"

"League of Shadows. Left when I realized what they really were." You notice his slight flinch. "But you already knew about them, didn't you?"

He nods slowly. "We have... history."

"Well," you say, smiling at your lips, "I suppose this makes our arranged marriage more interesting."

"It certainly explains a few things." He pauses, then adds, "Your father doesn't know?"

"About as much as your board knows about your nighttime activities." You activate your mask in place.

"So." Bruce stepped closer, studying you with new interest. "What happens now?"

You smiled, already seeing possibilities unfold. "Now we stop pretending our marriage is just for show. Between your resources and my tech, we could do more good together than apart."

"The press will notice if Batman and the new vigilante start working together simultaneously, you and I become inseparable."

"Let them talk." You activated your suit's systems, preparing to leave. "Besides, every good marriage needs a hobby. Speaking of which, I've got some traffickers to catch. Care to join me?"

The smile he gives you is genuine – perhaps the first real one you've seen from him. "Lead the way."

As you swing across Gotham's skyline together, you realize that this arranged marriage might be the best thing that ever happened to you. Not because it saved Bruce Wayne's reputation or strengthened your family's social standing, but because it gave you something you never knew you needed: a partner who understands both sides of your double life.

Later that night, as you both tend to your wounds in the newly revealed Batcave, Bruce looks at you with newfound respect. "You know," he says, "most people marry for love or money. We married for public relations and ended up with a crime-fighting partnership."

You laugh, wincing as Alfred patches up your shoulder. "Well, they do say marriage is full of surprises."

The next morning, headlines screamed about Batman and the new vigilante team-up against a human trafficking operation. But it was the society pages that really got people talking, with photos of Bruce and you sharing a surprisingly passionate kiss at a charity gala.

The papers call you Gotham's power couple, the perfect merger of old money and new innovation. If they only knew the half of it. By day, you run your companies and attend charity galas. By night, you protect the city together, two vigilantes moving in perfect sync.

And if the criminals of Gotham complain that Batman's gotten twice as effective lately with improved tech? Well, that's just one of the many perks of married life.

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nilkanthengineeringworks · 2 years ago

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Case Studies: Successful Applications of Different Concrete Batching Plant Types

Concrete batching plants play a pivotal role in the construction industry, providing the essential ingredient for any building project – concrete. However, not all concrete batching plants are created equal. Various types cater to different project requirements, offering unique advantages and applications. In this blog, we’ll delve into real-world case studies to showcase the successful applications of different types of concrete batching plant.

1. Mobile Concrete Batching Plants: The On-the-Go Solution

Case Study: Rapid Bridge Construction Project

In a rapidly developing urban area, a construction company faced the challenge of building a series of bridges within tight deadlines. The solution? Mobile concrete batching plants. These compact and transportable units allowed the construction team to set up temporary concrete production facilities near each bridge site. This not only minimized transportation costs but also significantly reduced the project timeline, showcasing the flexibility and efficiency of mobile batching plants.

2. Stationary Concrete Batching Plants: Stability for Large-Scale Projects

Case Study: High-Rise Residential Tower

For a high-rise residential tower construction, where a consistent and large supply of concrete was needed, a stationary concrete batching plant proved to be the ideal choice. The constant production capabilities of stationary plants ensured a steady flow of high-quality concrete, meeting the demands of the vertical construction. The stationary plant’s robust structure and advanced automation contributed to a smooth and uninterrupted construction process.

3. Dry Mix Concrete Batching Plants: Water-Saving Solution

Case Study: Desert Highway Construction

In a desert environment where water scarcity is a critical concern, a construction project required a concrete batching solution that minimized water usage. Dry mix concrete batching plants, with their pre-measured components and minimal water requirements, became the go-to choice. The project not only met its sustainability goals but also experienced enhanced durability in the concrete structures due to the controlled mixing process.

4. Wet Mix Macadam Plants: Precision in Specialized Projects

Case Study: Hydroelectric Dam Construction

The construction of a hydroelectric dam demanded precision in concrete mix design to ensure the structural integrity of the dam. Wet mix Macadam plants, with their ability to achieve a high level of homogeneity and precision in mixing, were instrumental in meeting the project’s stringent specifications. The consistent quality of the concrete produced played a crucial role in the success of the dam construction.

5. Compact Concrete Batching Plants: Urban Redevelopment

Case Study: City Center Renovation

In the heart of a bustling city center undergoing redevelopment, space constraints were a major challenge. Compact concrete batching plant, with their small footprint and efficient design, allowed for on-site concrete production without disrupting the surrounding urban activities. This case study highlights how compact plants are tailored for projects in confined spaces, offering a localized solution to the concrete supply needs of urban redevelopment initiatives.

In conclusion, the success of a construction project often hinges on choosing the right concrete batching plant type. These case studies exemplify how different plant types cater to diverse project requirements, demonstrating the adaptability and efficiency of modern concrete production methods. Whether it’s a mobile plant for on-the-go projects or a stationary plant for large-scale developments, the key lies in aligning the plant type with the specific demands of the construction endeavor.

#compact concrete batching plant #concrete batching plants #Dry mix concrete batching plants #mobile concrete batching plants #Stationary Concrete Batching Plant #types of concrete batching plant #Wet Mix Macadam Plants

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yasminawayne · 1 year ago

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not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

SYNOPSIS: You get kidnapped and Damian snaps. TAGS: Graphic Depictions Of Violence! Genderneutral! Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Kidnapping, Childhood Trauma, My Mother is the Worst Woman Alive and I'm her Favorite Son, Damian is Eighteen.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

YOUR PALMS WERE PRESSED tightly against your eyes, wrists raw and burning from the rope that had bound them just minutes ago. Sobs slipped from your lips, eyes bloodshot, and mouth parched dry.

The rotting smell of the warehouse was an assault on your senses—an acrid mix of trash, harsh chemicals, and the faint tang of gunfire that lingered in the air.

There was a hushing in your ear as you leaned against a cloaked figure—Batman. Bruce.

His hand rubbed at your back, firm and steady, a grounding presence amid the chaos. His cape, dark and imposing, wrapped around you like a shield, blocking out the violence unfolding just in front of you.

Shadows danced erratically on the walls as Robin moved with lethal precision. Bodies fell unconscious, thudding heavily against the concrete floor. Blood splattered. Screams echoed. Each punch landed with a sickening crunch, bones breaking. Crates and debris were scattered haphazardly, wood and concrete slamming onto the floor.

Damian couldn't see anything but red.

His vision was tunneled, focused solely on the next target, the next blow, the next scream.

A swift roundhouse kick sent one assailant crashing into a stack of crates, the wood splintering under the impact. One punch connected with a jaw, the sickening crunch of bone breaking echoing through the air. Blood sprayed on his fist. Another one rushed toward him, brandishing a knife, but he disarmed the man with a swift twist of the wrist, jamming the blade into the attacker's palm. The man screamed, clutching his arm as red streaked his skin.

Damian's eyes flickered with a dark satisfaction as he watched the thug stumble backward, clutching at the wound.

One last man remained. One who had lunged at him from behind, grappling onto his back. Damian scowled and surged backward, driving both himself and his attacker into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man's grip loosened, a pained gasp escaping his lips as the air was knocked out of him.

"Fool," Damian spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

The thug whimpered, trying to scramble away, but Damian was relentless. He twisted sharply, dislodging the assailant and slamming an elbow into his ribs. The man crumpled against the wall, clutching his side, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

"You think you can touch those I care for and get away with it?" Damian growled. He didn't give the thug a moment to recover. He swung a powerful fist into the guy's face, the impact sending a spray of blood and teeth into the air.

"F-Fuck you, man!" The man yanked a gun from his waistband, but before he could even line up a shot, Damian’s foot kicked out, sending the weapon flying through the air. The gun clattered against the concrete with a deafening clang. With a snarl, Damian lunged forward, grabbing the thug by the collar and slamming him into the ground.

"H-Hey! Mercy! Mercy! I'm a-already down!" the assailant wailed, his hands clawing at Robin's uniform in a desperate plea. "The Bat don’t kill! You—you ain't gonna kill me!"

Damian's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.

"I'm not Batman," he spat, the tone amplified and darkened by the modulator. "Every breath you take is a mercy I choose to grant. By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging for death."

He raised his fist, the tension in his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The thug’s eyes widened in terror, his pleas growing frantic as he braced for the blow. However, just as Damian’s fist was about to land, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, grabbing onto his hand with a vice-like grip. Before he could react, Batman—Bruce—had tackled him, pinning him firmly against his chest.

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was firm, concern barely concealed. “That’s enough.”

Damian's struggle was fierce, his body thrashing under his father’s strength as he roared in fury.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice raw with anger. “I’m going to kill him for what he did to them!”

The anger engulfed Damian like a stormy ocean, dragging him beneath its violent waves. Visions of his mother’s face, his grandfather’s form, and accusing shadows surged from the depths, all condemning him. Damian’s cries erupted into a raw, guttural scream, gradually dissolving into ragged gasps as he battled the relentless tide.

Though Bruce had shaped him into a hero, a beacon of justice, and his family had offered him a fragile semblance of belonging, Damian was still his mother’s son.

The violence and anger roiling within him were like roots twisted deep within his soul. There was not a thing that could purge the primal rage and pain that had taken root before his first breath.

When he finally broke through the surface, baptized in blood and weighed down by sins that clung to him like chains, he sought you out with an urgent, almost desperate need.

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

"Beloved."

Your hands were carefully peeled away from your eyes, and you met soft emerald eyes through a veil of tears. His hands moved to unlatch his cape, the soft fabric pooling around your form. His lips, speaking in his mother tongue, murmured a soothing litany of comfort, Arabic endearments flowing like silk. He pressed your head against his chest and you found refuge in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bruce watched the scene with a pensive look. His son's body had dwarfed you, broad shoulders and strong muscles enveloping your form like a shield. His head was tucked into your hair, his hands raking all over your tense and sweaty skin.

Damian had momentarily shed the hardened exterior he so often wore—a soldier with a heart that, despite its armor, occasionally revealed cracks. This was a side of him that often surprised people.

Because Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

He was all sharp edges. Poisonous, scalding words that could sear through the thickest armor of patience. Rough, nearly violent in his touch, like a blade pressed against skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, no softness in his gestures, only the relentless precision of a trained killer.

From the earliest moments he could walk, his life was an unending series of tests, each more grueling than the last. Each cut and bruise was a lesson. Failure was met with harsh punishment, success with silent approval. Affection and praise were as rare as mercy.

The League’s doctrine was ingrained in him: emotions were vulnerabilities, attachments were liabilities, and loyalty was owed only to the mission and the League. His purpose in the League of Assassins was clear—to be the perfect instrument of their will, a living embodiment of their principles.

Emotion was his enemy, a weakness to be purged. He was taught to suppress his feelings, to turn them off like a switch. Pain was an illusion, fear a phantom to be banished. He learned to compartmentalize his thoughts, locking away his humanity in the deepest recesses of his mind.

By the time he reached ten, he was a finely honed instrument of death.

A living weapon in a world that knew no peace.

It had taken Bruce eight grueling years to begin undoing the damage. And even then, he had barely scratched the surface.

Then there was you.

The trembling, warm-faced student Damian had introduced during his senior year—his partner for a science project, he said.

At first, the interactions were subtle—a fleeting glance here, a hesitant smile there. But as time went on, it became impossible to ignore the way your presence began to soften the sharp edges of Damian's demeanor.

Bruce had seen you both fall for each other over the months. And he saw hope.

You were the opposite of every lesson Damian has ever been taught.

To him, you were soft, in every sense. Soft movements, soft features, soft voice. Everything about you exuded comfort.

You made something he had always pushed down and shut away come to the surface.

You made him feel things—things he should not.

When you touched him with your soft hands, everything in him burned. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin ignited a searing heat, a raw and unfamiliar longing that clawed violently at the walls he had worked so hard to maintain. Each touch chipped away at the concrete barriers of his training, breaking them down and leaving him exposed, aching for something he couldn’t quite name.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

Mania. Drake had called it, a wild obsession of his that could consume and devour.

Damian's arms encircled you like a lifeline, holding you close as though he feared you might slip away. His lips brushed against your temple, warm and tender, while his biceps pressed firmly under your chest, anchoring you in his embrace. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and the lingering residue of fear.

And yet, amidst these odors, there was an underlying, almost imperceptible hint of Damian’s cologne—Arabian oudh. It was rich and smoky, with notes of aged wood, a faint earthy sweetness, and subtle undertones of leather and spice.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, the fabric of his suit brushing against your cheek.

A Crush. Todd had chalked it up to puppy love, something that would eventually fade with time.

He lifted you effortlessly from the floor, his strength evident in his smooth, controlled movements. The way he adjusted his hold with such care to ensure your comfort spoke louder than any words could.

Warmth enveloped you—Damian had always run hotter, like a human furnace. On sweltering days, his clinginess (no matter how much he denied it) had been a nuisance, his heat making you feel as if your skin might melt off. But now, that same warmth was a comforting embrace, a welcome shield.

Infatuation. Grayson had suggested, thinking it was just a fleeting, intense passion. But there was something deeper in the way he looked at you, something that felt permanent and unshakeable.

“I am here. I am here, beloved," he spoke to you lowly. "It's alright now."

Love. His father called it.

In an instant, everything seemed to collapse around you. Tears welled up and streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed into his chest, each shudder of your body sending waves of anguish through him. Damian’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of you.

He has seen suffering—he has inflicted suffering. But this was different. Your pain was a torment he was helpless to alleviate.

Face twisted in guilt, he pulled you tighter against him, as though he could hold the world’s pain at bay if he just held you close enough.

A hand tapped at his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to see his father.

“The Batmobile is just by the docks. We can—”

“They're in shock,” Damian scowled. the fire back in his eyes. “Do you honestly believe they're in any state to be moved at this moment?”

Bruce’s gaze was firm. “Damian, we don’t have time to—”

“They need to be stabilized first,” Damian cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. He turned abruptly, striding towards the exit. “If you want them to survive this, we need to take care of them properly, not rush them into a car. I shall be outside.”

Without waiting for a response, Damian moved swiftly, the clatter of his boots echoing as he stepped into the cool night air with you. Once the warehouse door closed behind him, he turned his full attention back to you, his hand gently brushing your tear-streaked face.

He moved to press his forehead gently against yours, the warmth of his skin meeting yours in a tender connection. He could offer no verbal comfort anymore; words seemed woefully inadequate. Your cries gradually subsided as you drew comfort from his presence.

Love.

He lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing a button. As his mask retracted, his eyes met yours. Damian knew that more than anything else, you loved his eyes.

Time and again, you found yourself drawn to them, unable to tear your gaze away. They were hypnotic—an exquisite blend of emerald green, green as vibrant as the leather cover of his sketchbook, flecked with gold and streaked with brown paint.

His eyes were windows to his soul, offering the only genuine glimpse into the depths of his emotions. In them, you could see his anger burning like a stormy sea, joy dancing like sunlight on rippling water, embarrassment flitting like a shadow, and pain etched as deep as his scars.

At times, his eyes grew gentle, revealing something much softer—something that made your heart swell and your knees feel weak. A love so pure and unexpected that it could melt the coldest of hearts.

Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

But in these soft, fragile moments he shared with you, where his heart beat in sync with yours, Damian found an unexpected calm. It was in these rare interludes, away from the brutality and darkness that defined his world, that he could truly be himself.

Here, he was not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

ao3: yenwayne

NOTE: I want to delve into the line I wrote: 'Damian is still his mother’s son.'

It's just to show his trauma, I despise Talia with all my guts.

Talia's control over Damian is a textbook example of manipulative conditioning at its most extreme. In psychological development, early experiences and parental influence are crucial in shaping one's self-concept. From his earliest days, Damian was deprived of a normal childhood. His personality, thoughts, and desires have all been sculpted by the League of Assassins from day one.

His anger, protectiveness, and sense of duty are manifestations of this—a child raised to be a killer, now struggling with the fragments of a humanity that was never fully allowed to blossom.

I'm not saying he hasn't changed!!! He has turned into so much more than the weapon they intended him to be. He is genuinely good. But the impact of such deep-seated trauma cannot be easily overlooked or resolved. It’s not something that can simply be swept under the rug or fixed overnight.

So, this was my attempt at capturing his character! I’m very open to constructive criticism since I’m new to the fandom. Please be kind and gentle with your feedback :)

#requests are welcome!#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily #dc robin #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne imagine #kinda lackluster TT #bruce wayne #batman

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carnalcrows · 7 months ago

Text

satin

genre: smut

pairing: sang-woo x male!reader

CW: unprotected sex, cum as lube, somnophilia, slight-dubcon, feminization, anal sex, creampie, breeding, gaslighting, reader wears a dress (above image), the term [y/n] is not used

word count: 1.1k

The dining hall glimmered with cold grandeur, the pristine white tablecloths and shining silverware at odds with the blood-stained memories of the glass bridge. The four of you—Sang-woo, Gi-hun, Sae-byeok, and yourself—sat around the table, silently picking at the extravagant meal.

Sang-woo’s gaze kept drifting to you, and you could feel it like a weight pressing against your skin. You didn’t dare look up, too focused on cutting into the steak on your plate.

The dress.

The satin clung to you in ways that made Sang-woo’s throat dry, the slit revealing just enough of your thigh to drive him to distraction. It had been Sae-byeok’s dress originally, stark white against the deep hues of her bruises, but she’d been visibly uncomfortable in it. You had offered to switch, slipping into it with a shrug and a teasing grin, downplaying how strangely empowering it felt.

Now, Sang-woo could barely focus on the food in front of him. The cut of the fabric, the way it rose slightly when you shifted, the curve of your collarbone illuminated by the dim lighting—it was torture.

“You’re not eating much,” Gi-hun said, raising an eyebrow at Sang-woo.

Sang-woo’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the fork a little too hard. “Just not hungry.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sae-byeok muttered under her breath, her sharp eyes flicking between him and you. Gi-hun smothered a laugh with his napkin.

Sang-woo shot them both a warning glare but said nothing, focusing instead on finishing his wine in a single, sharp gulp.

The night wore on, and eventually, you all returned to the living quarters. The empty bunks and the echoes of the fallen competitors made the space feel colder, lonelier. Gi-hun and Sae-byeok whispered in hushed tones at one end of the room, their conversation punctuated by the occasional chuckle.

You, however, wandered to the farthest corner, away from the others. The dress, though elegant, wasn’t designed for comfort, and you tugged at the hem as you curled up on one of the bunks. The fabric rode up your legs as you shifted, exposing more skin than you intended. Exhaustion quickly overtook you, and you drifted off.

Sang-woo returned from the bathroom, his steps quiet on the concrete floor. His gaze scanned the room, landing first on Gi-hun and Sae-byeok, who were still deep in conversation, then on you.

His breath caught.

The way the dress hugged your body, the faint rise and fall of your chest as you slept—it was intoxicating. His feet moved on their own, carrying him closer to where you lay.

He stopped a few steps away, his heart pounding as his eyes traced the length of your legs, the hem of the dress barely covering anything. You shifted in your sleep, and the fabric rode up higher, revealing more of your thighs.

Sang-woo’s jaw clenched. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, the sharp pull of desire mixed with guilt. He told himself to walk away, to stop staring, but he couldn’t.

He crouched down, his hand hesitating in the air for a moment before brushing his fingers across your exposed thigh. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second too long, the soft texture of your skin sending a jolt through him.

“You shouldn’t tempt people like this,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.

His hands travelled farther and farther up your dress until they reached the hem of your underwear. He had to stop; he had come too far. But as he pulled your boxers down, the whimper that escaped your mouth due to the cool air hitting your inner thighs – sealed your fate.

He hoped to God that Gi-hun and Sae-byok were well out of earshot, and he slowly pushed his pants down, revealing his throbbing erection.

He pushed your thighs together, and slowly slid his length between them. The tightness of the gap made him let out a groan, which he quickly stifled. He shouldn’t wake you up.

He thrust in and out slowly, with his cock often rubbing against your own length. You on the other hand, twisted and turned, oblivious of what was happening to you.

As Sang-woo reached his climax, he couldn’t help but let out a rather loud groan, releasing on your thighs with a shudder.

You stirred at the sound, your lashes fluttering open. Your eyes met his, bleary with sleep and lust but quickly sharpening with awareness.

“Sang-woo?” you murmured, your voice soft and hoarse.

He froze, caught in the act. But instead of backing away, he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek.

“You make it hard to focus,” he admitted, his voice low and rough.

Your lips quirked into a small, sleepy smile. “Good.” The stickiness on your thighs said enough. You were too far gone to think about the sanity of the situation.

The glazed look in your eyes did something to the man. He hoisted your legs up in a way that his cock was resting right at your ass. Before you could protest, he slowly slid his tip in, making your head hit the pillow. “Wait– what about lube-” you gasped, only to be interrupted by him slamming his entire length into you.

You shuddered, you were stretched beyond your capacity, but it felt so… good? He was slowly rocking in and out of you, while your hands desperately clutched the pillows, trying to redirect the pain elsewhere.

He brought your knees to your chest, eliciting a squeal from you. Your hand quickly went to cover your mouth. What if the other two had heard you?

“Honestly, what did you expect? You walk around in that tight dress of your’s, swaying your hips for everyone to see. You thought I wouldn’t notice?” To this you could only mumble out incoherent words behind the palm of you hand, the new angle making his cock hit your sweet spot with every single thrust.

“Pleas–se, slow down–”, you whimpered, to which he only chuckled. “Learn to take it, you whore. It’s your fault for walking around in this dress and thinking that no one wants this tight pussy of yours.”

Calling your ass a pussy igniting something inside of you. Noticing this, Sang-woo sped up his thrusts, whispering the dirtiest things in your ear. He removed one hand from your ankle, and brought it to your cock, slowly jerking it off, much slower to his cock pistoning in and out of your hole.

“I’m gonna–”,” I know darling, come with me”, he groaned, as both of you climaxed at the same time. You ruined your pretty dress, while he stained your insides white.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, catching his breath, before slowly pulling out of you, before shifting your positions do that you were on top of him.

You slowly closed your eyes, sleep embracing you all over again.

Meanwhile, across the room, Gi-hun nudged Sae-byok, his expression unreadable. “Told you he’s obsessed,” he muttered, earning a grunt from the latter.

“I’m scared of gay people.”

“You’re just saying that because your girlfriend died.”

“Shut up.”

#cho sangwoo x y/n #cho sang woo x reader #cho sangwoo #cho sangwoo x reader #cho sang woo #squid game fanfic #sangwoo squid game #squid game fic #squid game imagines #squid game x reader #squid game x y/n #squid game x you #sangwoo x reader #sangwoo x y/n #cho sangwoo x you #squid game x male reader #squid game smut #smut #gay

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usedpidemo · 1 month ago

Text

Almost is never enough. (Ive Gaeul)

23.7k words

Content advisory: Act III is practically an F1 fanfic. Please enjoy the feature presentation!

——————

The fluorescent lights stab your eyes like ice picks. Every blink sends fresh waves of nausea rolling through your gut, thick and sour. There’s a low, insistent throb radiating from—everywhere. Your skull feels packed with wet sand, your chest aches with a deep, bruised soreness, and there’s a strange, heavy numbness anchored to your right leg. The air tastes sterile, sharp with antiseptic and something vaguely metallic. Plastic tubes snake from your arm, taped down with irritating precision. You have no idea where you are.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the fog, sharp as a scalpel.

"You fucking idiot."

The cry is strained, ragged, laced with a fury that vibrates in the aseptic air. It takes monumental effort to turn your head, your muscles screaming in protest against stiff sheets. The world swims, blurs, before coalescing into a figure hunched in a plastic chair beside the bed.

Gaeul.

Her usually pristine dark hair is a chaotic halo around a face devoid of its usual softness. Mascara streaks like inky tears carve paths down pale cheeks, dreary against the furious flush high on her cheekbones. Her eyes, usually holding a calm, observant depth, are wide, bloodshot pools of raw, unvarnished anger and something far more terrifying: sheer, unadulterated panic. She’s clutching the edge of your thin hospital blanket, knuckles bone-white.

"What—?"

A dry, painful croak comes out, barely recognizable. It scrapes your throat raw. Your tongue feels thick and clumsy.

"What?" Gaeul snaps, the word cracking like a whip. She leans forward, her gaze boring into yours, intense enough to make you flinch back against the fluffy pillow. "That's all you have? 'What?' After everything? After you nearly—" She hitches, the fury momentarily choked by a sob she viciously swallows down. "What the hell is wrong with you? Were you even thinking? Were you trying to leave me?"

The accusations land like physical blows, adding to the symphony of aches. Confusion wars with the pain.

Leave her—what is she talking about?

Your mind feels like a shattered mirror, reflecting only disjointed, meaningless fragments. The sterile smell, the ache, Gaeul’s devastated anger—nothing connects. You still have no clue as to how you got here. The last clear memory—it’s like trying to grasp smoke. A flash of speed. A deafening roar. Nothing solid forms. Only this crushing weight of now.

You try to push yourself up slightly, a reflexive move to meet her intensity, but a searing bolt of agony lances through your torso, stealing your breath. A gasp escapes you, sharp and involuntary. The movement shifts the thin hospital gown, pulling taut against your body, and your gaze finally drops downwards.

Reality crashes in with brutal clarity.

Your right foot, encased in stark white plaster, juts out at an awkward angle from the edge of the bed. It looks alien, heavy, and wrong. The cast climbs halfway up your calf. Taped wires snake across your chest beneath the gown, connecting to blinking monitors that chirp with infuriating cheerfulness. Your left arm is braced in a sling, resting heavily on your abdomen. Tentatively you flex the fingers of your right hand—stiff, sore, but mobile—and they brush against bandages wrapping your ribs. A dull, persistent throb emanates from your shoulder.

You glance down at exposed skin on your forearm, a latticework of dark purple and yellow bruises, intersected by angry red abrasions, like you’d been dragged across concrete. The sheer scale of it hits you like dynamite, amplifying the disorientation.

This wasn't a mere fall. This was—demolition.

"Gaeul—" you manage again, confusion now mixed with a dawning horror. "I—I don't—remember. What happened?"

Her furious expression flickers. For a moment, pure, unadulterated fear replaces anger, making her look terrifyingly young. "You don't—?" she whispers, the fight draining out of her throat, leaving only hollow disbelief. "You don't remember Spa? The rain? Eau Rouge?"

The names mean nothing. Empty sounds in the echoing void of your memory.

Her gaze sweeps over the cast, the wires, the bruises, the sling. The fierce, scolding idol vanishes. Tears she’d been holding back overflow, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks. She shakes with silent sobs, her carefully maintained composure dissolving into pure, intense grief.

"You—you went into the barrier," she chokes out, the words thick with tears. "So fast—so much smoke—they couldn’t get you out—I thought—"

A ragged sob cuts her off. She buries her face in her hands, her slender frame trembling. "I thought I had lost you. They said—they said it was touch and go for hours."

The image—vague, nightmarish—flickers at the edge of your consciousness: blinding spray, a sickening sense of weightlessness, an impact that shakes through your very bones. Afterwards, nothing. Just this sterile purgatory and Gaeul’s shattered presence.

A cold dread seeps into your veins, colder than the IV drip. You had almost left her. The evidence was strapped, wired, and plastered all over you. The anger hadn't been scorn; it had been the desperate, terrified backlash of someone who’d stared into the abyss of losing everything.

Driven by a need that transcends the screaming protests of your body, you move your unslung right arm. Every muscle groans. Wires tug; monitors protest with a flurry of beeps. Ignoring it all, you reach out, your bandaged hand trembling slightly. Your fingers brush against the tear-damp skin of her forearm where she’s clutching her own arms.

She flinches slightly at the touch, then stills. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifts her head from her hands. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, meet yours. The anger is gone, replaced by a vulnerability so profound it steals your breath more effectively than the pain in your ribs.

You have no words. The confusion, the fear, the sheer immensity of the pain—it’s too much. All you can offer is the warmth of your touch, the feeble attempt at connection through the layers of bandages and her own trembling skin. Your thumb strokes a clumsy, soothing pattern on her arm, a silent plea, an anchor.

"I'm here," you rasp, the words suffocating you. "I'm—sorry."

Sorry for the fear. Sorry for the pain you caused. Sorry for the terrifying blank space where the explanation should be.

Gaeul stares at your hand on her arm, then back at your face. A fresh wave spills over, but this time, they’re quieter, mixed with a shaky, almost disbelieving relief. She doesn't pull away. Instead, her own hand lifts, trembling, and covers yours, resting on her arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong, desperate, like she’s clinging to driftwood in a stormy sea. Cool fingers press against your bandaged knuckles, a grounding counterpoint to the tumult inside you both.

Before either of you can navigate the fragile, tear-slicked silence further, the door swings open with a soft whoosh. A nurse bustles in, her scrubs crisp, her demeanor a practiced blend of efficiency and calm that feels jarring against the emotional wreckage in the room. Her eyes sweep over the monitors, then land on the two of you: Gaeul’s tear-streaked face, your bandaged hand clutching hers.

"Ah, good, you're awake," she says brightly, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like sunbeam through storm clouds. Moving to check the IV drip, her motions are quick and precise. "We were starting to get a bit concerned, but vitals are stabilizing nicely now."

She taps the screen of a monitor displaying a steady, rhythmic green line. "Pain manageable?"

You try to nod, but it sends a fresh spike through your neck. "Manageable," you grit out, the word tasting like rocks. Manageable meaning a constant, grinding symphony of aches punctuated by sharp stabs if you dared to breathe too deeply or move the wrong limb.

The nurse nods, making a note on a chart. "Excellent. Doctor will be doing rounds soon, but I can give you the preliminary good news." She offers a warm, professional smile. "You are incredibly lucky. The injuries are significant, yes," her gaze flicks meaningfully to the cast, the sling, "but nothing life-threatening now. No internal bleeding we’re worried about, no spinal damage. The concussion was severe. Explains the memory gap, but the scans look promising. You’ll make a full recovery."

Gaeul lets out a shuddering breath beside you, her grip on your hand tightening almost painfully. "Full recovery?" she echoes, her voice thick with hope and residual terror.

"Absolutely," the nurse affirms, her tone reassuring. "It’s going to take time, though. Months of physio, especially for that ankle. Complex fracture, ligaments took a beating. And the shoulder needs careful rehab."

She pauses, her expression turning slightly more serious, almost sympathetic. "They said it was a miracle you walked away, really. Jesus was certainly riding shotgun with you that day at Spa. That corner—"

Before she trails off, she shakes her head, a flicker of something resembling professional awe or grim understanding in her eyes. "Anyway," she continues, her rehearsed brightness returning, "the main thing is you’re through the worst. Focus on healing now. Rest is paramount."

A wire taped to your chest is adjusted. "Oh, and try not to worry too much about the season. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, just concentrate on getting yourself right."

Season. That word snags in your foggy brain. Spa. Jesus riding shotgun. The nurse’s casual comment hangs in the air, heavy with unanswered implications you can’t grasp.

Season. Football. Basketball. Autumn. Duck. Rabbit.

It felt absurdly trivial against the canvas of pain you were stretched across and Gaeul’s distress. The confusion must show on your face, a furrow deepening between your brows as you try to parse the meaning.

But Gaeul isn’t listening to the implication. The nurse’s words—you’re through the worst, full recovery—seem to be the only things penetrating the haze of her fear. Tense lines around her eyes soften infinitesimally. Her desperate grip on your hand relaxes slightly, shifting from a lifeline to a connection. She leans forward, resting her forehead gently against your unbandaged shoulder, her dark hair spilling over the thin hospital gown. You feel her tears through the fabric, a slight tremor still running through her.

"Months," she murmurs against your shoulder, muffled but the relief palpable. "But you’re here. You’re alive." She lifts her head just enough to look at you, her eyes searching yours, the earlier fury replaced by a weary, profound gratitude that makes your own throat tighten. "That’s all that matters right now. Just—be here. With me."

The nurse gives a final, satisfied nod at the monitors and quietly slips out, leaving you cocooned in the beeping stillness of the room with Gaeul.

Countless questions weigh on your slowly reforming mind. The mystery of the season, the terrifying void where your memory should be, the grueling road to recovery hinted at by the nurse—it all looms like storm clouds on the horizon. But for this suspended moment, anchored by the warm, real weight of Gaeul’s head on your shoulder and her hand still clasped in yours, the only truth that matters is the one she whispered: You’re alive.

The rest—the terrifying, confusing rest—could wait.

Pain is a constant drumbeat. The cast an immovable anchor, the wires a tether to this fragile existence. But underneath Gaeul’s tears and the lingering echo of her furious, frightened voice, there’s a fragile, desperate kind of peace.

You’re here. She’s here.

The nightmare of ‘almost’ is over. Now comes the long, painful awakening.

—————

Late summer air hangs thick and sweet as the car door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the world of antiseptic corridors and beeping monitors. The familiar scent of your neighborhood—cut grass, distant barbecue smoke, the faint tang of exhaust—floods your senses, almost overwhelming after weeks of hospital sterility.

Gaeul maneuvers the wheelchair with surprising grace over the uneven pavement, her movements precise, almost rehearsed. Every bump, every minute jolt, sends a fresh reminder of your battered body up your spine. The cast on your right leg is a leaden weight, the sling cradling your healing left shoulder a constant, restrictive presence. Beneath it all, the lingering ache in your ribs is a dull percussion.

"You good?" Gaeul murmurs, pausing at the footpath leading to your front door. Her voice is soft, carefully controlled, a complete 180 to the raw fury and terror that had emanated from her in the hospital. Now, there’s a focused tenderness, a watchfulness that never wavers. She adjusts the blanket draped over your lap, her fingers brushing lightly against your good arm. The touch is warm, grounding.

"Yeah," you rasp, trying for a smile that feels stiff on your face. "Just—surreal. Being back. Back in the real world."

The confusion hasn’t completely lifted. Fragments swirl: the blinding lights of the hospital, Gaeul’s tear-streaked face, the nurse’s cryptic words about a season and a vague comment about God riding shotgun with you at a corner. But the why, the how—it’s a frustrating blank.

"Gaeul—" you start, the question bubbling up again, the one you’ve tentatively asked a dozen times. "What happened? Really. Before the hospital. I need to—"

She cuts you off, not harshly, but with a firmness that brooks no argument. Her hand rests gently on your uninjured shoulder. "Later. Please. Doctor Lee was very clear. Stress impedes healing. Your focus," she replies, her gaze locking onto yours, deep and pleading, "needs to be here. On resting. On getting stronger. On—" Her voice catches slightly. "On being here."

The unspoken ‘with me’ hangs heavy in the air, echoing her fear in that hospital. She pushes the wheelchair forward, navigating the small ramp installed during your absence. "Let's just get you settled first, okay? One thing at a time."

The front door swings open, revealing not just your familiar hallway, but an explosion of color and care. Your breath hitches, not from pain this time, but sheer surprise. The entryway and living room beyond are filled—overflowing—with gifts. Bouquets of vibrant flowers (lilies, sunflowers, delicate orchids) jostle for space with extravagant fruit baskets bursting with exotic berries and perfectly ripe mangoes. Giant, plush teddy bears wearing Get Well Soon sashes stand sentinel beside sleek, high-tech recovery devices still unopened in their boxes. Cards are piled high on every available surface. Elegant embossed ones, funny cartoon ones, simple heartfelt notes.

"Whoa," escapes your lips, the sheer volume momentarily eclipsing your aches.

Gaeul smiles, a genuine, warm curve of her lips that lights up her face. "Told you everyone missed you." She wheels you further in, navigating the sea of well-wishes. "The girls—they practically raided every high-end department store in Seoul."

She points at a large, foreboding presence. "That ridiculous giant panda? Rei. Said it was ‘for optimal hugging comfort during recovery.’ The basket with the imported Swiss chocolates and the very expensive silk pajamas? Liz and Leeseo. Yujin sent that state-of-the-art massage pillow. Said your neck would need it. Wonyoung—" Gaeul chuckles softly, pointing to a towering arrangement of white roses and lilies so pristine it looks sculpted, alongside a sleek, limited-edition noise-canceling headset. "—went for elegance and practicality. Said you’d need quiet."

Touched doesn't begin to cover what you feel. The thoughtfulness of her bandmates, their distinct personalities shining through their choices, wraps around you like a warm blanket. But the display extends far beyond IVE.

Gaeul then guides you towards the low coffee table, dominated by a different kind of tribute. Nestled amongst the flowers are model cars—intricately detailed 1:18 scale replicas. A gleaming red Ferrari SF-25 sits beside a papaya-orange McLaren MCL39. A sleek silver Mercedes W16. And, unmistakably, a dark green and black Kick Sauber C45. Propped against them are signed caps, race gloves mounted in shadow boxes, and even more cards, these bearing familiar crests and signatures.

"Charles sent the Ferrari," Gaeul says softly, picking up a card with the Prancing Horse logo.

Inside, in neat handwriting: "Mon ami, get well soon. The grid is not the same without your crazy moves. Come back stronger. – Charles."

Gaeul then picks up the McLaren model. "Lando and Oscar sent this together." She flips open the attached card, revealing two distinct scrawls.

"Mate! Gutted for you. Spa bites. That move was almost legendary! Heal up fast, we need you back causing chaos (preferably behind us!). – Lando"

Beneath it, neater and subdued: "Wishing you a speedy recovery. Focus on healing. The podium will wait. – Oscar"

A pair of worn but clean racing gloves sit in a box marked with the Ferrari logo. Lewis Hamilton’s signature streaks across the cuff. The note is succinct, powerful:

"Strength isn't just speed. It's the comeback. Heal well. We’re all praying for you. – Lewis."

Then, Gaeul picks up the Sauber model, her expression softening further. "The team—they sent this. And this." She holds up a thicker envelope bearing the Kick Sauber logo. Inside, a formal letter wishing you a full recovery, signed by the Team Principal and every department head, expressing their support and confirming your contract details for the following season. Paperclipped to it is a handwritten note on team notepaper, signed by dozens of names: from engineers, mechanics, down to catering staff.

"Get well soon, mate! The garage is too quiet! Hurry back! – The Sauber Crew"

And then, almost hidden beside the Sauber model, a simple, unsigned card. No team logo. Just stark black letters on white:

"Next time, brake 5 meters later. Or don't. Made it exciting. Get well. – MV."

You stare at the initials. Max. A reluctant grin tugs at your lips despite the pang of—something—the card evokes.

Gaeul watches your face, seeing the dawning realization, the struggle to reconcile the evidence with the void in your mind. She kneels beside your wheelchair, her hand finding yours again, her thumb stroking your knuckles. The tenderness in her eyes is almost unbearable. "See?" she whispers, "You matter. To so many people."

The sight of the Sauber car, Max’s blunt note, the sheer physicality and outpouring of support—it chips away at the mental barrier. A pressure builds behind your eyes, a mix of gratitude and profound frustration. "Gaeul," you ask, the plea undeniable this time. "Please. I need to know. What happened at Spa? What did I do?"

She hesitates, her gaze flickering to the cast, the sling, then back to your desperate eyes. The carefully maintained wall of protection cracks. A sigh, heavy with the weight of traumatic memory, escapes her. Sitting back on her heels, still holding your hand, her other hand rises up to brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead with infinite gentleness.

"Okay," she concedes, losing her practiced calm in place of brewing concern. "Okay. But remember: you’re here. That’s the important part."

Gaeul takes a steadying breath. "It was Spa. Rain. So much rain. It was—brutal. Visibility was a joke. The car was a handful, even more so in the wet. But you—you were driving like a man possessed." A flicker of old, fierce pride shines through the worry in her eyes. "You were climbing. P5 with—less than five laps left."

The words trigger nothing. Just abstract concepts. Positions. Laps. Vague sounds of engines roaring. The relentless patter of downpour.

"You were stuck behind Max. He was defending hard. The McLarens were ahead, fighting for a 1-2 finish." Her grip tightens slightly on your hand. "Coming out of Eau Rouge—up Raidillon—" She names the legendary, terrifying sweep with a reverence merged with dread. "You saw a gap. A tiny, miniscule gap between Max and the inside curb. On the exit of Raidillon, in the pouring rain."

Her voice tightens. "You went for it. A divebomb. Everyone watching—we all held our breath. It was—audacious. Reckless. Brilliant. Almost."

The word hangs thick. Almost.

"If you’d made it stick—" Gaeul continues, a faint whisper now, visibly haunted. "You’d have been P3. Right behind the McLarens. Your first podium. Right there." She closes her eyes for a second, as if reliving the horrific flip-side, rewinding to that horrible scene. "But you—you overshot the apex. Just—just a fraction. The car snapped. You hit the outside barrier—"

It suddenly breaks. "Hard. Then it spun—back across the track—into the other barrier. Metal screaming. Carbon fiber shattering—" Tears well in her eyes again, mirroring the terror you can’t remember. "There was fire—so much smoke. They couldn’t get to you. It felt like forever.”

She buries her face against your good arm for a moment, her shoulders trembling silently. When she looks up, her eyes are swimming. "They pulled you out. Barely. You were—broken. Unconscious. They airlifted you straight to Liège. And then—coma. Days. Tests. Surgeries. Waiting."

She swallows hard, her gaze locking onto yours with keen intensity. "Gabriel Bortoleto—he’s in your seat now. For the rest of the season. The team—they had to. But you—you almost didn’t have a rest of your life. Do you understand now? Why I just—why I just need you to be here? To heal? The car, the seat—none of that matters if you’re not here."

The pieces crash together. The season. The nurse’s strange comment about Jesus riding shotgun. The model cars. Max’s card. Spa. Eau Rouge. Raidillon. Divebomb. Podium. Fire. The abstract horror crystallizes. You weren’t simply injured. You were an F1 driver. Gambled everything on one insane move for glory. And you lost. Catastrophically. Shattered your body and your season in a heartbeat of rain-lashed ambition.

A cold wave washes over you, followed by a surge of something hot and vital. Shame at the recklessness? Terror at the near-miss? Yes. But beneath it, deeper, fiercer—a spark. The memory might be gone, but the feeling—the adrenaline echo of pushing the limit, the tantalizing glimpse of immortal glory, the bitter taste of almost—it ignites something primal. Determination.

The commentator in your mind isn’t describing a crash anymore; he’s describing the move that should have worked. "An outrageous lunge! Is he going for it? Yes! Oh, that is millimeters! If he holds this—P3! Unbelievable! Wait—no! Too much! over the curb! Loss of control! He’s into the barrier! Heavy impact! Red flag! Red flag!"

Gaeul sees the shift. Sees the confusion recede, replaced by a dawning intensity in your eyes that frightens her almost as much as the sight of you in that hospital bed did.

"Hey," she says sharply, squeezing your hand. "Stop. Whatever you're thinking—stop. You need rest. Doctor's orders. Let's get you to the sofa."

Her command is firm, laced with that protective fear again.

She helps you transfer from the wheelchair to the plush sofa, arranging pillows with meticulous care behind your back and under your casted leg. Fetching water, checking your medication schedule, adjusting the blanket. Her tenderness is a balm, a constant in a storm of realization. She fusses, trying to anchor you in the present, in the slow, safe rhythm of recovery.

Later, after a light meal she prepared with focused precision, Gaeul announces she needs to run a quick errand. "Medicine refill," she says, grabbing her keys. "Twenty minutes. Tops. Rest. Promise me?"

Her eyes search yours, seeking reassurance.

"Promise," you murmur, offering a weak smile.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the silence of the house presses in, filled only by the ticking clock and the phantom roar of engines in your mind. The giant panda Rei sent grins at you vacuously. The Sauber model on the coffee table glints under the lamplight.

Almost. The word burns through your skull.

Driven by a force stronger than the ache in your bones, you reach for the remote. It takes some maneuvering with your good arm, fumbling awkwardly. You find the highlights video on YouTube, your fingers trembling slightly.

Searching: Belgian Grand Prix. Lap 39. Spa fills the large screen. Torrential rain sheets down. Visibility is appalling. Cars ghost slowly through the spray.

There you are. Car #77. Kick Sauber. Lurking behind the bright Red Bull of Verstappen. The camera focuses on the climb out of Eau Rouge, up the steep incline of Raidillon. Crofty’s voice rises, tense with anticipation: "—and here comes the Sauber! Look at this! He’s glued to the gearbox of Verstappen! Is he thinking about it? Raidillon in these conditions—incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish—"

You watch your car. It darts left, a flash of dark blue cutting inside the Red Bull on the exit, riding the treacherous curb. The move is breathtakingly aggressive, a knife-edge gamble. "He goes for it! An incredible dive up the inside! Verstappen gives him just enough room! If he can hold it—!"

The ‘if’ hangs. Your car—your past self—pushes a fraction too hard. The rear snaps out violently on the slick curb. A sickening pirouette. Impact with the first barrier is brutal, spinning the car like a toy. The secondary impact with the opposite wall is equally catastrophic. Debris flies. A sickening plume of smoke and steam erupts, instantly swallowed by the rain. Max’s Red Bull streaks past, completely unscathed. The camera cuts away quickly, but not before showing the crumpled, motionless wreck of the Sauber.

"—devastating crash for the Sauber! Heavy impact! That looks very, very bad! Red flag! Red flag! Medical Team deploying immediately!" Crofty’s voice goes grim, shocked. "A move that was this close to being legendary—ends in catastrophe. Let's hope the driver is okay."

You stare, numb, at the frozen replay image: your car, a broken sculpture against the tire barrier. The almost. The what-if. It’s no longer abstract. It’s visceral. It’s you.

The podium champagne that wasn’t sprayed. The cheers that died in throats. Your season handed to Bortoleto. Months of pain mapped out on your broken body.

But the numbness doesn't last. It’s incinerated by a sudden, white-hot resurgence. Not shame. Not despair. Defiance.

A fire you thought the crash, the pain, the amnesia might have extinguished roars back to life, hotter and brighter than before. It floods your veins, momentarily eclipsing the physical agony.

Crofty’s words echo: "This close to being legendary."

He was wrong. It wasn't legendary. It was a failure. A spectacular, near-fatal failure.

But the move—the sheer, audacious belief required to attempt it in those conditions—it never died. It’s still in you. Buried underneath heaps of plaster and bandages and trauma, but there. The podium wasn’t reached. The story wasn’t finished. It was brutally interrupted.

Gaeul’s terrified face flashes in your mind. Her tears, her protectiveness, her desperate need for you to just be safe. The love in her touch as she adjusted your pillows. It’s a weight, a responsibility, a reason to be cautious.

But the fire burning in your chest, ignited by the sight of your own near-triumph and catastrophic failure, is an equally powerful force. It speaks of unfinished business. Of limits tested and boundaries demanding to be pushed again. Of a story that cannot end crumpled against a barrier in Belgium.

You hear Gaeul’s key in the lock. Quickly, you switch off the TV, the image of the infamous wreck fading to black. Leaning back against the pillows, you close your eyes, feigning sleep. The physical pain rushes back in: a constant, grinding reality. But beneath it, deeper, more potent, is a newly forged resolve. A silent vow, etched in the phantom scent of burning fuel and the roar of an engine only you can hear.

I’m coming back.

I’m finishing that story.

The door opens. Gaeul’s soft footsteps approach. You feel her gentle hand brush your forehead, her sigh of relief when she thinks you’re resting. The tenderness is profound, a sanctuary. But within the oasis, the fire burns, waiting for the cast to come off, the bones to knit, the strength to return. Ready to fulfill unfinished business.

—————

Months bleed into each other, marked not by seasons, but by the incremental, almost obstinate, reclamation of your body.

The sterile scent of the hospital fades, replaced by the musk of your home gym: sweat, rubber mats, faint metallic tang of weights. The leaden weight of the cast is gone, replaced by a persistent, grinding ache of bone knitting itself back together beneath scarred skin.

First, a slow, agonizing shuffle, clinging to Gaeul’s arm like driftwood in a churning sea. Then, with crutches that dig into your ribs, each step a percussive thud of effort. Until, finally, completely unaided. The gait is stiff, a little uneven, a constant, low-level protest radiating from the rebuilt ankle and the shoulder that still twinges with certain movements.

But you walk. You stand tall. You move under your own power, a victory wrested from the wreckage of Spa.

Gaeul is your constant, your anchor, your fiercely protective shadow. Her tenderness is a physical thing. She massages the tightness from your scarred ankle with warm oil, her fingers tracing the map of damage with heartbreaking gentleness. Sets timers for your medication with unwavering precision, her brow furrowed in concentration. Cooks meals rich in protein and calcium, plating them with a care that borders on reverence.

When the phantom pains strike, sudden and sharp, deep in the marrow where metal pins hold you together, she’s there, a cool hand on your forehead, whispering calming reassurances until the wave passes. Her eyes, though, those calm, observant pools, hold a watchfulness that never fully relaxes. They track your every wince, every suppressed grimace, every moment you push a little too hard.

And you push. Oh, how you push.

It’s a quiet, relentless fire burning beneath the surface of your recovery. While Gaeul is attending IVE schedules—practices that stretch long into the night, countless photoshoots, the whirlwind of promotions—the garage becomes your sanctuary. Physio exercises evolve into something more. Gentle stretches become deep, demanding lunges that make the tendons in your ankle scream. Light resistance bands are swapped for weights that strain your healing shoulder, sweat stinging your eyes as you grit your teeth against the pain, chasing strength you once possessed.

You set up a simulator in the corner, a makeshift shrine to the world you crave. The first time you strap in, the familiar grip of the wheel in your hands, the pedals beneath your feet—even the stiff, unyielding motion of the brake—sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through you, momentarily eclipsing the ache. Front there, you run the scene back at Spa. Over and over. Not the crash. The move. The divebomb at Raidillon. Testing the virtual limits, feeling the car’s edge, chasing that impossible fraction of control you lost in the rain.

It’s reckless, bordering on stupid. You know it. But almost is a song you can’t mute.

The rest of the F1 season unfolds on the large screen in the living room, a parallel universe you observe with gnawing intensity. McLaren’s dominance is absolute; a papaya-orange juggernaut. Oscar and Lando are locked in a breathtaking duel, trading wins and podiums, their points tally a neck-and-neck dance that captivates audiences. Commentary buzzes with their rivalry, the sheer brilliance of their driving, the inevitability of one of them lifting the World Driver’s Championship. You watch Lando execute a daring overtake on Charles in Baku, cool and precise, and feel a pang that’s equal parts admiration and fierce, burning envy. Then you see Oscar hold off a charging Max in Austin, ice flowing in his veins, and the phantom feel of champagne spray prickles your skin.

And then there’s the Sauber. Your car. Now Gabriel Bortoleto’s. It’s a carousel of disaster. Race after race, the highlights reel is a grim montage of green-and-black misfortune. He spun out in Monza, clipping the barrier at Variante Ascari on lap three. Tangled with George’s Mercedes in Singapore, retiring with a broken suspension. In São Paulo, an engine fire engulfs the car on the formation lap, a plume of oily smoke marking another DNF. When he does finish, it’s invariably at the back: P18, P19, sometimes the lonely P20, lapped and struggling.

Commentary’s tone shifts from hopeful analysis to weary, defeated resignation.

"Another tough outing for Bortoleto and Sauber—"

"The C45 just doesn’t seem to suit the rookie—"

"Sauber now mathematically certain to finish last in the Constructors'— a bitter pill for the soon to be Audi."

Each failure, each DNF, each bottom-place finish is another spark thrown onto the kindling of your resolve. The fire burns hotter, brighter. It’s not just the podium you almost had; it’s the sheer indignity of seeing your seat, your car, become a laughingstock. Bortoleto’s struggles scream opportunity. Qatar. Abu Dhabi. The final two races.

The car may be utter shit, and the team’s morale at rock bottom, but you could wring something more from it. You know you could. Just two races. To finish the story Spa brutally interrupted. To prove, if only to yourself, that the fire hadn’t been extinguished, merely banked. It’s a blazing ambition best kept hidden. A secret smothered beneath Gaeul’s loving care. You smile through shared meals, listen to her talk about IVE’s preparations for MAMA, her voice animated about choreography and stage concepts. You even watch their rehearsal footage on her laptop, the girls—Yujin’s commanding presence, Rei’s quirky energy, Leeseo’s youthful spark, Liz’s vocal power, Wonyoung’s ethereal grace—moving in perfect, dazzling synchronicity. You murmur showers of praise, but your mind is elsewhere. Calculating recovery timelines. Mentally mapping the Lusail International Circuit. Imagining the feel of Abu Dhabi’s twilight track under fresh tires.

The dissonance grows unbearable. Her tenderness feels like a prison. Those watchful eyes, once a comfort, now feel like searchlights probing for the rebellion she surely suspects.

—————

The breaking point comes after a particularly grueling physio session. You’d pushed too hard on the shoulder rehab, a sharp, electric pain lancing down your arm as you attempted a weight overhead. You’d hidden the worst of the wince, but Gaeul sees everything. Later, as she kneels before you on the living room rug, gently kneading the tight muscles around your rebuilt ankle, the silence becomes thick, charged.

"You were grimacing earlier," she states, her fingers pausing their work. She doesn’t look up. "During the shoulder presses. You pushed past the limit again."

"It’s fine," you mutter, shifting slightly. "Just stiff."

"It’s not fine." Her head snaps up, her eyes locking onto yours. The calm observer is gone, replaced by a storm of worry and burgeoning frustration. "It’s never just stiff with you anymore. You’re pushing too hard. For what? The doctor said gradual. Not—not whatever superhuman feat you’re trying to pull off."

Her gaze flicks meaningfully towards the garage door. "You spend hours in there. On that simulator. Like you’re—rehearsing."

The accusation hangs in the air. The secret is out: not in words, but in the fear radiating from her.

"Qatar," you say, the word dropping into the tense silence like a stone. There’s no point in hiding it any longer. "And Abu Dhabi."

Gaeul freezes. Her hands freeze on your ankle. The color drains from her face, leaving her pale as parchment.

"What?" The word is a breathless whisper.

"I want to race. The final two," you state, steady and resolute, fueled by months of pent-up determination. "Bortoleto’s a disaster. The car’s there. I’m—I’m ready. Or I will be."

"Ready?" The word explodes from her, laced with incredulous horror. She scrambles to her feet, towering over you where you sit, her usual composure utterly shattered. "Ready for what? To get back in that metal coffin? To tempt fate again? After what it did to you?"

Her voice trembles with a terrifying blend of fury and terror. "Look at you! Look at what’s left! You think months of playing hero in the garage erases that?" She gestures at your tattered body: the subtle stiffness, the hidden scars. "You almost died, you fucking idiot! You left me staring at machines keeping you alive! And for what? A pointless lunge for glory that ended in fire and broken bones!"

"It wasn’t pointless!" You surge to your feet, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your ankle, but you ignore it, meeting her head-on. "It was this close, Gaeul! Podium! My first! And Gaby—he’s young, but he’s making a mockery of the seat! The team’s dead last! I can’t just sit here watching it rot!"

"So what?" she screams, tears springing to her eyes, her fists clenched at her sides. "So what if they’re last? So what if Bortoleto crashes every week? Is that worth your life? Is a stupid trophy worth leaving me alone?" Her plea grows raw and desperate. "There’s a reason you’re still here! A reason you survived that—that wreck! And it’s not racing! It’s this!" She motions between you, encompassing the home, the care, the fragile life she’s helped meticulously rebuilt. "It’s us! Or have you forgotten that part already? Forgotten the nights I sat by your bed, praying? Forgotten the pain? Forgotten me?"

"I haven’t forgotten!" you retort, the frustration boiling over. "But this is who I am! It’s not just a job, it’s—it’s in my blood! That fire, that need to push, to finish what I started—you can’t just ask me to bury that!"

"Bury it?" She lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, tears streaming freely now. "I’m asking you to live! To choose life! With me! Not death wrapped in carbon fiber! Is that really so impossible to understand? Or is the roar of an engine really more important than—than this?" Her cadence falls to a broken whisper, the anger momentarily swallowed by profound hurt. "Than me?"

Her raw vulnerability hits you like a sharp blow, cutting through the blinding recklessness. The image flashes: Gaeul, pale and trembling in the hospital chair, the sheer terror in her eyes when you woke. The months of unwavering care. The love in every gentle touch, every carefully prepared meal. The guilt is sudden, cold, and suffocating. But beneath it, the stubborn ember of a maverick racer still glows.

"I have to try," you say, purposefully low, strained. "I have to know if I can still do it. Just two races. To finish the story."

"Finish the story?" she echoes, hollow, all fight draining away, replaced by a profound, chilling disappointment. Staring at you, her eyes search yours, finding only a stubborn, unyielding resolve. The tenderness is gone, replaced by a bleak emptiness. "Fine. But remember—you’re not Cody Rhodes."

The concession is flat, degrading, final.

"Go on. Finish your story. Drive your heart out. Chase your precious podium. But don’t expect me to watch." She takes a step back, then another, her movements jerky. "I can’t—I won’t stand by and watch you throw away the second chance you were given. Not for glory. Not for anything."

"Gaeul, wait—" You reach out, but she flinches away as if burned.

"No." She’s quiet, terrifyingly calm now. "I need—I need space. From this. From you.”

She turns, walks towards the door with stiff, deliberate steps.

She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t slam the door. It closes with a soft, definitive click that echoes in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room.

You stand alone amidst the dying remnants of the argument, furious energy evaporating, leaving only the familiar ache in your bones and a far deeper, colder ache in your chest. The fire of your resolve still burns, but now it’s ringed by the ashes of her words.

Selfish idiot. Worth your life? Throw away your second chance.

Blurs of Spa replay once more: the near-podium, the devastating crash. The picture of Gaeul’s devastated face as she walked out. The reckless drive to race feels suddenly hollow, tinged with a sullen, heavy guilt.

You sink back onto the sofa, the silence of the house a crushing weight, the roar of imagined engines replaced by the deafening echo of that closing door. The path forward, once fueled with defiant purpose, now feels shrouded in doubt.

—————

The roar of the vast Hong Kong crowd vibrates through the very bones of Kai Tak Stadium. A physical pressure wave that hits you the moment you slip through the secure backstage entrance. It’s a stark, almost utter contrast to the sterile, homely silence you’ve inhabited for months. Neon strobes slash through the dim backstage corridors, catching on sequined costumes and anxious staff. The air crackles with adrenaline, sweat, and hairspray. Moving through the controlled chaos, you’re a ghost in plain clothes, navigating by memory and booming bass shaking the floor.

You find a sliver of space near the wings, hidden by a towering lighting rig. On stage, IVE is pure, incandescent fire. The complex choreography for their latest hit unfolds with razor-sharp precision, a kaleidoscope of color and synchronized power. Yujin commands the center with fierce charisma, Liz and Leeseo flanking her dance break with explosive energy. Rei’s quirky charm translates into dynamic moves, while Wonyoung moves with an ethereal grace that seems to defy gravity.

And then there’s Gaeul. Your breath catches. She’s radiant.

Every movement is sharp, confident, utterly focused. The Gaeul who massaged your scars and watched you with terrified eyes is absent, replaced by the consummate idol, owning her space under the blinding lights. There’s no trace of the devastation you caused—only sheer, polished brilliance. The performance crescendos in a final, breathtaking formation, met by a deafening wall of screams that shakes the stadium.

Time becomes a blur of waiting in the pulsating dark. Announcements boom. Awards are given. The tension backstage is a living thing, thick with anticipation and exhaustion. Then it happens.

The actor’s voice echoes, amplified: “—and the Song of the Year Daesang goes to—IVE!”

The shriek that erupts from the star-studded artist area is pure, unadulterated joy. You watch from the shadows as they surge forward, a whirlwind of shimmering fabric and tear-streaked smiles, clutching each other’s hands as they ascend the stage to accept the highest honor.

Their acceptance speeches are a flurry of gratitude, breathless and effervescent. Gaeul, holding the heavy trophy alongside Yujin, smiles—a genuine, effervescent beam that lights up her face—but her eyes, scanning the adoring crowd, hold a depth that wasn’t there during the performance. A flicker of something else. Something quieter beneath the triumph.

Back in the relative sanctuary of their dedicated dressing room, the atmosphere is electric chaos. Champagne corks pop. Staff buzz around, offering congratulations and managing logistics. The members are buzzing, laughing, replaying core moments, their Daesang trophy gleaming on a central table. Leeseo is twirling. Liz is mock-scolding Rei for almost spilling her drink. Yujin is radiating proud calm. Wonyoung is meticulously adjusting a strand of hair in a mirror, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips.

Gaeul stands slightly apart near a refreshment table, holding a flute of untouched champagne, watching her members with a soft, affectionate smile that doesn’t quite reach the slight tension in her shoulders. The performer’s mask is down, revealing the woman beneath: proud, happy, but carrying an invisible weight.

You step out of the deeper shadows near the door. The shift is instantaneous.

Rei, mid-laugh while hugging her giant panda plushie (a relic from your home, brought for good luck), spots you first. Her eyes widen comically. “Oppa?!”

The single word cuts through the celebratory noise. Heads snap in your direction. Conversations die. Jiwon’s hand flies to her mouth. Hyunseo stops twirling. Yujin’s eyes narrow slightly, assessing. Wonyoung turns from the mirror, her expression unreadable but intensely observant.

Gaeul freezes. The champagne flute dips precariously in her hand. Softness vanishes from her face, replaced by sheer, unvarnished shock that quickly hardens into wariness. Her knuckles whiten around the stem of the glass. The warmth in the room chills by several degrees, the unspoken history—the hospital, the fight, the closed door—hanging thick and heavy.

“Surprise,” you say, feeling utterly exposed under the collective gaze, especially hers. You take a hesitant step further into the light. “Congratulations. That—that was incredible. The Daesang—so well deserved.”

Silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. It’s Jiwon who breaks it, ever the warm heart. She steps forward, a tentative smile replacing her shock. “Oppa! You’re here! How—?”

She glances nervously at Gaeul, then back at you.

“Caught a flight,” you shrug, the movement sending a familiar twinge through your shoulder. Your eyes never leave Gaeul. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. Her gaze is a physical pressure. “Had to be here. For this.”

Yujin steps forward, her leadership instincts kicking in, sensing the brewing undercurrents. She’s calm, diplomatic. “It’s good to see you. Are you—recovering well?”

Her eyes flick meaningfully over you, taking in the residual stiffness you can’t hide.

Before you can answer, Gaeul finally speaks. Low, controlled, but vibrating with an intensity that silences the room again. “Why are you here?”

No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just the raw, direct question you knew was coming.

You take a deep breath, the scent of champagne and hairspray suddenly cloying. The carefully rehearsed script in your head dissolves. All that remains is the messy, uncomfortable truth.

“Because I was wrong,” you say, the admission scraping your throat raw. “Because I’m a selfish idiot. Because I took it too far—way too fucking far—trying to push myself back into that seat before I was ready, before—” You falter, your gaze dropping for a second before forcing it back up to meet hers. The anger, the fear you saw in the hospital, the profound disappointment when she walked out—it’s all still there, swirling in her dark eyes. “Before considering what it would do to you. Again.”

A muscle ticks in Gaeul’s jaw. “Too far?” she echoes, gaining an edge. “Trying to push? Is that what you call it? You were ready to throw away everything—everything we rebuilt—for two races. After everything.” She takes a step towards you, the untouched champagne forgotten. “You took recklessness to a whole new level. Again.”

The dressing room is utterly still. Rei clutches her panda tighter. Hyunseo splits wide-eyed glances between you and Gaeul. Jiwon bites her lip. Wonyoung’s expression remains carefully neutral, yet her gaze sharp. Yujin watches, her posture protective near her member, ready to step in when necessary.

“I know,” you whisper, the guilt a cold stone in your gut. “I know, Gaeul. And I didn’t go.”

The reply hangs in the air. Gaeul’s fierce expression flickers, replaced by pure, stunned confusion. “What?”

“Qatar,” you clarify, gaining a sliver of strength. “I never got on the plane. I packed. I went to the airport. Sat at the gate. Watched the cars—on the screen.” The memory is vivid: the roar of engines from the TV in the departure lounge, the pull so strong it felt like a physical ache. “All I could see was your face. That night—when you walked out. The look in your eyes. I knew I couldn’t do it. So I turned around. Came back. Spent the weekend—here. Planning how to crash your party, I guess.”

You attempt a weak smile that doesn’t quite land.

Gaeul stares at you, the confusion warring with the residual anger and a dawning, hesitant flicker of something else—relief. Understanding. Her posture softens infinitesimally, the rigid defensiveness easing. “You—didn’t go?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Couldn’t. Not like that. Not without—”

You take another step closer, closing the distance. The members are silent witnesses, the celebration momentarily suspended. “Abu Dhabi is next week. The season finale. I still want to race it. I need to—to close that chapter. For me. But I won’t. I swear to you, Gaeul, I won’t set foot in that paddock unless you tell me I can.”

Holding her gaze, you lay yourself bare. “You were right. It’s not worth losing this. Losing you. Not for any podium in the world. I don’t care anymore. As long as I have you. It’s your call.”

Silence stretches. Loud music thumping from the stage feels worlds away. Gaeul searches your face, her eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion, the lingering shadows of pain, the earnest desperation in your expression. The fierce protector, the terrified lover, the proud partner—they all quarrel within her gaze. Finally, a sigh escapes her, long and shuddering, releasing some of the tension coiled inside her. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, weary but genuine.

“Stupid,” she murmurs, lacking its former bite, softened by an undeniable warmth. “Reckless. Selfish. All of those things.” She takes the final step, closing the gap completely. Her hand lifts, not to strike, but to gently cup your cheek. Her touch is cool against your flushed skin, a grounding counterpoint to the storm inside you. “But you’re mine. And I know that fire. I saw it when you woke up in that hospital, even when you couldn’t remember your own name. I can’t—I can’t hold you back from what’s in your blood. Not truly.”

Gaeul’s thumb strokes your cheekbone. “So yes. Go race Abu Dhabi. Finish your story.” Her gaze intensifies, holding yours with zealous love and a lingering trace of dread. “But you come back to me. In one piece. Not just alive—whole. Promise me.”

The wave of relief and gratitude that crashes over you is so profound it nearly buckles your knees. You cover her hand on your cheek with yours, leaning into her touch. “I promise,” you rasp, thick with emotion. “I will come back to you. Whole.”

A collective, subtle release of breath seems to go through the other members. Rei beams, giving her panda a happy squeeze. Jiwon lets out a quiet, relieved sigh, smiling brightly. Hyunseo bounces on her toes, the tension broken. Wonyoung offers a small, knowing nod. Yujin clears her throat, subtly breathing a sigh of relief, a soft smile finally touching her lips.

“Well,” Yujin says, warm but carrying a hint of gentle command. She picks up the Daesang. “This calls for proper celebration. We should find the managers, see about that after-party reservation—” She glances meaningfully at Gaeul, then at you, her smile turning slightly mischievous. “Leeseo, Rei, Liz—help me track down the coordinators. Wonyoung?”

Wonyoung, ever perceptive, simply inclines her head, her regal posture unwavering. “Of course, baby.”

Rei giggles, nudging Leeseo. “Come on, let’s go find the fancy champagne. The really fancy stuff!”

Liz loops her arm through Leeseo’s, steering her towards the door with a final, encouraging smile in your and Gaeul’s direction.

Within moments, the dressing room vacates, the buzz of celebration moving elsewhere, leaving you and Gaeul in a sudden, intimate quiet. The only sounds are your breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the distant stage. Tension of the confrontation melts, replaced by a different kind of electricity. Gaeul’s hand is still on your cheek. Your hand covers hers. The space between you hums.

Gaeul’s eyes, no longer wary or angry, search yours. Seeing the exhaustion, the lingering pain, the raw vulnerability, and the fierce determination beneath. Her gaze drops to your lips, then back up, a slow, warm blush spreading across her cheeks. Faint scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive—mixes with the lingering champagne and the adrenaline of the performance. The low neckline of her stage costume glitters under the dressing room lights, drawing your eye to the smooth line of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse you can see just beneath her jaw.

“They think we need the room,” she murmurs, husky now, a world away from its earlier sharpness. Her other hand comes up, fingers lightly tracing the tense line of your jaw, then drifting down to rest against the pulse hammering in your neck. Her touch is deliberate, exploratory, reigniting embers that had been banked by pain and conflict.

“They might be onto something,” you manage, your own cadence rough.

The months of enforced distance—the fear, the anger, the relief of this fragile reconciliation—it all coalesces into a sudden, overwhelming need.

Your free hand finds her waist, the sequined fabric cool and slick under your fingertips. Pulling her gently, irresistibly closer, until your bodies are almost touching. The heat radiating from her is intoxicating. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest against yours. The roar of the crowd is replaced by the roaring of your own blood. Her lips part slightly, an unspoken invitation, her eyes darkening with an answering hunger that mirrors your own.

The chaos of MAMA fades away, leaving only the quiet room, the shared warmth, and the promise of a much different kind of reunion, long overdue and desperately needed.

The hotel key card in your pocket suddenly feels heavy with possibility.

—————

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the distant thrum of MAMA, the muffled bass from distant parties, and the lingering scent of hairspray and adrenaline. Silence descends, thick and charged, broken only by the frantic hammering of your own heart against your ribs and the soft, quick breaths escaping Gaeul’s parted lips. The luxurious space feels suddenly small, intimate, charged with the electric current of months of repressed longing, fear, anger, and now, this fragile, desperate reconciliation.

For a heartbeat, you simply stare at each other across the plush carpet. The shimmering residue of her stage makeup catches the soft light from the bedside lamp, highlighting the high curve of her cheekbones, the slight tremble in her bottom lip. Her eyes, reflecting the city lights bleeding through the sheer curtains, hold yours with an intensity that steals your breath. There’s no wariness left, no residual anger. Only a raw, naked hunger that mirrors the fire scorching through your own veins.

It’s not a gentle merging; it’s a collision.

You meet in the center of the room, a tangle of desperate limbs and seeking mouths. Your lips crash against hers with a force born from months of separation and stifled need.

Hers yield instantly, opening with a soft gasp that vibrates against your tongue. The kiss is deep, bruising. A frantic reclamation. Her hands fly to your face, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, impossibly closer. Your own arms lock around her waist, hauling her flush against you, the sequined fabric of her stage outfit cool and slick beneath your palms, the heat of her body beneath it radiating like a healthy furnace.

The taste of her is intoxicating: champagne, a hint of her signature floral perfume, and something uniquely, addictively Gaeul. Your hands slide down her back, tracing the delicate ridge of her spine through the thin material, feeling her powerful dancer muscles coil and release. Hers are equally restless, roaming over your shoulders, down your chest, nails scraping lightly through the fabric of your shirt, sending shivers down your spine.

The months of physio, the careful rebuilding—it all evaporates under the sheer, overwhelming need to feel her. All of her.

Clothing becomes an enemy. Fingers fumble with stubborn clasps and zippers. Breathless curses mingle with hungry moans against each other’s skin. You push the glittering straps of her outfit off her shoulders, the delicate fabric tearing slightly in your haste, a small casualty lost to urgency. It pools around her waist before you shove it lower, revealing the smooth, pale expanse of her back, the graceful curve leading down to the swell of her hips.

Gaeul arches into your touch as your lips leave her mouth to blaze a trail down her jaw, her neck, finding the frantic pulse point hammering beneath her skin. You gnaw on her flesh, gently at first, then harder, marking her, claiming her anew. A low whine escapes her throat, her head tipping back to grant you better access.

Her own hands are frantic at your buttons, pushing your shirt open, her cool palms sliding over your chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the faint ridges of scars left by Spa—a reminder of the chasm you’d crossed to get back here. Her touch is both worship and possession. Pushing the shirt off your shoulders, it falls forgotten. Your belt buckle clatters to the floor, followed by the rustle of trousers being shoved down your legs. Her stage outfit follows. A shimmering cascade of discarded glamour, kicked away impatiently.

Underneath, simple lace. Dark against her moon-pale skin. A final barrier quickly breached.

Then, it’s skin on skin. The shock of it is electric, grounding and dizzying all at once.

The cool air of the room meets the blazing heat radiating from your bodies. You pull Gaeul against you, every curve and plane fitting together with a familiarity that aches, the months apart dissolving in sheer perfection of contact. Her breasts press against your chest, hardened peaks scraping your skin. Her thighs bracket yours, the softness yielding against the hard muscle of your legs. She feels like heaven, like home rediscovered after a long, perilous journey. A groan tears from your throat, deep and guttural, echoed by a sigh from her that’s half relief, half desperate want.

Driven by a need too primal to articulate, you guide her backwards, slightly stumbling in your haste, until her back meets the cool expanse of the bedroom wall. The impact draws a gasp from her lips, instantly swallowed by your renewed kiss: deeper, more demanding. Your hands roam freely now, mapping the familiar territory of her bare body with possessive intensity. One hand cups the perfect swell of her ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle, lifting her slightly, grinding the hard length of your cock against the soft heat at the apex of her thighs. She cries out against your mouth, her hips rocking instinctively, seeking friction.

Your other hand finds her breast, filling your palm, thumb sweeping roughly over the taut peak. She gasps, arching her back, pushing herself more firmly into your touch.

“Yes,” she hisses, the sound vibrating against your lips. Her nails rake down your back, not gently, leaving fiery trails that speak of possession, of marking you as hers just as you’ve marked her neck. The slight sting blends perfectly with the overwhelming pleasure, a counterpoint that only elevates the intensity.

The wall provides leverage. You kiss her with a devouring hunger, your tongue tangling with hers, tasting her desperation. Your hand leaves her breast, sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, tracing the indent of her navel, slipping lower, through the soft curls, finding the slick, molten heat waiting beneath. Gaeul jerks against the wall as your fingers brush her clit.

A high, keening sound escapes her lips. She’s drenched, swollen, impossibly ready.

You slide a finger inside her, then another, curling them expertly, finding the spot that makes her thighs clamp around your hand, her head thudding back against the wall with a soft moan.

“Fuck—you’re so—” she pants, her eyes squeezed shut, caught in the sensations. “Don’t stop— please—”

But you do stop. Gently withdrawing your fingers, you relish the frustrated whimper it draws from her. You need more. You need all of her.

Breaking the kiss, you trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, over the burgeoning bruises you’ve left, across the delicate ridge of her collarbone. Sinking lower, your hands replace your mouth on her breasts, squeezing, kneading. Thumbs circle her nipples with firm pressure that makes her gasp and writhe against the wall. You lavish attention on each tit, sucking one hardened bud deep into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, then grazing it lightly with your teeth before moving to the other. She’s a panting, whimpering mess above you, her fingers clenched in your hair, guiding, urging, her hips grinding helplessly against air.

Leaving her breasts glistening, you continue your descent. Your lips blaze a trail down the center of her stomach, tracing the subtle muscles, dipping into her navel, tasting the salt of her skin. Her abdomen tenses beneath your mouth, a tremor running through her. Hooking your hands under her thighs, you lift her slightly higher against the wall. Her breath hitches, anticipation coiling tight in the silence.

Then, you bury your face between her legs.

The scent of her arousal is intoxicating, musky and sweet, uniquely her. Groaning against her heat, the vibration draws a sharp cry from her lips. Your tongue finds her slick folds, lapping slowly, deliberately, from the sensitive entrance upwards to the swollen bud of her clit.

She jerks violently, a choked sob escaping her. “Oh God—”

This is worship. Penance. Desperate adoration.

You flatten your tongue against her, delivering broad strokes that make her thighs quiver around your head. Circling her clit with the tip of your tongue, teasingly light at first, then firmer, faster. You suck gently on the engorged nub, swirling pressure that has her crying out, her hands fisting in your hair almost painfully. Delving lower, tasting her deeply, thrusting your tongue inside her heat, savoring her nectar, the way her inner muscles flutter and clench around the intrusion.

Muffled sounds escape you, lost against her skin: groans of pleasure, low hums of approval. “So sweet,” you mumble, the words vibrating against her slick flesh, making her gasp. “Taste perfect—missed this— missed you—so much—”

Your praise is fragmented, raw, punctuated by the wet sounds of your hungry tongue.

Her responses are a symphony of pleasure and mounting tension. Guttural moans rip from her throat, punctuated by sharp gasps and breathless curses. “Fuck—right there—don’t stop—please—”

Her hips buck against your mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. She grinds down onto your tongue, her movements becoming frantic and uncontrolled. Tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter within her, a palpable force radiating from her core. Her thighs clamp around your head, her back arches impossibly off the wall, held only by your grip and the pressure of your mouth.

You feel it coming: the tremors starting deep inside, the flutter against your tongue becoming frantic, the sharp, ragged edge to her breathing. Redoubling your efforts, focusing relentless pressure on her clit, sucking firmly, your fingers dig into the supple flesh of her ass, holding her open, holding her there. Like’s high art on the bedroom wall.

With a cry that’s half sob, half scream, she shatters.

Convulsing against the wall, her body is held together by your strength. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her, violent and all-consuming. Her inner walls clench rhythmically around your tongue, her slickness flooding over your chin. Her thighs tremble violently, her cries dissolving into wordless, gasping moans as the tremors wrack her. You hold her through it all, gentling your touch but not stopping, drawing out every last shuddering pulse of her climax until she sags, boneless and gasping, held up solely by your arms.

Slowly, carefully, you lower her trembling legs. Rising from your knees, your own body thrums with arousal, your face glistening full with her juices. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused. Her lips swollen, her chest heaving.

She looks utterly ravished, beautifully wrecked. A slow, dazed smile touches her lips as her eyes focus on yours.

Wordlessly, she reaches for you, pulling your mouth to hers in a deep, languid kiss. Tasting herself on your lips, she moans softly into your mouth. “Damn. I taste good.”

“Right,” you mumble, suppressing a faint chuckle.

Gently disentangling, you scoop Gaeul up into your arms. A renewed surge of strength fueled by adrenaline and desire. She feels light, pliant, wrapping her arms around your neck, nuzzling into your shoulder. You carry her the few steps to the vast bed, lowering her onto the cool, crisp sheets. The city lights paint shifting patterns across her skin as she sinks into the mattress, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, dark with renewed passion.

You shed the last of your own clothes quickly, your gaze never departing hers. The sight of her sprawled naked across the bed, marked by your mouth, flushed with bodily pleasure, her eyes reflecting the hunger still burning within her, is almost more than you can bear. You join her, sliding onto the bed beside her, your body covering hers, skin sliding against heated skin.

The kisses start again: slower now, deeper, more exploratory. A rediscovery.

Your hands roam over her body, relearning every curve, every dip, every scar and freckle. You kiss the bruises blooming on her neck, her collarbones, whispering apologies and promises against her skin. Her hands are equally as busy, mapping the planes of your back, your chest, drifting lower to wrap around the hard length of your cock, stroking you with firm, knowing pressure that makes your hips jerk involuntarily.

“Need you baby,” she breathes against your lips, her voice husky, totalled. “Need you inside. Now.”

The raw need in her voice is your undoing. You reach between your bodies, guiding yourself to her slick entrance. The first press is electric, a shock of heat and tightness that steals your breath. Pushing slowly, inch by torturous inch, watching her face, the way her eyes flutter shut, her lips part on a silent gasp. She’s incredibly tight, still pulsing faintly from her earlier climax, her inner muscles gripping you like a velvet fist. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect, agonizing friction.

“Fuck, Gaeul,” you groan, burying your face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse beneath your lips. “So tight—so perfect—”

She wraps her toned legs around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back, urging you deeper. “All of you,” she demands, her voice thick. “Give me all of you.”

You sink the final inch, hilting yourself completely within her, a groan tearing from both your throats in unison. The feeling of being sheathed inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, after so long apart, is transcendent. You stay buried for a moment, simply taking in the connection, the frantic beating of her heart against your chest, the slight tremors still running through her. Her walls flutter around you, adjusting, flexing, welcoming.

Then, you begin to move.

Slowly at first, shallow thrusts that draw soft whimpers from her lips. You lift your head, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her sounds. The pace builds gradually, a steady rhythm established. The slide is exquisite, slick and hot, each withdrawal an ache, each stroke a shot of pure pleasure that arcs through your core. Her nails find your back again, scoring fresh lines alongside the fading marks, the sting a perfect parallel to the deep, lingering pressure within you.

She meets your thrusts, arching her hips off the bed, taking you deeper, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around your cock. “Missed this,” she gasps against your mouth, breaking the kiss to pant. “Missed you—inside me—filling me—” The words are fragmented, lost in moans. “So deep—feels so—so good—”

You shift slightly, angling your hips, seeking that spot you know drives her wild. The next deep thrust draws a sharp, broken cry from her, her eyes flying open wide.

“There! Oh fuck—right there—” Her head thrashes on the pillow, her back arching sharply. “Don’t stop—please—like that—just like that—”

Focusing your thrusts, hitting that perfect angle with relentless precision. The room fills with the raw, pornographic sounds of your bodies coming together: the slick slap of skin on skin, your ragged breaths, her escalating cries—guttural moans, sharp gasps, breathless pleas. She’s unraveling beneath you again, the tension coiling tighter, faster this time. Her legs coil around you like a vise, her heels urging you to go deeper. Harder. Her hands scramble over your back, on your shoulders, before finally tangling in your hair again, pulling your head down.

“Kiss me,” Gaeul demands, driven wild with ecstasy, “Please—kiss me—”

You crush your lips on hers, swallowing her cries as you drive into her with increasing, unforgiving force. The bed creaks beneath in protest. The world narrows to the feel of her cunt, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her vocalized pleasure, the blinding white-hot pressure building at the base of your spine, threatening to detonate at any given moment.

“Gaeul—” you gasp against her lips, your thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. “Can’t—can’t hold—gonna—“

“Yes!” she cries out, tearing her mouth from yours. Her eyes blaze into yours, dark and wild, holding your gaze with fierce intensity. “Do it. Let go. Give it to me—cum inside me—fill me up—please—”

Her words, her desperate plea, the sheer overwhelming sensation of her cunt tightening around you like a silken fist—it shatters your control.

A guttural cry rips through your lungs as you plunge deep, burying yourself to the hilt, and erupt. Pent-up want explodes, white-hot and blinding, surging through you in pulsing waves that leave you shuddering, gasping, and utterly spent. You feel her orgasm meet yours, triggered by the thumping heat flooding her core. Her body arches violently off the bed, a long, wordless cry ripped from her throat as she convulses around you, milking every last drop of your release.

Shot after shot, unloading into her creamy cunt, feeling every violent throb, twitch, and pulse of your cock, and her wanton pussy beg for more. You give it to her. Each and every load.

You collapse onto her, crushing her into the mattress, your forehead pressed to hers, gasping for air, trembling from the sheer force of your shared climax. Her arms wrap around you, holding you close, her own body trembling beneath yours. The only sounds are your ragged breaths mingling, the frantic hammering of your hearts slowly beginning to slow, and the faint, distant beat of the city outside.

Slowly, carefully, you roll off, pulling her with you so she ends up sprawled half on top of you, her head nestled on your chest. Your arms wrap around her, holding her close, your fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns on the sweat-slicked skin of her back. Her leg is thrown over yours, her hand resting possessively over your still-thumping heart.

The silence now is profound and serene, filled only with the shared warmth and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure humming through your bodies. The frantic energy, the desperate need, has burned itself out, leaving behind a deep, satisfying exhaustion and a profound sense of reconnection.

You tilt your head, looking down at Gaeul. Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes fanning against her flushed cheeks. Her lips are slightly swollen, curved in a small, utterly contented smile. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on her skin. She looks utterly shattered, beautifully claimed, and completely at peace.

You brush a stray strand of dark hair, damp with sweat, away from her forehead. The tender gesture makes her eyes flutter open. She looks up at you, her gaze soft, hazy with satisfaction, but clear. Clear of the fear, the anger, the worry that had shadowed them for so long. There’s only warmth, trust, and a deep, abiding love that takes your breath away all over again.

“Hey,” you murmur, roughed up but tender.

“Hey,” she whispers back, a husky rasp. Nuzzling closer, she presses a soft kiss against the skin over your heart. “Welcome back.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, mirroring hers. You tighten your arms around Gaeul, pulling her even closer, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, the unique scent of her mingled with the lingering traces of sex and sweat.

“Never really left,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Just took the scenic route.”

She chuckles softly, the sound a warm vibration against your chest. “Scenic route involving a lot of walls and hospital beds.”

“Worth it,” you say simply, your fingers tracing the line of her spine again. “To end up here. With you. Like this.”

She lifts her head slightly, meeting your eyes again. Her hand comes up, her fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips. “Abu Dhabi,” she says softly, the fear fading, replaced by a quiet understanding.

“Abu Dhabi,” you confirm, holding her gaze. “I’ll come back. Whole. Promise.”

Gaeul searches your eyes for a long moment, then nods slowly, a tiny, accepting smile touching her lips. She leans up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss. It’s tender, unhurried, a silent affirmation. “I know you will,” she whispers against your mouth. “Just—make it a less scenic route back, okay?”

You smile into the kiss. “Deal.”

She settles back down against your chest with a content sigh, her body relaxing completely against yours. The silence wraps around you again, incredibly warm and safe. City lights continue their silent dance on the ceiling. The distant thrum of the outside world and the challenge to come is a lullaby. Here, tangled in the sheets, skin to skin, heart to heart, the only victory that matters is this one. The long, painful journey from almost to here.

Together.

The roar of engines, the pressure of the podium, the unfinished story—they’re still there. Waiting. But for now, in this quiet afterglow, there’s only peace and warmth, a profound sense of being exactly where you belong.

Home.

—————

The desert night at Yas Marina isn’t silent. It thrums. A deep, resonant pulse beneath the shimmering heat haze rising off the tarmac even after sunset—the collective heartbeat of twenty power units whispering threats inside their carbon cocoons. Floodlights carve islands of harsh white brilliance in the inky darkness, turning the circuit into a stage set for the season’s final act. The air hangs thick, tasting of overheated brakes, engine fuel, and the sweet, cloying scent of nearby frangipani blossoms, an incongruous counterpoint to the mechanical brutality about to unfold.

Championship tension crackles like static: Oscar Piastri, cool and focused, holds a fragile points lead over Lando Norris, whose usual playful grin is tempered by steely determination. Victory here for Oscar seals it: his first. For Lando, nothing less than a win will suffice. The narrative is set.

Until you rewrite it.

You move through the paddock’s controlled chaos, a reanimated corpse walking amongst the living. The Kick Sauber team shirt feels both familiar and alien against skin mapped with scars, held together by reformed tissue and titanium resolve. Every step sends a muted protest from your rebuilt ankle; every turn of your head whispers a reminder of the shoulder that still remembers impact. Yet, your stride is deliberate, purposeful, projecting an unnerving calm that cuts through the pre-briefing chatter. Eyes follow you—mechanics, journalists, junior engineers—their expressions a kaleidoscope of disbelief, morbid curiosity, and burgeoning awe.

Headlines scream from every screen:

"Phoenix Rises from Yas Marina Ashes?"

"Medical Miracle or Madness? Sauber's Lazarus Act."

You’re the impossible made flesh, the embodiment of defiance against physics, anatomy, and reason.

The circuit briefing room is a sanctum of focused tension when you push the door open. Team principals huddle over data pads. Engineers murmur into headsets. Drivers lean back in their chairs, some relaxed (Verstappen, already championed out, wanting to go home to his setup), others coiled springs (Oscar and Lando). Jonathan Wheatley, Sauber’s team principal, is mid-sentence about track limits when the room’s collective attention snaps towards the entrance like iron filings to a magnet.

Silence. Not gradual, but absolute. A vacuum sucking the air from the room.

Shock. George Russell’s mug of coffee halts halfway to his lips, frozen. Carlos Sainz’s eyebrows vanish beneath his hairline. Fernando Alonso, the wily veteran, leans forward, eyes narrowing with intense, calculating scrutiny.

Awe. Alex Albon stares, open-mouthed, a flicker of pure admiration breaking through. Charles Leclerc’s usually expressive face is unreadable, but his gaze holds a profound, almost reverent intensity. The other rookies glare with bated breath, their eyes seemingly capturing a ghost for the first time in their lives.

Confusion. Lewis Hamilton’s brow furrows deeply, concern etching lines around his eyes as he takes in your stiff posture, the subtle way you favor your right side. Beside him, his former principal Toto Wolff exchanges a sharp glance with Christian Horner, trying to comprehend what he’s seeing.

Insanity. Max Verstappen’s lips quirk in something that isn’t quite a smile. More a recognition of sheer, audacious lunacy. He gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod—the closest thing to respect from the 4x champion.

Worry. Lando Norris’s playful mask slips entirely, replaced by stark alarm. Oscar Piastri’s focused, gentle calm fractures momentarily, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief.

Nico Hulkenberg, already seated near the front in his Sauber gear, doesn’t just look shocked; he looks physically winded. He half-rises from his chair, a low, guttural sound escaping him.

"Scheiße."

Not of anger, but pure, unadulterated dread.

The FIA briefing officer clears his throat, bewildered. "Ah—Mr. Bortoleto—? We were expecting—"

"Gaby couldn’t make it," you state, cutting through the stunned silence. Calm. Level. Carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. It’s the voice of someone who’s bargained with oblivion and walked away. "Personal reasons. In his place, I’m driving. This weekend."

You step fully into the room, the fluorescent light catching the sharp planes of your face, the focused glint in your eyes that holds no room for doubt. You look less like a man and more like a monument carved from desert rock and sheer willpower. The biggest badass in the room, radiating a quiet, terrifying certainty that death had merely detoured your schedule.

Wheatley finds his cadence, a mix of programmed relief and genuine unease. "We—we are, of course, immensely proud and relieved to welcome our second driver back. His recovery has been—" he searches for the word, impossible given the circumstances, "—extraordinary. FIA medical clearance has been confirmed for participation."

The FIA medical delegate, the man who’d signed your paperwork with palpable reluctance, gives a curt nod, his expression grim. "Provisional clearance stands. Subject to review after each session." The unspoken warning hangs heavy.

Hulk is already moving, striding towards you, bypassing standard procedure. The seasoned veteran, the voice of reason Sauber desperately needed all season, now radiates pure, protective fury. "No," he states, low and fierce, grabbing your good arm just above the elbow. His grip is tight, anchoring. "This is not happening. Not like this. Look at you! You can barely walk without wincing! Yas Marina? The forces? The braking into Turn 1? The long G-load through Turn 11? Your neck isn’t ready! Your ankle isn’t ready! The car is a fucking tractor!" He lowers his modulation, but the intensity vibrates through you. "This isn’t courage. It’s suicide. Be reserve. Advise. But get back in that cockpit? Now? After Spa?"

He shakes his head, a gesture of desperate frustration. "It’s too soon. Too damn dangerous. For you. For everyone on that grid."

You meet his gaze, unwavering. The room holds its breath. Lando looks visibly distressed. Oscar’s jaw is clenched. Charles watches with solemn intensity. Lewis’s expression is of deep trouble. Max leans back in his chair, observing the confrontation like it were a Netflix drama.

"I’m cleared, Hulk," you reply, still calm, but with an underlying steel that refuses argument. "Better than cleared. Ready."

Gently but firmly, you remove his hand from your arm. The movement is deliberate, controlled, showcasing regained strength, yet the slight stiffness is undeniable. "Sense stayed in the barrier at Eau Rouge. I came back to drive." You offer him a ghost of a smile, devoid of warmth, full of unfettered resolve. "Happy to be your wingman again. Now," you turn towards the briefing officer, "let’s hear about those track limits. I need to know where the asphalt ends."

You find an empty chair near the back, right beside a stunned Williams strategist. Sitting down isn’t fluid; it’s a conscious, careful lowering of your body. Yet the defiance radiates from you like furnacing heat.

The ghost hasn’t just returned; it’s also taken a seat at the table.

Hulk stares at you for a long, agonizing moment, conflict warring in his eyes—profound concern battling against a dawning, grudging awe at the sheer, terrifying scale of your resolve. He sinks back into his seat with a heavy sigh, running a frustrated hand over his face.

The briefing resumes, but the atmosphere is forever altered, charged with the electricity of the impossible walking amongst them.

—————

The paddock buzzes like a kicked hornet’s nest. Cameras and microphones swarm you the moment you emerge from the briefing. Questions are shouted, a cacophony of disbelief and morbid fascination:

"Are you in pain?"

"Do you fear another crash?"

"How is this possible?"

“Do you have a death wish?”

You offer terse, confident answers, your aura intensifying under the scrutinizing glare.

Some look at you with reverent wonder. Alex Albon gives you a firm, supportive nod and a quiet "Respect, man."

Others watch with the horrified curiosity of witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. Fernando Alonso intercepts you near the Sauber motorhome. "Only you, amigo," he says, his voice a mix of dry amusement and deep respect. "You’re one crazy son of a bitch. But good luck. You will need it."

George Russell offers a hesitant handshake, his expression deeply troubled. "Blown away, mate. Seriously. Don’t know how you do it. Just—be careful out there, yeah?"

Carlos Sainz claps you on the good shoulder. A firm, comradely thump. "Incredible. Respect."

Lewis Hamilton simply meets your eyes as you pass, his gaze deep and knowing, filled with an aging wisdom that has seen countless battles and even lives lost fought for this sport. He gives a slow, solemn nod. It speaks volumes: respect for the courage, fear for the cost.

Stepping into the Sauber garage is like entering the eye of a storm. The C45 sits under work lights, its green and black livery gleaming, but the atmosphere heavy with apprehension and fragile hope. Engineers greet you with backslaps that feel cautious, their smiles not quite reaching their worried eyes. The car is a tractor: slow, unpredictable, a handful, even with Hulk’s valiant efforts. And you are—a question mark wrapped in fireproofs.

Slipping into the cockpit for FP1 is like reuniting with a toxic lover. The snug embrace of the seat, moulded to a body that’s been broken and remade. The familiar, complex grip of the steering wheel. The overwhelming scent of fuel, hot carbon, and electronics. The belts cinch tight across your chest, a familiar pressure that now presses directly on healing bone. Your physio gives your neck a final, searching squeeze. You nod, pulling the helmet visor down. The world narrows to the cockpit, the track, and the screaming spectres in your muscles.

Yas Marina roars to life. The circuit is more than a track; it’s the final arbiter, a demanding, glittering beast under the floodlights.

Rolling onto the pit straight, the engine note climbs to a shriek. Turn 1 looms: a heavy braking zone from high speed that immediately tests your rebuilt ankle. The sheer force jams it back, a bolt of white-hot protest shooting up your leg. You breathe through it, modulating the pressure. Through the fiddly, technical section around the marina, walls flashing past uncomfortably close.

The car feels numb, unresponsive, heavy in your hands—a stark contrast to the razor-edged machine you danced with before Spa.

Then, the swooping, banked Turns 11-14. The hotel section. This is where Yas Marina bites. Sustained, brutal lateral G-forces press you relentlessly into the side of the cockpit. Your neck muscles, weakened by months of recovery, scream in protest. It feels like an anvil crushing your skull sideways.

You fight to keep your vision centered, your inputs precise. Sweat beads instantly under your helmet. Exiting onto the long back straight, you push, chasing a feel for the limits on hard tires. The car squirms under acceleration, the rear feeling loose and unpredictable.

Coming into the tight chicane complex before the final hairpin, you carry a fraction too much speed. The still cold tires offer less grip than anticipated. You brake, but the rear snaps out viciously. Instinct screams—the faint memory of a thousand slides—and you counter-steer, wrestling the wheel. The correction is violent, wrenching your healing shoulder.

A jolt of agony blinds you for a split second. The car slews sideways, tires shrieking, spewing plumes of acrid blue smoke. You catch it mere inches from the unforgiving Tecpro barriers, the car fishtailing wildly before you gather it up, heart hammering against your ribs like a frantic bird. A long, ugly smear of rubber mars the pristine tarmac where you nearly met the wall.

The radio crackles instantly, your engineer’s call tight with alarm: "Box, box! Are you okay? Report damage!"

You suck in a ragged breath, the taste of adrenaline and burnt rubber sour in your mouth. The pain in your shoulder is a deep, insistent throb. Vulnerability is a cold knife twisting in your gut. Hulk watches from the garage entrance, his expression grimly resigned. The anxious huddle of Sauber engineers observe from the pit wall.

The narrative writes itself: Comeback kid nearly wrecks in first session back!

"I'm okay," you rasp into the mic, forcing steel into your words, pushing down the tremor of pain and near-panic. "No damage. Just—testing limits. Car’s snappy on cold hards."

Understatement of the fucking season.

Guiding the Sauber back to the pits, the slow drive is incredibly humbling. The C45 feels heavy and flawed, an anchor dragging you down. Death’s presence in the cockpit feels less like an inconvenience and more like a looming, inevitable passenger.

Back in the garage, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken tension. Data flickers on screens, confirming the worst: P19. Only Ollie Bearman’s Haas is slower. Humiliation bites deep. Mechanics swarm the car, checking for damage. Hulk approaches, his face etched with concern that borders on rage. He doesn’t speak immediately; he just looks at you, then at the damning timesheet.

"See?" he finally says, low and gravelly. "It’s not just you. The car’s a nightmare. And you—you’re driving hurt. On a track that demands perfection. That snap? That was the car and the rust. Sandpaper on an open wound."

You pull off your helmet, sweat plastering your hair to your skull. The ache is pervasive now: it spikes through your ankle, shoulder, neck, ribs. A dull symphony of protest. But the fire in your core—it’s banked, not extinguished. It simmers beneath the pain and the poor result. You meet Hulk’s worried gaze. The heroic aura is chipped, revealing the raw, unyielding determination beneath. The monument shows some cracks, but it doesn’t crumble.

"Maybe," you concede, rough but steady. "But I know nightmares, Nico. I’ve driven them before." You tap your temple through the balaclava. "Rust scrapes off. Fear fades. The car’s slow," you glance at the timing screen, P19 glaring back like a challenge, "but it’s mine. And it’s racing on Sunday."

You push yourself out of the cockpit, the movement stiff but deliberate. "Get me the data from that snap. Every telemetry trace. And let’s talk setup. We need to find a tenth. Just one. For Qualifying."

Hulk watches you limp towards the engineering station, your back straight despite the clear discomfort. He sighs, a sound heavy with worry and something else—a reluctant, burgeoning respect for the sheer, undeterred scale of your defiance. The refusal to let the almost of Spa or the almost of that spin define the ending.

He mutters under his breath, turning back towards his own car, a flicker of his own competitive fire rekindling.

If the ghost was back, then maybe, just maybe, it could haunt the midfield into submission. Crazy bastard.

Qualifying loomed. Yas Marina waited, indifferent beneath its glittering lights. The final test was coming, and the fire in your eyes promised it wouldn’t be taken lying down.

—————

The desert sun hammers down on Yas Marina, turning the paddock into a shimmering mirage. Yesterday’s near-miss hangs large, a stale reminder, but it’s buried beneath the fierce, focused energy radiating from you as you stride towards the Sauber garage. The stiffness lingers: a constant companion in your ankle, a dull ache in your shoulder, a tightness across your ribs with every deep breath. But it’s background noise now, drowned out by the determination building inside your chest.

Qualifying. The crucible.

Atmosphere in the garage is taut, a mix of lingering anxiety and fragile hope. Hulk gives you a long, appraising look as you pull on your fireproofs. The seasoned skepticism in his eyes hasn't vanished, but it’s tempered by a flicker of something new—a reluctant acknowledgment of the sheer, stubborn force of will standing before him.

"Don't overdo it chasing ghosts," he grunts, adjusting his own gloves. "Points are possible tomorrow. From the back, even. Don't throw it away today chasing—miracles."

You meet his gaze, a feral grin touching your lips beneath the helmet you haven't yet donned. "Miracles are physics we haven't bullied yet, Nico." The defiance is back, sharper, honed by the humiliation of yesterday’s P19. The hero’s aura isn't merely a projection; it feels earned, carved from pain and a bold refusal to give up.

Slipping into the C45's cockpit is less reunion, more reclamation. The belts cinch tight, a familiar vice across your healing torso. The steering wheel feels alive, an extension of arms that remember speed even if the bones protest. The physio’s final tap on your helmet feels less like a warning, more like a benediction.

Go.

Q1. The track is a furnace. The C45 feels marginally better. Setup tweaks overnight scrape away a fraction of its inherent sluggishness, or maybe it’s your own senses sharpening. The pain is immediate: Turn 1’s braking jolts your ankle; the sustained Gs through the hotel section crush your weakened neck muscles, blurring vision at the edges. You wrestle the car, feeling its every lazy understeer tendency, its nervous rear end. Early laps are messy, tentative. Times are mediocre. P15. Danger zone.

Crofty’s voice crackles over the radio feed piping into the garage: "—and the Sauber struggling, as expected. Looks like the comeback might be a bridge too far today—"

You block it out. The torrential rain of Spa was more than weather; it was chaos incarnate. This—this is heat and physics. Manageable.

So you push harder. Lap after lap, the times drop incrementally. You find millimeters on the apexes, carry fractions more speed through the sweeps, brake a heartbeat later. The car protests, but you beat it into submission, forcing compliance through sheer, bloody-minded input. The pain in your neck becomes a white-hot brand. Stubborn tenacity overrides it. The final lap of Q1 is a blur of concentration and controlled aggression.

As you cross the line, the garage erupts. "P12! You're through! Q2!"

Your engineer’s cry is a disbelieving shout. Hulk, watching the timing screen, lets out a low whistle, a genuine smile cracking his usual stoicism for the first time in months. The apprehension in the garage dissolves, replaced by a surge of unfettered, disbelieving energy.

He’s doing it.

Q2 is a different beast. The track evolution is significant. The front-runners: Verstappen, the McLarens, the Ferraris—they’re in a league of their own, setting purples. But the midfield is a knife fight. You feel it click. The rust isn't just scraping off; it's evaporating. Muscle memory floods back, race instinct overriding conscious thought. The C45 still isn't fast, but you wring its neck, finding grip where there shouldn't be any, carrying impossible speed through Yas Marina’s demanding complexes.

You see Max’s Red Bull flash past on an out-lap, a blur of speed. For a split second, your eyes lock through the visors. There’s no nod this time: just a sharp, assessing stare. He sees it. The man who made him flinch in the Spa downpour is stirring, ready to complete unfinished business.

Lap after lap, you climb. P10. P8. P6. Commentary is incredulous. Crofty’s voice cuts through: "Unbelievable! Look at that Sauber! He's extracting something extraordinary from that car! That's not just resilience, that's raw, untamed talent reasserting itself!"

Your final Q2 lap is a masterpiece of controlled aggression. Every input is precise, brutal, efficient. You kiss the curbs, flirt with track limits, dance on the absolute edge of adhesion. The C45 feels alive, singing beautifully beneath your hands. You cross the line. The timing screen flashes.

P1. For Q2.

Silence, exploding into pandemonium. In the Sauber garage, mechanics leap, hugging each other, pounding the pit wall. Hulk stares at the screen, mouth slightly agape, then turns to your car entering the pit lane, raising a fist—not just in solidarity, but in pure, unadulterated awe. "Bloody hell!" he breathes into the radio, a laugh mixed with disbelief.

Crofty loses it: "Incredible! Absolutely incredible! The Sauber on provisional pole for Q2! He’s topped the McLarens! Topped everyone! The comeback kid isn’t just back; he’s flying!"

Oscar, climbing from his McLaren after securing P2 in the session, stares at the timing screen, his usual calm replaced by wide-eyed shock. Lando, P3, shakes his head slowly, a grin spreading beneath his helmet—part disbelief, part genuine admiration. Charles, watching from the Ferrari garage, offers a slow, respectful clap. Albon radios his engineer: "Did you see that Sauber lap? That was insane!"

Even Max, perched near the top of the overall times, glances at the Sauber pit with renewed, wary interest. The Lazarus act just became a resurrection of legendary proportions.

Team morale isn't just high; it's stratospheric. Hope isn't a flicker; it's a wildfire.

—————

The fire is white-hot in your veins. Pain is forgotten, subsumed by the intoxicating shout of potential. For all its flaws, the C45 feels like an extension of your will. You belong here. The podium isn't a dream; it's a tangible target glinting under the Abu Dhabi lights.

The first Q3 run is solid, but conservative. P5. Good, but not stellar. The track is faster now. You know there's more. So much more. There’s the final run. One more shot. Glory.

You push. Harder than before. Harder than Spa. The tires are fresh, the fuel load minimal. The C45 responds, biting into the tarmac. Turn 1. Perfect. The fiddly marina section—razor-sharp. The hotel complex approaches—Turns 11-14. Its sustained, brutal G-forces slam into you, crushing your already screaming neck muscles. Vision tunnels. Fighting through it, teeth gritted, steering inputs precise but demanding every ounce of strength from your battered shoulder.

Exiting Turn 14 onto the back straight, you carry every ounce of speed the car can muster. The rear feels light, skittish on the exit curb. Instinctively you correct, but the movement is sharp, aggravated by the shoulder’s weakness. The car snaps. Not a gentle slide, but a violent, sudden loss of rear grip.

Instinct screams. Counter-steer. But the damaged shoulder betrays you. The input is a fraction slow, a fraction weak. The car whips around. Time slows. The Tecpro barrier at the end of the straight rushes towards you, not sideways like Spa, but head-on. A brutal, unforgiving embrace.

The whole circuit goes deathly silent.

The impact is colossal. A sickening symphony of shattering carbon fiber, screaming metal, and the violent deceleration slamming you against the belts. Your helmet snaps forward, then back. Lights explode behind your eyes. The world dissolves into noise, violence, and a blinding flash of pain that momentarily eclipses everything—shoulder, ankle, neck, ribs—converging into one white-hot supernova of agony.

Sparks fly. Debris scatters across the track. Red flags wave instantly.

Death feels less like an inconvenience and more a sledgehammer blow to the chest. For a terrifying second, there’s only darkness and the ringing in your ears.

Then, the training kicks in. Move. Assess. You wiggle fingers, toes. Nothing broken. The HANS device did its job. The survival cell held. Pain screams from everywhere, a cacophony of protest, but it’s localized. No numbness. No fire. This isn’t Spa anymore.

Track marshals rush to the scene quickly. You wave them off, unbuckling the belts with trembling, painful motions. The cockpit is a mess of shattered carbon. Pushing the halo aside you climb out, every little movement sending fresh jolts of agony through your weakened frame. You stand, leaning heavily against the wrecked monocoque, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The crowd is silent, then erupts in concerned applause.

Wheatley’s the first in your ear, tight with worry that instantly overrides his earlier awe: "Talk to me! Are you okay? Say something!"

You key the mic. A ragged gasp, but otherwise clear as silk. "Yeah. I’m okay. Just—pissed off. Car's toast."

Taking a step away from the wreck, you test your legs. They hold. The defiance, though battered, isn't extinguished. You raise a gloved hand towards the Sauber garage. A grim acknowledgement.

The medical car arrives. You submit to the checks, walking unaided to the ambulance for the mandatory precautionary check-up at the medical centre. The stride is stiff, painful, a stark contrast to the fluid power of your Q2 lap. But you walk. The cameras capture every grimace, every stiff movement, but also the unwavering set of your jaw. The human cost of the audacity is laid bare, yet the spirit remains unbroken.

The session ends under red flags. The final grid crystallizes:

1. VERSTAPPEN (Red Bull)

2. PIASTRI (McLaren)

3. NORRIS (McLaren)

4. LECLERC (Ferrari)

5. RUSSELL (Mercedes)

6. HAMILTON (Ferrari)

7. ALBON (Williams)

8. TSUNODA (Red Bull)

9. ALONSO (Aston Martin)

10. ________ (Kick Sauber)

11. HADJAR (Racing Bulls)

12. SAINZ (Williams)

13. HULKENBERG (Kick Sauber)

14. GASLY (Alpine)

15. ANTONELLI (Mercedes)

16. OCON (Haas)

17. BEARMAN (Haas)

18. STROLL (Aston Martin)

19. COLAPINTO (Alpine)

20. LAWSON (Racing Bulls) (-5 grid penalty)

Back in the Sauber garage, the mood is somber but not utterly shattered. The C45’s wreck is a worrying sight. Hulk finds you after the medical all-clear, your shoulder freshly strapped, movements visibly restricted. He doesn't say I told you so. He simply looks at the grid listing on the screen in bright, taunting color—P10. Ahead of Hadjar. Behind Alonso. His own P13 a stark reminder of the car’s harsh limitations.

"Tenth," he states, flat. "From the wreckage. Could be worse."

He pauses, then meets your eyes. There’s no blame, just a deep, weary understanding. "The ghost is back. Scared the hell out of everyone. Again."

A trace of his own smile touches his lips.

"Rest. That," he nods towards where the wreckage had been, his finger pointed where the dust had settled, "was the easy part. Tomorrow is the war."

You stare at the grid. P10. A monument carved from pain, defiance, and shattered carbon. The podium dream is fractured, but not dead. The fire, though dampened by agony, still burns. Death was tested, but the story isn't finished. The final battle awaits under the desert stars.

—————

Abu Dhabi dawn bleeds into the sky, a slow stain of orange and purple above the Yas Marina circuit. The desert air, usually thick and still, hums with a different energy today—the electric crackle of finality.

For the sporting world, it’s the culmination of a season, a championship duel between Piastri and Norris. But for you, standing alone in the Sauber garage amidst the pre-race frenzy, it feels like standing on the edge of a precipice.

Your life unfurls beyond this track: Gaeul’s warmth, IVE’s whirlwind, ventures born from your improbable recovery. Possibilities shimmer like mirages on the horizon. Yet, the weight of the fireproofs, the scent of fuel, the phantom roar of engines in your mind—they pull you back towards the abyss.

A tremor runs through your hands—not fear of the track, but fear of losing everything beyond it. The ghost of Spa whispers in the stiffness of your shoulder, the dull ache in your rebuilt ankle.

Suddenly, a ripple of unexpected brightness cuts through the garage’s focused gloom. Like exotic birds landing in a steel nest, the IVE members materialize. Rei bounds in first, her eyes wide with excitement, clutching a tiny, absurdly fluffy green dinosaur wearing a crocheted black shirt—Sauber’s colours.

"Oppa! Win! You gotta win!" she declares, shoving the plushie towards you, flailing its tiny arms.

Liz beams beside her, adding, "For real! Show them what a real driver looks like!"

Leeseo bobs her head vigorously, her youthful face alight with pure, unfiltered belief. “We skipped MMA just to watch you in-person! Do us proud!”

“You’re not supposed to reveal that, Seo,” remarks Liz, cutely admonishing her fellow member. The maknae’s cheeks go flush in embarrassment.

Yujin steps forward, her leader’s poise a calming presence amidst the exuberance. She offers a firm, supportive smile. "Do your best out there. That’s all anyone can ask."

Wonyoung, adorned in a lavish pantsuit, inclines her head, her gaze sharp and observant. "Drive well. We’ll be watching." Her words are concise, carrying the weight of expectation.

Finally, Gaeul. She moves through her members, her eyes finding yours amidst the green-and-black chaos. The fierce protectiveness, the lingering worry from t6r57he crash, is still there, etched in the slight tension around her mouth. But overriding it is a quiet, unwavering warmth. She doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, she reaches out, her cool fingers brushing the back of your bandaged hand where it rests on the cockpit rim. The touch is grounding, an anchor thrown into turbulent seas.

"Just finish the race," she murmurs, low, meant only for you. Her eyes hold yours, intense, pleading. "Come back whole. That’s the only win I care about today. Promise me."

The chaos of the garage fades. The nerves, the existential dread—they momentarily dissolve under the weight of her presence, her touch, her simple, profound demand. You cover her hand with yours, squeezing gently.

"Promise," you rasp, thick with emotion. The precipice remains, but the path forward is suddenly illuminated, not by podium champagne, but by the certainty of her waiting embrace.

The formation lap is a slow-motion procession under the harsh desert sun, a final calibration before the storm. You slot into P10, the grid stretching ahead: Verstappen’s Red Bull, a predatory shark on pole, the papaya McLarens of Piastri and Norris poised like hunting dogs behind him. Hulkenberg’s Sauber sits in P13, a green-and-black island settled a little further back. Tension in the cockpit is a living entity, vibrating through the steering wheel, syncing with your own hammering heart.

Crofty’s voice crackles, a detached narrator setting the scene:

"And there he is, ladies and gentlemen, Sauber #77, lining up P10. A story of resilience unlike any we've seen. The question on everyone's lips: can he translate that qualifying heroics into race pace, or will the physical toll prove too much?"

Brundle’s drier tone follows: "The car's limitations were starkly evident yesterday, Crofty. He wrung its neck for that Q2 time, but over 58 laps? Against this field? And let's not forget the state of the driver after that enormous Q3 shunt. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight last night."

Ahead, the five red lights glow like malevolent eyes. Images flicker: Gaeul’s face as she whispered her plea, Rei’s bouncing enthusiasm, the grim wreckage of yesterday’s car. The nerves coalesce, solidify into a single, crystalline point of focus: Finish the story. Come back whole.

Your hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles white beneath the gloves. The pain in your body recedes, compartmentalized. The world narrows to the lights, the clutch bite point, the engine note climbing to a fever pitch behind you.

All five lined up red. Right below, in an instant, a flash of green.

"LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO!"

Chaos erupts. A tsunami of sound and violence. You dump the clutch, the C45 lurching forward with a protesting groan. Into Turn 1, a vortex of screaming engines, smoking tires, and desperate lunges. You’re boxed in. Alonso’s Aston Martin jinks left, Stroll goes right right, Sainz’s Williams dives down the inside. You brake hard, the force jolting your ankle, vision blurring momentarily at the edges. Cars swarm past. Racing Bulls. Williams. Alpine. The pack swallows you whole.

"Okay, okay, clean through? Damage report?"

"Clean. Just—swamped. P—where am I?"

"P17. Behind Tsunoda and Gasly. Bide your time. Long race."

P17. Near the very back.

Frustration wars with cold calculation. The C45 feels sluggish, unresponsive in the dirty air. Yas Marina reveals its true character: a deceptive beast. The long straights lull you into a sense of speed before punishing you with heavy braking zones that test your ankle’s limits. The fiddly marina section is a claustrophobic maze, walls flashing past, demanding millimetre-perfect precision that makes your healing shoulder scream with every corrective input.

Then comes the hotel complex—Turns 11-14—the circuit’s heart of darkness. Sustained, brutal lateral G-forces slam you relentlessly into the side of the cockpit, crushing your neck, blurring vision, turning your spine into a column of fire. It’s a physical assault, relentless and draining.

Crofty draws the scene: "And the Sauber is really struggling in the dirty air, Martin. Dropped like a stone off the line. Looks like the fairytale might be ending before it really began."

Brundle’s biting tone adds: "Not surprising at all. That car is fundamentally slow, and he's carrying injuries that would sideline most athletes. Question is, can he manage the pain and the car for the duration?"

You push the thought and pain aside. Bide your time, as Wheatley said. Lap after lap, you learn the rhythm of the midfield battle. You study Sainz ahead: tidy, defensive. Stroll. Aggressive and erratic. Alonso—wily, conservative. Your tires settle. And the C45, while no thoroughbred, begins to talk to you again.

The initial shock fades, replaced by the cold, familiar calculus of the race. The pain is a constant drumbeat, but it’s background noise now, woven into the fabric of the drive.

On Lap 8, the first opportunity knocks. Sainz outbrakes himself slightly into the Turn 6-7 chicane, running wide. You’re perfectly positioned. A squeeze of throttle, a precise turn-in, and you’re alongside the Williams on the exit.

Clean. Clinical. Clear. P16.

"Nice move! Sainz cleared. Gasly next, 1.2 ahead. He’s on older softs."

Gasly’s Alpine is visibly slower exiting corners. You stalk him through the marina section, feeling the C45’s meagre downforce bite a fraction better in clean air. Down the long back straight, you slipstream, the Renault’s rear wing filling your vision. DRS opens. Pulling out late, braking impossibly deep for Turn 11, forcing the Alpine to defend the inside. Sweep around the outside, carrying momentum through the complex, leaving Gasly scrambling. P15.

Crofty’s impassioned voice rises. "He's climbing! The Sauber is on the move! Gasly dispatched with authority!"

Brundle’s remark is matter-of-fact. "Smart move. Used the Alpine's weak traction and the DRS perfectly. He's finding a rhythm now, despite everything."

Next target: Stroll. The Aston Martin is a wider, more aggressive beast to pass. He defends fiercely into Turn 1, forcing you to take the perilous outside line. You hold it, wheels on the very edge of the curb, the car dancing on the limit of adhesion, G-forces pulling at your injured neck. Side-by-side through the first sector, inches apart. You have the better exit from Turn 5 and muscle ahead before the braking zone for Turn 6. P14.

Then, the master: Alonso. The ageless fox knows every trick in the book. He anticipates your DRS run on the main straight, weaving subtly, breaking your tow. Brakes impossibly late into Turn 1, forcing you to check your own dive. Conserving tires, managing pace—he’s a fortress on wheels.

"Alonso’s managing. His tires are older, but he’s Alonso. Pick your moment. Don’t force it."

Patience. You shadow him for three laps, studying his lines, feeling the C45’s tires starting to grain slightly. Lap 15. Into the final sector. You gain a fraction more exit speed from the Turn 16 hairpin, closing the gap rapidly down the pit straight. DRS opens. This time, Alonso’s weave is predictable. Pulling out early gets you a cleaner tow. You brake marginally later, but crucially, smoother, carrying more minimum speed through the apex of Turn 1. Both cars are alongside by the exit. He tries to squeeze you towards the runoff, but you hold firm, your wheels kissing the white line, the Sauber vibrating with protest. You inch ahead, claiming the inside line for Turn 2. Alonso concedes, lifting slightly.

P13. A wave of elation overrides the screaming pain in your shoulder.

Crofty lifts with excitement. "Incredible! He’s passed Alonso! The Sauber is near the points-paying positions! This is a drive of sheer, unadulterated willpower!"

Brundle stays calculating. "Astounding composure. Outfoxed the fox. Used the car's meagre strengths—that late-braking stability he found yesterday – perfectly. He’s making that C45 sing beyond its means."

Ahead, Hulkenberg’s Sauber is a green beacon in P12, chasing Albon’s Williams. Hadjar’s Racing Bull lurks behind you. You push. The car feels alive beneath you now, responding to your increasingly confident inputs. Reeling in Albon, the other Williams easily dispatched with a DRS-assisted move down the back straight into the chicane complex, cleaner than the pass on Gasly. P12.

Then, on the next lap, Wheatley radios in:

"Heads up. Hadjar’s got fresh mediums. He’s rapidly closing in behind you."

You glance in the mirrors. Hadjar’s Racing Bull is indeed closing, a pure-white homing missile. You dig deeper. The hotel complex is agony, each corner a fresh assault on your neck, but you find a tenth, then another. You catch Hulkenberg asleep slightly exiting the marina section, getting a better run onto the straight. DRS. You pull alongside, teammates wheel-to-wheel. There’s a millisecond of hesitation—team orders unspoken but understood—then Hulk lifts ever so slightly, giving you the inside line for Turn 11. A gesture of respect, of faith. P11.

"P11! Hulk let you through. Hadjar 0.8 behind. Tsunoda ahead in P9, 4 seconds. Keep it clean!"

P11. On the cusp of the points.

This shitbox C45, held together by grit and titanium balls, sits uneasy yet steady on the road. The physical cost is immense; sweat stings your eyes inside the helmet. Every breath feels like a knife twisting between your ribs. Your rebuilt ankle throbs with every brake application. But the fire burns brighter than ever.

Ahead lies Tsunoda’s Red Bull. Behind, Hadjar hunts on fresher rubber. Today’s battle isn't for the championship—far from it—but for redemption, for proving the story didn't end at Spa, or in yesterday's Q3 barrier. The final chapters are being written, one agonizing, winding corner at a time, under the relentless Abu Dhabi sunset. You brace for the hotel complex once more, the roar of the engine synching with the roar of your own blood.

The promise echoes: Come back whole. But right now, whole feels like pushing a broken machine and a broken body to their absolute limit.

The desert air shimmers like molten glass over Yas Marina, pressing down with furnace heat that seeps through the Sauber’s carbon fiber monocoque and into your bones. P11. The number glows tauntingly on your steering wheel display. Hadjar’s Racing Bull fills your mirrors, a white-hot specter riding fresher medium tires, closing in furiously like a relentless cheetah.

"—and the RB’s looming large! Hadjar has a significant tire advantage. This could be terminal for Sauber’s points hopes unless he finds a miracle—"

The C45’s hard compounds feel like blocks of greased stone. Sector 2’s marina maze—a claustrophobic gauntlet of concrete barriers and abrupt direction changes—becomes a torture chamber. Each flick-left, jab-right wrenches your healing shoulder. The rear skitters nervously over curbs, threatening to snap. Hadjar lunges at Turn 9, his front wing inches from your diffuser. You slam the door shut, sacrificing exit speed, feeling the RB’s disturbed air buffet the Sauber like a boxer’s punch.

It’s no longer about racing; it’s survival.

"Gap to Hadjar: 0.4. He’s nursing that tire advantage. Can you hold through the hotel complex?"

The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. Yas Marina’s heart of darkness. A relentless, banked corkscrew designed to wring necks and spirits. The sustained G-forces slam you sideways, crushing your injured neck against the headrest, blurring vision at the edges. It’s more than physical agony; it’s an assault on coherence. Hadjar gains in the dirty air.

A spark ignites in the chaos: audacious, born of desperation and an unshakeable belief in your own fraying limits. The team’s conservative strategy is a death sentence.

"Box this lap. Softs."

"Confirm? Softs now? Plan was Lap 32! They won’t last!"

"Confirmed. Softs. Now. We need the delta. Execute."

"Copy. Box this lap. Soft compound."

You peel off the racing line into pit lane’s sterile calm, the roar of the pack fading. 3.2 seconds of agonizing stillness—mechanics a green blur, the thunk of wheel guns, cold soft tires shrieking as you’re released back into the inferno.

P14.

Elsewhere, Crofty crackles with dynamite energy. "Astonishing gamble! He dives into the pits from the cusp of the points! Plummets to fourteenth! The soft tire is a Molotov cocktail—explosive but fleeting. Has bravery tipped into recklessness?"

"The mathematics are brutal, Crofty.” Brundle remains flat, calculated. “He needs near-perfect tire management for over forty laps on a compound that degrades exponentially here. It’s not just climbing a mountain; it’s climbing it on melting ice."

The transformation is immediate, electric. The new softs bite like razors. The sluggish C45 reawakens, its steering sharp, throttle response eager.

Picking up right where you left off, you devour the backmarkers. Albon’s Williams is a late-braking lunge into Turn 6, inches from the barrier, the Sauber’s rear stepping out before you gather it with gritted teeth. P13. Ocon’s Haas—outmuscled with superior traction exiting Turn 16, DRS slingshotting you past down the pit straight. P12. Purple sectors flash on the timing screen.

“Look at those sector times! He’s a man possessed! Gaining three seconds a lap on the midfield!"

"The car is finally responding. He’s extracting performance buried deep within its flawed DNA. But the clock is ticking on those softs, Crofty. They’re burning bright, but burning fast."

"Pace is phenomenal! But rear left graining is severe. Manage! Temper the aggression!"

Manage. Temper. The words are static. The fire consumes you.

Hadjar’s Racing Bull falls prey to a daring outside-line pass through Turns 2 and 3, wheels kissing the unforgiving white line. P11. Sainz’s Williams succumbs to a DRS-assisted dive down the inside into the Turn 9 chicane, the Sauber vibrating violently as you force the issue. P10. Points finally claimed, but the softs are visibly fraying, chunks of rubber flying.

Tsunoda’s Red Bull, trapped on older hards, is next. A calculated squeeze on the exit of Turn 16, using every millimeter of runoff, tires screaming in protest as you surge alongside and claim the position before the line. P9.

—————

Meanwhile, Rei bounces, jabbing a finger at the screen. "Go oppa! Faster!”

Liz and Leeseo clutch each other, gasping as the Sauber brushes the wall. Yujin watches closely, a sculpture of focused intensity.

"The tires—they won't hold—" Wonyoung mumbles, hands clasped together in wary focus and faint prayer.

Gaeul sits rigid, knuckles white on the armrest, both eyes glued on the screen, breathing shallowly. Every near-miss, every lurid slide, etches fresh lines of fear on her face. Her silent plea hangs in the air-conditioned chill.

Come back whole.

—————

Up ahead, the landscape shifts. Titans loom. Russell’s silver Mercedes. Leclerc’s scarlet Ferrari. Hamilton’s own scarlet Ferrari. The C45 feels laughably crude against their engineering marvels. Yet, you see fissures in their armor.

Russell. Blisteringly fast but occasionally leaves the door ajar on corner entry, trusting his Mercedes’ acceleration. Lap 41. Down the endless back straight. DRS open. Riding the Mercedes’ slipstream, the tow is monstrous. Russell defends the inside for the chicane complex. You feint left, then snap right, braking beyond the perceived limit for the first chicane apex, aiming for the sliver of space he left. Milliseconds. Tires shriek. The Sauber bucks, threatening to spin. Russell, startled by the sheer audacity, lifts minutely. You’re through. P8.

Crofty’s losing his voice. "He’s done it! Past Russell! A move bordering on suicidal! The sheer nerve!"

Brundle stays in quiet admiration. "Russell left him just enough room—a champion's width. And he took it with the precision of a surgeon. That’s not just speed; it’s racing intelligence under extreme duress."

Over the radio, Wheatley is elated. "Russell cleared! P8! Leclerc next, 1.8 ahead! Your tires are critical!"

Leclerc. The Ferrari is quicker, especially in Sector 1’s flowing curves. But it’s temperamental. Prone to sudden, vicious snaps of oversteer on power-down, particularly when pressured.

Lap 44. You hound him through the marina sector, filling his mirrors, disrupting his rhythm. Into the tight left-right of Turns 8 and 9. Pressuring him mercilessly on entry, he’s forced to take a defensive, compromised line. On exit, as he feeds the power, the Ferrari’s rear steps out violently. Sparks fly as Leclerc course-corrects, scrubbing precious speed. It’s the microscopic opening. You pounce, squeezing the throttle earlier, surging alongside with superior traction. DRS opens. You sail past the momentarily crippled Ferrari before Turn 11. P7.

"Leclerc! You passed Leclerc! P7! Hamilton next! 2.5 seconds! But the tires—they’re on the canvas! Next lap, box! Box! Please!"

The softs are translucent, vibrating like unbalanced washing machines. Every bump threatens disintegration. But Hamilton’s up ahead. P6. The seven-time champion. The summit glows ahead. Yas Marina’s final sector offers one chance: the long blast after the Turn 16 hairpin, DRS activation, then the plunge into Turn 1.

Hamilton knows. He defends the inside ruthlessly down the main straight. DRS is open, but he blocks the tow, weaving subtly. You jink left, he covers. Speed bleeds away. Into Turn 1, he brakes impossibly late, securing the inside. Biding your time, you nurse the dying tires.

Lap 46. Exiting the final Turn 16 hairpin, you muster up everything—every ounce of grip left in the shredded softs, every shred of strength in your screaming muscles. The exit is perfect, transcendent. You’re glued to the Ferrari’s diffuser. DRS opens. Hamilton weaves, but you’ve anticipated it. You pull out early, get a cleaner tow, and draw level just before the hundred-meter board for Turn 1.

It’s a drag race headed towards oblivion. The Ferrari’s superior horsepower claws back inches. Side-by-side, wheels almost touching, the scream of engines vibrating through your bones. The braking zone rushes up. You brake at the absolute limit—a force that feels like it will shatter your rebuilt ankle. Vision tunnels to a pinprick. The Sauber holds its line, shuddering violently, skating on the edge of adhesion. Hamilton, the master calculator, judges the margin. He brakes a fraction earlier, conceding the corner rather than risk mutual annihilation. You sweep through Turn 1 in the lead. P6.

Over commentary, Crofty has gone completely hysterical seeing the heroics. "He’s passed Hamilton! The Sauber is in sixth place! I am absolutely speechless! From the depths of P17 to the top six! This defies logic! It defies physics!"

Brundle, on the other hand, remains calm, but reverent. "A move of monumental courage and skill. He forced the greatest of all time into submission. Not with car speed, but with indomitable will and racecraft forged in fire. Legendary. Simply legendary."

"P6! You are P6! Hamilton 1.2 behind! 11 laps! Tires are critical! Manage! Bring it home, mate! Bring it home!"

Let it sink in. P6. Sixth place. In a fucking Sauber of all cars. A glorified lawn mower.

The physical cost is apocalyptic—neck muscles in spasm, shoulder a molten knot of agony, ankle grinding with every pedal input, lungs burning. Your softs are translucent rags, vibrating horribly, their grip a fading memory. Yet, the dream—P5, Antonelli’s Mercedes just 3.1 seconds ahead—pulses with terrifying reality. Yas Marina’s glittering lights stretch ahead, no longer just a circuit, but the anvil upon which your promise to Gaeul is being forged.

You take a shuddering breath, tasting blood and exhaust fumes. The hardest laps are ahead. You brace for the hotel complex once more, the defiant roar in your veins drowning out the scream of the engine and the whimper of the tires.

The story demands an ending. You will write it.

The desert heat throbs inside the Sauber’s cockpit, a physical counterpoint to the screaming vibration of the disintegrating soft tires. Sixth place glows on your dash: a monument built on defiance and agony. Antonelli’s Mercedes shimmers just ahead in P5, a silvery sign of unfinished business. The podium isn’t a dream; it’s a physical ache in your bones, a ghost whispering from the Spa runoff.

Wheatley screams in your ear, part static, all urgent concern. “Box! Box now! Softs are shredding! Pitting now gets you P9, maybe P8! Guaranteed points! You cannot hold this pace! Hamilton is closing!"

The calculation hangs in the scorching air. Pit: safety, points, survival. Stay out: glory, ruin, redemption.

Gaeul’s face flickers in your mind—her whispered "Come back whole"— then vanishes beneath the visceral memory of Spa’s rain-lashed barrier.

Then you hear your own voice. A call to action.

Finish the story.

"Negative. Hunting P5. Tires have life."

"They have minutes! At most! You’ll be a sitting duck! It’s—"

The transmission cuts off, drowned by a collective gasp from the grandstands. Ahead, exiting the fiddly Turn 7-8 chicane, Lance Stroll’s Aston Martin rides the inside curb too aggressively. The car snaps sideways like a startled animal, spearing violently across the track. It slams nose-first into the unforgiving Tecpro barrier at Turn 9’s entrance with a sickening, echoing crunch. Carbon fiber erupts in a shower of debris. The Aston spins to a halt, broadside, blocking half the track. Stroll’s hand emerges, waving weakly from the intact cockpit. Relief wars with utter shock.

Yellow flags are waved. The safety car deploys onto the track.

Crofty shouts over the din: "Stroll! Heavy impact! Yellow’s out! Safety car! He’s moving, thank God! But the race is neutralised!"

Brundle sees through the crash and notices an opening. "A catastrophic lapse of concentration! Absolutely unnecessary! But a lifeline for the Sauber! He can pit under safety car and lose minimal time!"

Wheatley also sees it. "Safety car! Box! Box now! Mediums! We can put you out on P6! Fresh rubber! Ten laps! Go! Go! Go!"

The decision is instantaneous. The gamble transforms into opportunity. Glory remains within reach.

"Copy. Boxing. Mediums."

You peel into the pit lane’s controlled calm, the roaring pack replaced by the whine of the safety car’s engine. The stop is a blur of green. 2.9 seconds. Fresh, yellow-banded medium tires slam onto the hubs. Cooler water floods the system. A microsecond of respite before you’re released into the slow-moving queue and back into the fire. P6.

The pecking order crystallizes under the yellow flag’s caution: Piastri. Norris. Verstappen. Antonelli. Hadjar. You. Hamilton. Leclerc. Russell. Alonso.

—————

A silenced gasp fills the room as Stroll’s crash unfolds over the live feed. Gaeul presses a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror-turned-relief.

Rei jumps up, pointing accusingly at the screen. "Ya! Stroll you idiot!"

Liz and Leeseo clutch each other’s hands tighter, both pale as snow. Yujin grips the Sauber team’s desk board, her knuckles white.

Wonyoung murmurs, pensive and cautious, "The safety car—his only chance—"

As the Sauber rejoins P6 on fresh rubber, Gaeul exhales shakily, a single tear cutting through the tension on her cheek.

Hold on.

—————

The safety car folds in at the end of Lap 51. Green flag is waved. Seven laps remain.

Up ahead, the pack explodes like a shrapnel bomb. Fresh mediums ignite the Sauber. The C45, revitalized, plants itself into the tarmac, responding to inputs with predatory eagerness. Hadjar’s Racing Bull is first. Defends the inside into Turn 1, but his worn mediums offer no traction on exit. You get a monstrous run, DRS flapping open, surging around his outside through Turn 2 with surgical precision. P5.

Next, Antonelli’s Mercedes looms quick. The rookie is fast, but flustered by pressure. You harry him through the marina sector—a claustrophobic dance of concrete walls and abrupt direction changes. Into the Turn 6-7 chicane, he brakes a fraction early, guarding the inside. You feint left, then snap right, braking impossibly late for the second apex. Tires kiss. Sparks fly. The Mercedes wiggles as Antonelli corrects. P4.

Crofty roars. "He’s through! Past Antonelli! Now fourth! The tire advantage is absolute! He’s dismantled the field in two corners!"

Brundle sounds awe-struck, flared with raw emotion. "A masterclass in opportunism! He smelled the weakness, exploited the tire delta with cold, brutal efficiency. That Mercedes had no answer!"

Five laps remain. Ahead, a solitary blue machine. Max Verstappen. P3.

The Red Bull glints under the floodlights like a resting predator. The ghost of Spa—the man who dared challenge him in the monsoon—has returned. He knows you’re coming. He sees the relentless green-and-black machine filling his mirrors. The gap is 1.8 seconds. Yas Marina’s final sector stretches ahead—the long blast after Turn 16, the DRS activation, the plunge into Turn 1. Your only battleground.

"P4! Verstappen 1.8 ahead! Four laps! Your tires are prime! His mediums are thirty laps old! You can do this!"

The hunt intensifies. You push the Sauber to its screaming limit. Through the flowing curves of Sector 1, you gain tenths. Through the technical marina maze, you gain more. The gap shrinks: 1.5, 1.3—Verstappen defends, his Red Bull weaving subtly on the straights, blocking the tow, his lines inch-perfect. He’s conserving, calculating, the ice to your fire.

Lap 54. The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. G-forces slam you sideways, a crushing weight on your screaming neck. Vision tunnels. You emerge onto the back straight, the gap down to 0.9 seconds. DRS opens. Surging forward, riding the Red Bull’s slipstream, the tow claws you closer. 0.6 seconds. Verstappen defends the inside for the chicane complex. You jink left, he covers. No gap.

Crofty sounds breathless. “The gap is vanishing! Six-tenths! But Verstappen is defending like a lion! Where can he possibly pass?"

Brundle tenses. "It has to be the main straight. DRS. Turn 1. It’s his only chance. But Max knows it. He’ll make him earn every millimeter."

Lap 55. You replicate the approach. DRS open. Closer this time. 0.4 seconds. Verstappen weaves more aggressively. The Red Bull’s disturbed air buffets the Sauber. You hold firm, muscles burning, focus laser-sharp. No gap. Frustration is a live wire, but resolve is titanium.

Rei bounces, chanting, "Catch him! Catch him!” Liz and Leeseo are on their feet, hands still clasped. Yujin watches on seriously, a statue of concentration. Wonyoung’s eyes track every jink, every gain. Gaeul stands rigid, one hand pressed to her chest, the other gripping the team desk, her knuckles bloodless. Her lips move in a silent plea.

Lap 56. You hound Verstappen through Sector 2, filling his mirrors, disrupting his rhythm. Into the final Turn 16 hairpin. You take a tighter line, sacrificing exit speed for a fraction less distance. It’s a gamble. The Sauber’s nose inches closer to the Red Bull’s diffuser. Exiting the corner, you unleash every ounce of grip. The exit clean, but not transcendent. DRS activates. The gap is 0.3 seconds. Not enough. Verstappen defends the inside ruthlessly down the pit straight.

The checkered flag looms on the next lap. Two more chances.

Wheatley’s voice is raw, hoarse. "Two more laps! Gap 0.3! You need a miracle out of turn 16! Give it everything!"

Sweeping through 14, 15, 16—a blur of concentration and controlled aggression. The hotel complex is a white-knuckle ride, G-forces threatening blackout. Then, the final corner. Turn 16. A slow, hairpin right. You brake marginally later, carry a fraction more speed, turn in sharper. The Sauber rotates beautifully, its mediums biting hard. You plant the throttle earlier, harder than ever before. The rear twitches, threatening to snap, but you catch it with instinctive reflex. The exit is perfect. A surge of acceleration pins you to the seat. You’re instantly glued to the Red Bull’s diffuser.

DRS flaps open. The tow is monstrous. The gap evaporates. Side-by-side with Verstappen before the 100-meter board for Turn 1. The roar of the engines merges into a deafening howl. Wheels inches apart. The braking zone rushes up—a wall of inevitability. You brake at the absolute limit, a force that feels like it will destroy your rebuilt ankle and compress your spine. Vision blurs to a pinprick of light framing Verstappen’s blue helmet. The Sauber holds its line, vibrating on the knife-edge of adhesion. Verstappen, the ultimate calculator, judges the vanishing margin. He doesn’t yield.

The desert air vibrates with the choral shriek of nineteen engines pushed beyond endurance. Inside the battered Sauber cockpit, every nerve screams in protest—neck muscles in spasm, shoulder a molten knot, rebuilt ankle grinding with each pedal stroke. Yet, the world narrows to a tunnel vision: the shimmering blue-and-red rear wing of Max Verstappen’s Red Bull, barely a few tenths ahead.

Fourth place. The podium. Spa’s ghost demanding its due. Gaeul’s whispered plea—come back whole—echoes beneath the engine’s roar and the frantic hammering of your own heart.

Final Lap. Lap 58.

Exiting the Turn 16 hairpin, you’re glued to the Red Bull’s diffuser. DRS flaps open with a decisive thunk. The pull is monstrous, a physical punch slamming you forward. Side-by-side with Verstappen before the 100-meter board for Turn 1. Wheels inches apart. The desert sky bleeds deep black and sparkly-starry white as Yas Marina’s floodlights ignite, casting long, dramatic pathways across the tarmac. The roar of the engines merges into a deafening howl of defiance and desperation.

Crofty crackles with high tension. "Side-by-side! The Sauber and the Red Bull! Wheel-to-wheel down to Turn 1! This is it! The comeback kid versus the four-time champion! Shades of Spa!"

Brundle’s enraptured by the duel that’s unfolding. “The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated nerve! He’s forced Verstappen into a fight he never wanted on the final lap! Watch the braking!"

Verstappen defends with the fury of a cornered beast. The Mad Max of old resurfaces: desperate, ruthless, borderline violent. He jinks sharply left, forcing you towards the pit wall, the disturbed air buffeting the Sauber like a physical blow. Holding firm, your muscles scream, steering inputs micro-corrected against the turbulence. Inches from the white line. He jinks right, trying to crowd you towards the runoff on the outside. Your tires kiss the artificial grass fringe, kicking up a plume of dust, the car skating perilously. You counter-steer instinctively, the Sauber snapping back onto the black stuff, momentum barely checked.

Over team radio, Wheatley’s shrieking harshly in your ear. "Hold your line! Hold! You’re alongside!"

Verstappen’s aggression is his shield, but it’s also his energy drain. His weaving costs him precious exit speed out of Turn 1. You carry a fraction more momentum, staying glued to his flank through the fiddly Turns 2 and 3. He slams the door shut at Turn 4, forcing you to lift, sacrificing precious tenths.

The McLarens far ahead are distant specks, their private duel for the championship already decided. None of that matters. Only P3. Only Verstappen.

Through the flowing curves of Sector 1, you gain minutely, the healthier mediums granting superior traction. The gap shrinks: 0.4 seconds. Verstappen mirrors your line, inch-perfect, defensive, blocking any tow opportunity on the straights. The marina sector looms—a concrete canyon demanding millimetre precision. You hound him, filling his mirrors, every twitch of his car telegraphing his next move. Into the tight Turn 8-9 chicane, you pressure him hard on entry, forcing a slightly compromised exit. You gain another tenth. 0.3 seconds.

Crofty’s all but out of breath: "He’s crawling all over him! The gap is vanishing! Three-tenths! But where can he possibly pass? Verstappen is defending like a man possessed!"

Brundle’s tensing up, yet still analytical. "It has to be the hotel complex exit or the final straight. But Max knows it. He’s conserving every ounce of energy, every scrap of tire, for the defence. The Sauber driver needs complete perfection."

The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. The crucible. Sustained, brutal G-forces slam you sideways, crushing your screaming neck against the headrest, blurring vision at the edges. It’s agony distilled. Verstappen navigates it flawlessly. Tight, but defensive. You push harder, carrying a whisper more speed through the banked turns, feeling the Sauber’s chassis groan in protest, the tires howling at the limit. You emerge onto the back straight mere car lengths behind. 0.2 seconds. DRS opens. You surge forward, the tow clawing you to his gearbox. 0.1 seconds. Nose to tail.

“Last corner! Make it count! Perfect exit! Perfect!”

Turn 16. The final hairpin. A slow, agonizing right-hander before the blast to the line. Verstappen brakes early, guarding the inside line, sacrificing exit speed to block any possible lunge. It’s textbook defence. But in that moment of hyper-aggressive control, focused solely on blocking the inside, he pushes his worn mediums a fraction too hard. The RB21 rear snaps out: just a tiny, almost imperceptible slide on the dusty apex curb.

A microsecond loss of traction. A human moment of fallibility.

It’s all the opening you need.

You’ve braked marginally later, carried a fraction more speed. More than enough to close the near-nonexistent gap. Turning in sharper, the Sauber rotates beautifully on its fresher rubber. As Verstappen corrects his slide, sacrificing crucial exit momentum, you plant the throttle earlier, harder. The rear twitches but holds. The C45 rockets out of the corner, catapulting down the main straight with explosive traction.

Verstappen, desperately trying to claw back lost momentum, fishtails slightly, his exit compromised. You streak past him before the 50-meter board, clean air suddenly yours. The roar of the crowd hits you like a physical wave, drowning out the engine. The checkered flag waves.

P3.

Over at commentary, Crofty explodes, even more so than when Piastri’s McLaren took the win. "He’s done it! The Sauber takes third! He’s passed Verstappen on the final lap! Unbelievable! From the brink of retirement to the podium! A miracle in Abu Dhabi!”

Brundle, full of reverent awe, adds: "A move born of patience, precision, and capitalizing on the tiniest crack in the champion’s armour. Verstappen’s aggression forced the error, and the Sauber driver was clinical in its exploitation. One of the greatest final lap overtakes, on sheer guts and guile, I have ever witnessed. Legendary."

Over team radio, Wheatley’s voice cracks, evidently marred with raw emotion. "P3—P3! I don’t—I don’t believe it! That was—a miracle! An absolute bloody miracle! You magnificent bastard! Welcome back! Welcome back!"

Coasting down the straight, the adrenaline surging through your muscles like a tidal wave recedes, leaving utter exhaustion and profound, shaking elation. Piastri takes the flag and the Drivers’ championship. Norris follows, disappointment etched beside pride for his teammate. You cross the line third, the weight of the impossible settling like a physical mantle.

“We did it. We fucking did it.”

Your words hang heavy, a verbalization of a dream now fully realized.

—————

The Sauber garage erupts. Mechanics and engineers leap over barriers, hugging, crying, pounding each other on the back in celebration. Hulkenberg, who finished P11, barely missing out on points, is the first one to your car as you crawl into the pit box. He rips off your steering wheel before the team can swarm, his weathered face split by a grin of pure, unadulterated joy and respect. He grabs your helmet, forehead pressed against yours.

"Crazy bastard," he rasps, thick, but brimming with pride. "You magnificent, crazy bastard. Told you you’d scare the shit out of them." He pulls back, clapping your shoulders, his eyes shining. "Podium. In this shitbox. Unreal."

In your heightened joy, you can’t help but aim at that low-hanging fruit. “While you—”

“Suck my balls mate.” The response is immediate, like he already anticipated it. But it’s all in light jest. He helps you out of the cockpit and back down to earth. “Well done.”

Drivers flood towards you, abandoning the usual parc ferme protocols. Oscar, the newly-minted champion, detours straight to you, grabbing your hand with both of his, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Mate—that lap—that last lap—incredible! Absolutely incredible! Welcome back!"

Lando slings an arm around your neck, still buzzing from his own race. "You maniac! Passing Max like that on the last corner? Spa wasn’t a fluke! You’re properly back!"

Lewis offers a firm handshake, his gaze deep, knowing. "Respect," he merely says, the single word carrying the weight of a legend recognizing a budding growth of greatness.

Charles pats you on the back, a genuine smile replacing his usual intensity. "Chapeau. Truly."

George grins, shaking his head, clapping. "Unreal drive, mate. Just unreal."

Fernando also pats a hand on your shoulder, shaking his head in amusement. “You really are one crazy son-of-a-bitch, amigo. Helluva drive.”

In the midst of the commotion, Max approaches, cutting through the growing circle of competitors. The usual harshness is there, but softened by a hint of rueful respect.

He extends a hand. You accept it. His grip is firm, but gracious.

"Almost Spa again, huh?" he says, shades of a smile touching his lips. "Good move. Hard, but fair. Welcome back."

It’s the ultimate acknowledgement from the fiercest competitor.

You curtly nod, sharing newfound respect for each other’s game.

But amidst the sea of green overalls and starry-eyed rivals, you see her—Gaeul. Pushing through the throng, the other IVE members trail right behind her: Rei bouncing with unrestrained glee, Liz and Leeseo beaming, Yujin radiating proud warmth, Wonyoung offering a rare, dazzling smile of pure admiration. Gaeul’s eyes are red-rimmed, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the desert dust on her skin. She doesn’t give a fuck about protocol or cameras.

She crashes into you, her arms wrapping around your neck with desperate strength, burying her face against your sweat-soaked race suit. The other drivers respectfully distance themselves to make room for shared intimacy. You hold her tight, ignoring the protests from your battered body, breathing in the scent of her hair. A lifeline after what felt like a neverending storm. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs of relief.

"You did it," she gasps against your neck, muffled, trembling. "You’re here. You’re whole. You’re safe." She pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, her hands cradling your grimy face. "You kept your promise."

"I did," you rasp, teeming with emotion. You lean down, capturing her lips in a brief, fierce kiss, tasting salt and relief and triumph. It’s soft, warm, profoundly intimate amidst the surrounding chaos. "I came back to you. Whole."

"Oi! Podium finisher!" Lando’s voice cuts through the personal moment, grinning. "Cooldown room awaits! Chop chop, hero!"

Oscar nods along in agreement, widely smiling. The other drivers join in hearty laughter. Officials gently but insistently begin to whisk you away.

Gaeul clings a second longer. "Go," she whispers, wiping her tears, a radiant smile breaking through. "Enjoy it. You earned it. I’ll be here."

You squeeze her hand, negotiating a silent promise, before being swept away by the tide of officials and fellow drivers towards the interviewers and cooldown room.

—————

The cooldown room is a bubble of surreal exhaustion and exhilaration. Oscar is buzzing, the weight of the championship settling on his young shoulders. Lando is gracious, his disappointment of P2 tempered by overall team success and the sheer spectacle he witnessed. You slump beside the newly-minted champ, the adrenaline crash hitting viciously hard, every ache and pain announcing itself with renewed vigour.

"Seriously, mate," says Oscar, handing you a cold drink. You’re rewatching highlights of the race on the giant screen, soaking in every piece of nail-biting action. The closing lap shootout between you and Verstappen plays beat for beat like an extended movie scene only Hollywood can write. "That move on Max—I was watching the screens. Unreal. How did you even see that gap?"

"Didn’t see it," you admit, taking a grateful sip. "Felt it. Knew he’d push too hard defending. Knew the tires would bite him."

Lando shakes his head in awe. "Madness. Brilliant madness. Spa wasn’t a one-off. You’re a force of nature. Absolutely insane drive. Glad to have you back out there."

The respect in their eyes is genuine, humbling.

The podium ceremony is deafening. The cheers for Piastri, the new champion, are immense. The applause for Norris is warm. But when you step onto the third step, the roar that erupts shakes the foundations. It’s a wave of pure adulation, respect, and shared disbelief. Fans waving Sauber green, chanting your name. It’s for the miracle, for the defiance, for the story.

The Australian anthem plays. The race trophies are presented. Oscar lifts his winner’s trophy aloft, aglow with a beaming smile on his face. Then, as the champagne bottles are handed out, Lando catches your glance. He grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. He points his bottle not at his newly crowned teammate, but squarely at you. Oscar, understanding instantly, follows suit.

A deluge of icy champagne hits you full force. You gasp, laughing, raising your own bottle in retaliation, showering them back. The podium dissolves into a chaotic, joyful melee of sparkling wine and shared triumph. The champion gets drenched, but the celebration is undeniably for the phoenix who rose from the ashes. Wheatley watches from below, openly weeping now, surrounded by his ecstatic, overjoyed team.

—————

Descending the podium, soaked in champagne and euphoria, the media swarm is relentless. Questions about the pass, the recovery, the future—they fly thick and fast. You offer tired smiles, heartfelt thanks to the team, praise for Piastri and Norris, immense respect for Verstappen. The story and the race speaks for itself.

Finally, you break free, scanning the crowded parc ferme area. And there she is. Gaeul. Waiting patiently near the Sauber garage, the other IVE members forming a protective, beaming half-circle around her. As you approach, they part like a curtain.

She meets you halfway. No words are necessary. You wrap your arms around her, lifting her slightly off her feet, burying your face in her hair, breathing her in—the scent of her perfume cutting through the champagne and petrol fumes.

It’s home. It’s peace. It’s the real victory.

"I'm so proud of you," she murmurs, muffled against your shoulder. "So incredibly proud."

You set her down, holding her at arm's length, looking into her eyes, still shimmering with residual tears and pure happiness. The noise of the paddock fades. "I kept my promise," you say softly, an assurance fulfilled. "I'm here. Whole."

Rei bounces over, thrusting your third-place trophy into your hands (retrieved by a helpful mechanic). "You won! Well, third! But it’s like winning!"

Jiwon and Hyunseo chime in with shared congratulations. Yujin offers a warm hug. "Amazing drive. Truly."

Wonyoung gives a graceful nod and a slow clap. "You showed everyone. Great job."

Gaeul smiles, tracing the edge of the trophy with a fingertip. "So what now?" she asks, a warm gentleness. "The world is yours. Mercedes and Red Bull—they’re already calling Jonathan. The offers—" She looks up, searching your eyes.

The unspoken question hangs: Will you leave again. For the top teams. For the ultimate glory.

You look at the trophy: a heavy symbol of an improbable journey. Then you glance back at Gaeul, at the love and quiet hope in her eyes. You recall the hospital bed, the pain, the fear, the promise whispered in the sterile air. You think of the roar of the engines, the taste of champagne, the adulation. Then you remember this. Her warmth. Her presence. The life waiting beyond the grid and the checkered flags.

You take her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. The trophy feels secondary now. A chapter closed in magnificent fashion. The next chapter beckons.

"I already have everything I want right here," you say, your intentions clear, certain. You raise her hand, kissing her knuckles, your gaze locked on hers. "The offers can wait. The season’s over. Tonight—tomorrow, and beyond—I’m with you. I’m here. Always will be.”

—————

(dedicated to raf <3)

(A/N: I hate lying to myself. LOL. As you can tell by now this is practically an F1 story first and foremost. My first brush with the sport was all the way back in 2008 (is that Glock was the first real sports moment I can vividly recall besides Kobe's 81). Up until circa 2010-2011, when Vettel was beginning his dominant run in RB. Got back into it literally last month cause all the friends on Discord were tuned in and the Lakers fucking suck (also LOL). Was kinda easy to adjust back and catch up on the last few years, to be honest! Also there's the movie with Brad Pitt coming out in over a week when this goes live, and I really wanna see that in theaters. Some inspiration from the trailers/marketing definitely bleeds into the story. This is the most action-heavy fic I've ever written and that's mainly due to the third act which is basically an entire race weekend. Tried to blend realism with Hollywood-level bullshit—don't care, I think heightened reality is fun, especially in settings like sports. I hope it didn't stray too far and I tried my best to keep everything mostly accurate to current day, but it is what it is, I'm still catching up on what I've missed. And then for the idol: there was only one choice. Gaeul's got that sweet, mature, tender vibe around her that made the perfect love interest, besides the friend this was written around. Thank you for reading!)

#kpop smut #smut #gaeul smut #ive smut #f1 fanfic

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rmxsolution · 8 months ago

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Optimize Manufacturing with a Custom Dry Mix Batching Plant

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losers-clvb · 2 months ago

Text

ICEBREAKER one

pairing: stanford!hockey player!sam winchester x figure skater!female!reader

content: language, slightly ooc sam, smut (semi-public dry humping, dirty talk, semi-public making out)

word count: 3.1k

note: first part, yay, yay!! this was supposed to be a long one-shot fic, but your girl has the 'too much' gene and went all in. so here we are! i hope you like it <33

You didn’t even know why you were at this party. Maybe to numb the stress of school and competition season mixing together, not that you could drink. No, not with the strict regimen your coaches put on the team.

Oh, yeah, coaches, another reason why you shouldn’t be at this party right now. If they caught you here, even if you were simply in the background of a photo, it would be your ass cleaning up the rink after every practice.

God, you couldn’t do this anymore. You needed air. The boom of the music was too loud, the sweat slicking off of your friends’ bodies too sticky.

“Outside!” You shouted to your friend, Lissa, and pointed to the back door of the frat house. She waved you off with a smile, eyes glassing over from the third – no, fifth – cup of… whatever the hell mixture she had concocted in that Solo cup. She was taking full advantage of your status as D.D. for the night.

You rolled your eyes playfully, shuffling through the crowd of twenty-something kids trying to grind on each other. The night air was sharp, soft goosebumps popping up on your bare arms.

Why none of the party goers wanted to be in the calm of the backyard was beyond you, but you were thankful for the quiet. A few questionably clean pieces of patio furniture were out near the almost overgrown grass. You decided the risk of some spider crawling up your leg was worth it and settled into the cushioned seat of a bench.

The crisscrossed green and white of the vines crawling up the pergola's wood-beam walls blocked the visuals of the party and only a stream of muffled music made its way to your ears. You sighed, leaning back and closing your eyes.

The steps of your routine for the first competition flashed behind your eyelids. Spins and flips, especially those that you initially struggled to get down, taunted you, making what was supposed to be a peaceful night very, very stressful.

You hadn't even noticed your mumbling until a voice rang out, cutting through your quiet.

“What the hell is a Biellmann?”

Your eyes shot open, flitting around frantically to find the intruder.

Standing there, with an adorable flop of brown hair, was Sam Winchester. Hockey god, Sam Winchester.

You'd heard of him, seen his face. It was hard to ignore his photographed smile charming you from the walls of the rink every time you went in for practice. You'd never met him, somehow, which made your staring at him very strange, to say the least.

“You good?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows at you with that damn crooked grin he shared with his brother.

The memory of the Wicked Winchesters – named aptly because of their tendency to absolutely crush the opposing team just as the pair of them – snapped you out of your trance. You scoffed, irritation bleeding in to cover the embarrassment of the situation.

“Why are you out here?” You mumbled, raising a brow.

The bite you meant to put in your tone must not have come through, or maybe it did and he just didn't care, because his grin grew wider.

“You want a picture?” Sam asked.

Upon seeing your confusion, he let out a little chuckle and plopped down next to you, making the metal feet of the bench scrape against the concrete.

“You know, since you seem so enamored with my facial features.” He watched your face shift back to irritation.

“Big word for a puck-head.” You grumbled with a roll of your eyes. You sipped on your drink, the lukewarm lemonade doing nothing to quell your attraction to Sam's bicep.

“Puck-head? Who says that?” He laughed, clearly not offended. He slung his arm across the back of the bench, the skin of his arm just grazing your neck. You tried not to shiver at the touch.

“I do.” You defended, turning so you were sitting at an angle, giving you a break from physical touch.

He was attractive. And charming. And tall. And his lips had you wondering what they tasted like. But none of that could matter right now, not when you'd taken a vow of celibacy for your competition season.

“You're somethin’ else, darlin’.” Sam mumbled, eyes grazing over your bare thighs.

Thank you Lissa for forcing this mini-dress onto my body, you thought.

“You never answered my question.” You pointed out, crossing your legs so your dress rode up a bit more. He looked up at you, eyes sparkling.

“You never answered mine.” He tilted his head and mimicked a camera taking a picture.

“No. No pictures.” You answered quickly, then added on, in a biting fashion, “darlin’.”

Sam chuckled and shook his head.

“It’s just hotter when you say it like that.” He licked his lips, sipping on his drink.

“Your turn.” You reminded him, ignoring the urge you had to smile. He sighed and looked around, brown eyes finally landing on you.

“There’s no one out here.” He let his eyes rake down your body. “No one but you, it seems.” His eyes found yours again. You pursed your lips in a small pout, one that had Sam’s eyes twinkling with interest.

“So?” You couldn’t help the sass that invaded your words. Wasn’t Sam Winchester supposed to be partying it up with his buddies over at the keg stand?

“So…,” his head rolled to the side slowly while he dragged the word out, “I need quiet. To focus.”

Your faced screwed up in confusion again.

“Focus? For what?” You couldn’t think of one thing in Sam’s life that required focus. Not that you knew much of his life, but you could guess, for the most part, what it consisted of. Wake up, pound some pre workout, and go bash heads with his teammates.

Sam’s expression of “Really?” made you scoff in annoyance, though you didn’t know if that emotion was made stronger by your intense urge to lick over his throat.

“What could possibly be important enough for you to need focus, Samuel?” You went to sip your drink again before noticing the cup was empty. Apparently you were thirstier than you originally thought.

“First of all, it’s Sam,” he corrected with a grin, “but it’s cute that you know my name.”

“It’s not-,” you began, but Sam cut you off.

“To answer your question, I have a game coming up. Though I’m sure you already knew that, seeing how you seem to know all about me.” He raised his eyebrows, on the verge of laughing.

“I don’t know all about you. Just the basics.” You argued, unable to stop the blush creeping onto your cheeks.

“Right, the basics,” he said it in a mocking tone that had you pouting again, “like my full name and my skills in bed.”

“I don’t know about your skills in bed.” You immediately defended, not realizing you’d fallen right into his trap until the words were already out. You squeezed your eyes shut in a cringe while he replied.

“Wanna find out?” You could hear that utterly charming annoying grin seeping into his words. You could also feel the little flutter in your gut telling you that his words really were having an effect on you, much to your dismay.

“Stupid pickup line.” You grumbled, fighting the urge – yet again – to smile.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Sam laughed, stretching his hands over his head which resulted in his shirt lifting just enough for you to see a peek of his abs and happy trail.

“Needed some work.” You mumbled, eyes still trained on the newly-revealed skin.

“Maybe you could help me out with it, since you’re so knowledgeable.” He tilted his head a bit, catching your attention. You flicked your gaze up without moving your head, locking eyes with him. He smirked, a crooked little thing that simultaneously annoyed and turned you on.

“See something you like?” It was the cockiness that had you rolling your eyes, not the need to drag your attention away from something other than the hunk of man in front of you.

“Why do you need to focus for this game? Isn’t it easy? Puck-in-net, game over?” You asked, trying to change the subject. It seemed to work.

“Oh yeah, real simple stuff. That’s why we get a bigger budget than you guys.” Sam’s comment surprised you. He knew who you were then, just as you had.

“No, you get a bigger budget because the budget office gets a hard-on for guys beating on each other.” You didn’t even notice you relaxing back against the bench, Sam’s arm grazing your hairline again.

“You think a bunch of twirling deserves more money?”

“It’s not just twirling. Do you know how hard it is to land some of those moves? No, because you look out on the ice and see a big playground for caveman punching.” You were being completely unfair and you knew it. That fact didn’t stop the wash of excitement at the chance to fully argue with someone. It’d been a while since you clicked with someone like this, especially someone as hot as Sam.

“You keep insinuating that we’re dumb.” He raised a brow. “Is that what you think?”

That flustered you.

“Well, I…,” you tried to collect yourself, “I’ve heard things. Things that add evidence to my thinking.”

“I’m pre-law.” Sam told you, giving you a short nod to further push his point. “Dean – I assume you know him too, gorgeous – he’s majoring in kinesiology. We’re not dumb.”

You blinked at him, a small frown forming on your face that Sam wanted to kiss off.

“I…,” you attempted to think of another defense. You couldn’t. This was one of the very rare times you were wrong. “You’re right. You’re not dumb.”

Then you remembered the point at hand.

“We don’t just twirl out there.” You huffed, scooting closer. Your knees were touching the denim fabric of his thigh now. “It’s really calculated stuff, Sam.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugged, chugging the rest of his drink and setting the cup down on the cement patio. “Just wanted to see how fired up you would get about it.”

You made a small noise of annoyance, though the smile creeping onto your face betrayed it.

“You’re insufferable.” You grinned, fidgeting with the fabric of your dress. Sam’s eyes dragged to the movement like a magnet to metal.

“Big word for a ribbon-head.” Sam mumbled teasingly.

“Ribbon-head?”

“See how ridiculous it sounds.”

You pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling too wide. Your fingers slowly moved, on their own accord, from your dress to his thigh, tracing lazy circles into the fabric.

“It was a bit ridiculous.” You admitted. You felt the pressure of Sam’s arm falling to rest on your shoulders. It wasn’t heavy, at least, not as heavy as you were expecting. Comforting and sexy were better words to describe it.

“I’ll let it slide, alcohol impairs my judgement too.” He nodded at your abandoned cup.

“No alcohol. That was all me, unfortunately.” You glanced at him, narrowing your eyes playfully. “I actually stick to my athletic contract.” You tapped his empty cup with the toe of your shoe.

“Mmm, me too, pretty girl,” you ignored the shiver that crept over you at the pet name, “it’s that shitty powdery stuff Delta Phi calls ‘lemonade.’”

“It was pretty bad, wasn’t it? The cafe down the street from my apartment makes theirs homemade, every morning. That is lemonade.” You didn’t know why you felt the need to share this information with him, but it felt right.

“Maybe you could take me some time, let me buy you a cup of it.” Sam shifted a bit closer to you.

You should have rolled your eyes again, maybe told him that pickup line was worse than the last. Instead, you gave him a slight smile.

“Maybe I could.”

Your eyes locked with his. The leaning of your body closer to him was something you were doing unconsciously, just needing to be closer to him. Sam watched you with interest, tongue darting out to lick across his lips.

“No sex.” You mumbled, leaning in closer. Your heart leapt at his soft chuckle.

“What kind of man do you take me for?” His lips were inches from yours, so close you could smell his breath – a mix of mint and that God-awful lemonade that had you wanting to taste him.

“I mean it. I don’t hook up during comps.” Your hand slid up his chest – pure muscle under your touch – and rested on his shoulder. His hand found your hip, pleasure sparking where his fingers gently gripped you.

“Yeah, I got that, sweetheart.” His words were mumbled onto your lips, skin brushing skin. You figured one more reminder of that would be overkill, especially with your resolve slowly breaking down with every second that passed.

You kissed him, soft and slow, savoring this moment with him. Sam’s grasp on you tightened slightly when a whimper hummed from your throat, motivating you to kiss him deeper. You slowly crawled onto his lap with his assistance.

He nibbled softly on your bottom lip and you granted him access to your mouth, parting your lips just enough to let him in. Your mind was fuzzy from the simple high of being near him, but one thing you could be certain of, that stupid lemonade tasted much better when you were licking it off of his tongue.

With your knees settled on either side of his thighs, you slid your hands up to tangle your fingers in his hair, earning you a hum from him. Your dress rode up with your position, the fabric bunching up where Sam held your hips.

He shifted, settling into a more comfortable position, and that's when you felt it. The seam of the front of his jeans brushed against your clit through your panties. A noise, just a small whimper that you tried to force down, tumbled out, making Sam smirk against your lips.

When you experimentally rolled your hips with another noise, he pulled away, breathing heavy.

“Thought you didn't do hook ups.” He pointed out, even as you rocked down into him again. You let out a shaky breath, fingers tugging at his hair gently.

“It's not sex if our clothes stay on.” You panted. If that logic had worked for your strict-Christian freshman year roommate, then it would work for you as well. A grin cracked across Sam's face.

“I like the way you think.” He said approvingly before diving back into the kiss. You gasped into him when he thrust his hips up into you. Somehow he knew the exact angle that rubbed against you perfectly.

“Fuck.” You groaned, tugging on his hair to get him closer. He tilted his head up, pushing his tongue against yours.

You couldn’t think. The only thing buzzing through your brain at a million miles an hour was SamSamSamSamSam. This was better than alcohol. His taste had you floating, light as a cloud. His touch set you on fire, sparks dashing wherever he made contact.

Maybe you could give in. One last night of sex just to feel more of him. It wasn’t as if the rule was necessarily mandatory. You’d just lived by it since hearing it boasted about by your team’s former captain – the girl you’d replaced when she moved on to the national team.

No. Fuck, you didn’t want to be one of those girls that only needed a bright smile to make them forget their standards. You were better than that, more disciplined. You couldn’t throw everything away for one night of bliss.

You’d let Sam take you out on a date before you spread your legs for him.

You moaned against his shoulder at the idea, your mouth falling open against the cotton of his hoodie. He kept a grip on your hip, but his other hand splayed across your back, gently holding you close.

“Are you going to come, pretty girl?” Sam’s voice was smooth and confident, like he knew he had control over the situation despite you being on top.

“Yes,” you breathed out, airy and desperate. Your hips kept rocking, faltering a bit the closer you got to release. Sam picked up the slack, thrusting up into you steadily.

“Do it,” he growled, hand flexing against you. “Come for me.”

You weren’t looking for permission, yet the moment he gave it, you felt yourself unravel. You bit down on his hoodie, trying to keep yourself from being too loud as you came, a low, long moan that morphed into a whine dragging from your throat.

Sam grunted, pulling you closer.

Ecstasy washed over you, numb pleasure rinsing away any stress you had ever felt. You slumped against him, letting yourself just be limp for a few moments. It was quiet again, the best kind. Heavy breathing, hitching when either one of your bodies shifted, filled the space.

“Didn’t know you could get prettier,” Sam mumbled, cradling you close to him, “but, holy shit, you’re drop-dead gorgeous when you come.”

You lifted your head, looking him in the eye with a tired smile.

“I’ll let you fuck me,” you held back a laugh at the surprise that morphed over his face, “if you buy me that cup of lemonade I was promised.”

Sam gave you a goofy grin, one that should’ve told you trouble was the only thing he was going to give you.

“I’ll buy you a gallon of the stuff if that’s all it takes.”

“You’re a dog.” You pretended to be annoyed, rolling your eyes. You were used to him at this point, comfortable with him to a point that was strange when you remembered you had just met the man less than an hour ago.

“Woof woof.” He replied, slapping a sloppy kiss on your cheek. It was so casual, like you two did this all the time. You laughed softly pushing off of him just as the sliding door leading to the house slammed open.

“Are you out here, babe?”

Lissa. You could tell it was her, even with the words slurred so close together they were barely coherent. You spun on your heel, smiling at her when she stumbled around the corner.

“There you are!” She exclaimed, throwing her arms up. You held your breath when she wobbled on her heels. “It's so boring here. Time to go.”

everything taglist : @littlesoulshine @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl @missus-ackles @tinas111 @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

sam winchester taglist : @hobiespick @xoswiftieprincess @whothefvckami

icebreaker tags: @gigiwritess

#supernatural #sam winchester #x reader #spn #supernatural x reader #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester x reader smut #sam winchester smut #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fic #hockey!sam #stanford!sam #stanford!hockey player!sam winchester x figure skater!reader #stanford!sam winchester

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cameronsbabydoll · 3 months ago

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another man’s grip

rafe cameron x female!reader x simon “ghost” riley

warnings: graphic violence, murder, possessiveness, blood, gun violence, explicit sexual content, emotional manipulation, dubcon elements, non-consensual undertones.

rafe’s got you on a leash—always has. his hand’s always on your neck, fingers too tight, his voice a low sneer as he calls you his girl like it’s a curse.

“don’t fuckin’ wander,” he snaps at the military gala, his outer banks drawl sharp, eyes glinting with that condescending mix of lust and control. you’re his arm candy, dolled up in a dress he picked, and he loves reminding you.

“nobody here’s worth your time, got it?”

you nod, but you’re already slipping—eyes scanning the crowd, craving something sharper than his cage.

then you see him—simon riley. ghost to the world, but just simon to you soon enough. he’s a fucking wall of a man, dress uniform barely containing his bulk, black surgical mask swapped for a balaclava he’s tugged down to smoke. his mancunian accent hits like a brick when he speaks, voice rough as tarmac.

“you look proper fucked off, love,” he says, leaning close, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. his dark eyes pin you—no mercy, no bullshit. “that posh twat own you or what?”

you laugh, shaky, glancing at rafe schmoozing across the room.

“something like that.”

simon’s smirk is a blade, and you feel it cut deep, right where you like it.

“reckon i could do better,” he says, voice low, thick with manchester grit—and your thighs clench without permission.

it’s a spiral from there. stolen glances turn to stolen nights. simon doesn’t court you; he claims you. his flat’s bare—concrete and cigarette burns—but it’s where he wrecks you.

“fuckin’ gorgeous, ain’t ya?” he growls, his accent heavy, words slurring as he bends you over a rickety table, fucking you raw, no condom, no apologies. his cock’s thick, stretching you till you’re whimpering, his gloved hands bruising your hips.

“this cunt’s mine now, yeah?” he says, and you sob his name—simon, simon—like a prayer.

rafe smells the betrayal. he’s not dumb, just cocky.

“who’s fuckin’ you, huh?” he snarls one night, yanking your hair back, his breath hot with whiskey. his possessiveness is a noose, tightening till you choke. you lie, but he’s watching, always watching, his smirk venomous.

“i’ll kill him,” he promises, and you believe him.

it goes down in a shithole motel, neon flickering outside. simon’s got you splayed on the bed, face down, ass up, his cock splitting you open, each thrust a fucking revelation. his dog tags slap your spine, his manc voice filthy in your ear.

“fuckin’ take it, love. this tight little cunt’s made for me, innit?”

you’re moaning, clawing the sheets, lost in the brutal rhythm of him. he’s mid-thrust, balls deep, when the door splinters.

rafe storms in, eyes wild, voice a roar, “you fuckin’ whore.”rafe has a knife, glinting in the dim light, and he lunges. simon’s faster—always is. he’s off you in a heartbeat, glock in hand, no hesitation.

“wrong move, mate,” he says, accent thick, almost lazy, and—pop—rafe’s skull cracks open, brains splattering the wall. he collapses, knife clattering, blood soaking the carpet black.

you scream, but simon’s on you, hand over your mouth, eyes burning. “shut it, love. he’s nothin’ but meat now.”

his voice is cold, but his cock’s still hard, pressing against your thigh. you’re shaking, tears mixing with sweat, but he doesn’t care. he shoves you back down, right next to rafe’s body, the coppery stink of blood thick in the air.

“gonna fuck you proper,” he says—and he does, slamming into you so hard the bed creaks, his cock dragging against your walls till you’re seeing stars.

“look at him,” he growls, yanking your hair, forcing you to stare at rafe’s glassy eyes. “he’s fuck-all now. you’re mine.”

you shouldn’t come—not like this—but you do, harder than ever, sobbing as your cunt clenches around him, milking him dry. he groans, manc accent thicker as he spills inside you, hot and filthy.

“that’s it, love. fuckin’ drench me.”

he’s not done. he pulls out, cum leaking down your thighs, and flips you onto your back. rafe’s body is right there, cooling, but simon’s already between your legs, mouth on your cunt, licking you clean. his tongue’s relentless, lapping up his own cum, your slick, everything, his stubble scraping your thighs raw.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles, voice muffled, manc drawl making it sound like a threat. you’re writhing, oversensitive, but he pins your hips, sucking your clit till you’re begging, tears streaming. he doesn’t stop till you come again, screaming his name, the room spinning, rafe’s corpse a sick backdrop.

he sits back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glinting.

“you’re with me now, yeah?” he says, glock resting on his thigh, blood still wet on the floor. you nod, heart hammering, knowing you’re bound to him—body and soul—in the wreckage of rafe��s end.

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societyfolklore · 13 days ago

Text

Riding the Rhythm

Title: Riding the Rhythm

Pairing: Drummer!Bucky Barnes x GF! Female Reader

Summary: The band’s gone, the drinks are flowing, and Bucky still wants to practice. You didn’t expect his rhythm to bounce you on his lap

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Established Relationship, Smut, strong language, Alcohol use (reader is tipsy), lap straddling, grinding, clothed dry humping, Unprotected couch sex, dirty talk, rough sex, praise (maybe others I cant tell) as always not Beta read...

A/N: Cos I can not get over this clip! https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSBC8RYV7/ Oh and @sunday-bug *waves* have fun

The last laugh faded down the stairwell, the rehearsal room door slamming shut behind whoever left last. You weren’t sure, but didn’t really care. You were too busy topping off your Solo cup with a generous splash of vodka, chasing the cheap mixer down with an amused little hum. The mix was already stronger than you'd meant it to be, but you didn’t care. Not tonight. Not with the way the air buzzed from leftover music and the warm ache of a lazy buzz settling deep into your bones.

The sharp burn of the vodka made you giggle to yourself, warmth blooming in your chest as you gave the cup a lazy swirl. You took another sip, and then another, until the taste barely registered anymore, just smooth, warm, and reckless. Your limbs felt soft. Loose. Like your body had already melted into the cracked velvet couch cushions. The kind of tipsy that made you bold and flirty, too slow to overthink the way you were watching Bucky from across the room.

The whole rehearsal space felt like it had tipped sideways into something more intimate. A couple of half-drained beers still sat forgotten on the amp stack, red cups littered the floor like confetti, and the overhead light had gone warm and low. A haze of sweat and old sound foam clung to the air, making your skin feel extra sensitive, even the brush of your hair along your shoulder could pull a sigh from your lips.

It was just you now, lazily draped across the couch with one leg over the other, red cup in hand and a tipsy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth and Bucky. Shirtless. Behind his drum kit.

Drums still gleaming under the soft amber glow, his sticks rested against his thigh as he adjusted the snare and flexed his neck, tattoos shifting with every movement. He looked like he belonged there, like sin made flesh: ripped jeans slung low, sweat glistening along the curve of his chest, his abs taut from the subtle movements of posture and play. A drum key stuck behind one ear. Black smudged down his bicep. A cigarette burned low in the ashtray beside his water bottle, forgotten. And he hadn’t looked at you in five minutes.

“You gonna come here and sit pretty for me, sweetheart?” he asked finally, glancing over his shoulder with that crooked grin that always made your thighs clench. “Need to run this set again before tomorrow.”

You tipped your cup toward him like a toast, voice syrupy and amused. “Pretty sure rehearsal’s over.”

He grinned wider, eyes dipping down your frame like he was already imagining the next setlist. “Nah, this part’s just for me.”

You tipped the last of your drink back in one long swallow, the vodka burn barely noticeable now, and set the empty cup down with a clumsy thud on the nearby speaker. A slow grin tugged at your lips as you rose from the couch, bare feet touching down on the cold concrete floor. The chill sent a little shiver up your legs, but you were too warm, too flushed from the booze and the way Bucky was looking at you, to care. Each step over to him felt slow and syrupy, your body loose with that low, humming kind of buzz.

Bucky leaned back slightly on the stool, legs spread wide and arms relaxed across his thighs, his cocky smile blooming the moment you stepped between them. “Come on then,” he murmured, voice rough with amusement. “Take your seat.”

You bit your lip, heat flaring low in your belly as you reached for his shoulders. Slowly, deliberately- you swung a leg over, your knees bracketing his hips, the rough denim of his jeans catching on your bare thighs. His hands didn’t guide you, just rested lazily on his thighs, letting you do it on your own, letting you choose it. Letting you straddle him like you wanted to.

Once you were settled, chest to chest, your arms looped around his neck, and his palms finally rose to steady your hips, strong and warm. He shifted slightly adjusting the floor toms position, his foot hovering near the pedal.

“You good?” he murmured, voice close enough to brush your cheek.

“Mmhmm.” You kissed his jaw, playful. “Sure you’ll focus?”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, his eyes flicking from your lips to your thighs as they pressed tighter against his hips. “Gonna be the most focused I’ve ever been,” he drawled, voice low and teasing, “long as you stay right here.”

The taps were light at first, snapping off the skin with fluid, practiced ease, but it was the bass pedal beneath you that had you sucking in a breath. Every pump of his foot sent a little jolt up his thigh, which meant you were bouncing. Not wildly. Not even enough to seem intentional.

But enough.

Enough to make your hips shift. Enough to make you feel the hard shape of him under your panties, right where your shorts had already ridden up. You held on tighter, your chest brushing his.

He didn’t say a word, Bucky just kept playing. Focused. Calm. Like he didn’t hear the way your breathing had started to hitch, shallow and uneven, catching each time you bounced down against him. Like he didn’t know what this rhythm was doing to you.

But you saw it – that twitch at the corner of his mouth. The slight strain in his shoulder as he held back from gripping you tighter.

You rolled your hips once, and his sticks stuttered.

“Bucky- ” you started, a breathy laugh catching in your throat.

His sticks stopped.

He let the silence settle for a beat, then one hand reached down to set them aside with an intentional clatter against the pad. With the other, he brought the smooth shaft of one stick up, slow and teasing, and ran it along the inside of your bare thigh. Not a playful tap, no, he dragged it. The wood was still warm from his grip, but the contrast to your flushed skin made you gasp. From your knee, up the delicate curve of your thigh, almost high enough to make you jump, then back down again, like he was tracing out a tempo only he could hear.

“Think that’s funny, huh?” he said quietly, eyes never leaving the place where the stick brushed your skin. “Bouncin’ on me like that, gigglin’ like you’re not already soaked.”

Your breath caught, your thighs twitching slightly around his hips. He didn’t push further, just held it there. Waiting. Watching.

Then both his hands slid down your waist and anchored on your hips.

“You gonna keep squirming on my cock like that and pretend it ain’t on purpose?”

You swallowed, gaze flicking to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, half-lidded, blue pools deep enough to swim in, were focused on you now.

“Didn’t say stop,” you whispered.

“Good,” he muttered, dragging his hands up the back of your thighs. “Then ride, baby. Go on.”

You didn’t need more encouragement. You started to grind, slow at first, letting the pedal do half the work, his thigh bouncing you into that perfect friction. Your panties had long since soaked through, the heat of him beneath you too much to ignore, too good to stop. You let your head fall forward against his shoulder as you found your rhythm, your hips rolling against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a low grunt, rough and sharp, one that went straight to your core.

His hands roamed, one splayed between your shoulder blades, warm and grounding, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to grip your bare waist possessively. His fingers flexed like he was holding back, just barely resisting the urge to take over.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice thick with heat. “That’s my girl. Use it. Fuckin’ ride the rhythm.”

Your breath hitched, shaky and high. You clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle, your moans catching in your throat as your clit dragged over the ridge of his zipper with each bounce. The friction was maddening, constant and insistent. He adjusted the angle of his leg, and the next jolt of his thigh hit just right.

You whimpered, hips stuttering.

He felt it. Knew it. His foot didn’t falter just braced harder to keep the rhythm going, to keep you bouncing. “Feel what you’re doing to me?” he murmured, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re soaked, baby. Fuckin’ ruined my jeans, and we haven’t even gotten to the good part.”

You whimpered again, louder this time, your breath coming in little gasps now.

Your head dropped fully to his shoulder, face buried against his skin. “Bucky…”

His hand slipped lower, squeezing your ass with a low curse. “You close?” he asked, thrusting up against you, grinding in rhythm. His voice rasped against your ear. “I just know that little pussy’s clenching every time you drop down on me. You gonna cum in your panties like a good girl?”

You trembled, the tension coiling tight and hotter by the second. Your thighs burned from how hard you were squeezing him, your hips rocking in frantic little circles now, chasing friction wherever you could find it. You could barely think, barely breathe, just feel.

Your breath came in shallow pants, each one tighter than the last. You clenched down, chasing it- so damn close, but not enough. The pressure had your vision swimming, your thighs starting to tremble. You wanted more. Needed it. Something deeper. Something brutal.

You were so close it hurt. So close it made your eyes sting.

But it wasn’t enough.

And then his sticks hit the floor.

Before you could register it, he stood, lifting you with him. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“I was gonna wait,” he muttered, breath hot at your ear. “Take you home. Do it right.”

He kicked an amp cable out of the way, crossed the room in a few long strides, and bent you over the arm of the couch.

“But you had to grind on me like that, didn’t you?”

Your hands gripped the fabric, body arched, back curved like a bowstring drawn tight. You heard the sound of a zipper, the faint rasp of metal giving way to urgency, then the rustle of denim shoved just low enough to free him.

Cool air kissed the backs of your thighs as your tiny shorts were yanked down, the soft scrape of fabric dragging along your flushed skin. He didn’t bother taking them off completely, just enough to expose you, enough to make you feel bare and needy and offered.

He groaned behind you, the sound filthy and low. “Fuck. Look at you,” he muttered, one palm trailing up the curve of your ass, fingers squeezing, then parting you to look. “All that grindin’ and now this little pussy’s begging to be filled.”

A desperate whimper escaped your lips. You couldn’t even pretend to play coy anymore, your thighs were trembling, your cunt was aching, and you needed him.

The tip of his cock brushed against your entrance, dragging slow and deliberate through your slick folds, teasing you with shallow glides that made your whole body flinch. You gasped, toes curling against the floor.

“Bucky, please- ” you breathed, voice barely there.

“So wet,” he growled, cock sliding through your folds again, catching at your entrance but not pushing in. “You did this- bouncin’ like a fuckin’ toy on my lap. Thought I was gonna let that slide?”

Your fingers clawed at the couch cushion, your hips tilting back toward him instinctively. You were already clenching around nothing, needy and empty.

And then he pushed forward- slow and steady, thick and unrelenting- until he was buried in you.

You both gasped, loud and raw. The stretch knocked the air out of your lungs. His hands grabbed onto your hips, grounding himself there as you pulsed around him.

“Jesus,” he bit out, hips rolling in a deep, testing grind. You pushed back against him, needing more, gasping when your ass pressed flush to his hips. “Still fuckin’ bouncin’ on me. Can feel how tight you are, like you’re tryin’ to pull me deeper. Fuck.”

He pulled out slow, to the very tip, just enough to make you whimper and then slammed back in, the slap of skin-on-skin ringing out like a backbeat against the walls.

You cried out, the sound high and broken. Your back arched, thighs trembling.

One hand slid up your spine, firm and possessive, until it pressed between your shoulder blades, folding you further over the armrest. The other clamped down on your hip, dragging you back into every bruising thrust like he was keeping time with your body.

Each thrust was filthy, rough, possessive- like he was still chasing the rhythm you’d both started with, but now it was all instinct. The pace built slowly, steadily, until he was fucking you in deep, rhythmic strokes that had your entire body rocking into the couch. The slap of skin echoed louder with each impact, each wet thrust a messy testament to how badly you needed this.

He leaned over your back, panting against your ear. “You hear that?” he murmured, one hand now gripping the edge of the couch beside yours. “That’s your pussy talkin’ to me- fuckin’ singin’ every time I give you what you need.”

You whimpered, nodding into the cushion, dizzy from the pace and the heat of him pressed all along your back. The vodka buzz still hummed in your veins, and now the room spun in waves, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The air smelled like sex and sweat and something dangerously addictive. You bit your bottom lip hard, trying to ground yourself, but the way he kept moving inside you made your entire body feel like it was vibrating.

But he didn’t let up, Bucky kept you there, bent and filled and aching, as he fucked you slow and hard, hips snapping with controlled power. Every thrust felt deeper than the last, every drag of his cock stretching you wide, leaving you panting and pulsing around him. You could feel the wet slide of him, the mess dripping down your thighs.

“Wanted to fuck you from the second you climbed in my lap,” he rasped, dragging his teeth along your shoulder. “Could feel how wet you were gettin’, how tight you were holdin’ back.”

You moaned, eyes fluttering shut, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. The other curled into the couch cushion like it could anchor you. “I didn’t mean to- ”

He cut you off with a particularly deep thrust that made you choke on a moan. Your fingers scrambled for purchase, nails dragging down the worn fabric as your body trembled from the inside out. “Didn’t mean to grind on my cock like a needy little tease? Nah, baby. You meant it. You wanted this.”

He didn’t slow. His cock dragged out just enough to make you feel the emptiness before he plunged back in, forcing another strangled sound from your throat. The rhythm he’d found was brutal and steady, hips slamming into you in a punishing rhythm that made your skin burn and your thighs quake.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan, eyes squeezed shut as you bit down on your lip, trying to stay tethered to your body as pleasure raked through you.

You nodded frantically, too far gone to lie now. “Yes- yes, I wanted it, I wanted you- ”

Bucky groaned behind you, his grip flexing hard on your hips. “Yeah, you fuckin’ did. Knew it the second you climbed in my lap, the second you started rockin’ that needy little cunt against me. Could feel it- every fuckin’ inch of you beggin’ for it.”

He shifted behind you, angling deeper, dragging another broken cry from your lips as he slammed into you with ruthless rhythm. The couch creaked beneath your bodies, each thrust a raw, pounding beat that left you trembling.

His grip never faltered. Every thrust hit deeper, rougher, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing around the rehearsal space like its own frantic percussion. Your breath came in ragged, high-pitched gasps, and your knees buckled again as he drove you forward on the couch. Sweat gathered at the base of your spine, slicking your skin where his abs collided with your ass.

“Fuckin’ takin’ me so good,” he groaned. “This pussy’s made for it. Squeezin’ me so tight- can barely hold it together.”

Your legs started to shake, overstimulated and dizzy, hands scrambling to hold onto something, anything. Your nails scratched at the worn upholstery, your forehead pressed against your forearm to muffle another whimper. “Bucky- oh my god- please- ”

“You close again?” he rasped, cock still pistoning into you, the grind of his pelvis smearing slick mess across your thighs. “I can feel it, baby. Feel you clutchin’ me.”

“Bucky- oh- fuck- please- I’m gonna- can’t hold it- Bucky, I’m gonna- ”

“Yeah you are,” he growled, voice dark, breath breaking. His hips snapping harder now, reckless with it. His hand slipped between your legs without pause, fingers working fast, rubbing messy, tight circles against your clit like he was determined to push you right over the edge. “Cum for me, baby. Cum just like you were about to in my lap. Wanna feel you lose it on me.”

You came with a cry; loud, wild, your whole body jerking as your walls clenched hard around him. The orgasm ripped through you fast and sharp, a white-hot shock of euphoria that rolled through every nerve ending. Your legs gave out, your hands slipped on the couch cushion, and all you could do was moan as your body shook with it. It wasn’t just pleasure, it was an undoing. The alcohol buzz and the climax blurred together in your bloodstream, turning everything into a dizzy, molten rush. Your vision spotted, your mouth hung open, and your breath sobbed out of you like it was being pulled from somewhere deeper.

Behind you, Bucky let out a raw, strangled noise that barely sounded human. His hands pulled your hips back, holding you firm as he spilled into you, groaning through clenched teeth. His fingers bruised into your flesh while his cock twitched deep inside, each pulse hot and overwhelming. His abs flexed hard against your back, his whole frame shaking as the orgasm rolled through him.

“Shit- fuckin’ perfect- could die in this pussy,” he panted, voice wrecked and reverent.

He didn’t let go, just stayed there, locked deep, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. One hand pulled from between your legs slid slowly over your waist, the other still gripping tight, and you felt him breathe the words against your spine.

“Fuck- fuck, baby.”

He stayed pressed against you, panting hard, like the pleasure had knocked the breath from his lungs too.

You both collapsed forward, panting. Your body was boneless, folded over the couch arm with his weight warm and heavy behind you. The room buzzed around you, the hum of the amp, the tick of the cooling drum pad.

For a long moment, the only sound was your heart racing and his breath against your shoulder. You felt the throb of your pulse between your legs, your skin hot and damp and aching in the best way.

Then, without pulling out, Bucky leaned forward and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck.

“...Think I found my rhythm.”

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tangyneon · 1 month ago

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lychee pops!

It's Tokyo, summer of 2005, and Gojo Satoru is thriving.

He's free, he's fabulous, he's fifteen—and way too busy being iconic to miss anyone from Kyoto. Like, please.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: teen!gojo; teen!reader; fluff; mild angst; humor; gojo and you have been engaged since childhood owing to an agreement between his clan and yours; neither of you really knows what that means now; mutual pining; some might describe gojo's dynamic with you as an unestablished relationship; few might describe it as a long-distance relationship; word count—1794. warnings: malfunctioning cursed charms and kitchen distasters. notes: the jjk hi movie frames have left me terribly unwell. never mind me, though—hope you'll enjoy reading this, babes!! ❤️❤️

Tokyo smells different.

This is the first thing that Gojo notices after stepping off the train and into the hustle and bustle of the city. There's the sharp, biting tang of fuel and exhaust, there's the slightly burnt smell of warm asphalt and the dry undertone of the concrete and dust. There's the cloying blend of perfume and cologne, made far worse when mixed with the stench of sweat and body odour. Even the cursed energy in the air feels quite different—more raw, more chaotic, much less calculated...

Gojo likes it.

Or. Well.

The boy is deciding to like it.

After months of—no, an eternity of—dealing with shouting, threats, three different elders trying to bribe him in three different ways, and one disgustingly dramatic fainting episode by yet another elder, he's finally here. And he thinks it's totally worth it.

His room is small and full of dust, but it is his. His side of the dorm smells like his deodorant and microwave cup ramen. There's a tiny balcony right next to it, that overlooks an alley where he saw a cat fight with a crow this morning. On the other side of his bed, there's Geto, who acts like he is an eighty-year-old grandpa and reads out loud from his philosophy books and acts way too proper in front of their teachers. On the far side of the room, there's an empty bed, in which Shoko crashes once in a while, who drinks cough syrups like herbal tea and smokes cigarettes like hell and has already said she'll kill him, then resurrect him—just to murder him all over again—if he dares to steal her snacks a second time.

It is loud, it is weird, it is likely cursed too—but in all the best ways.

Gojo should be completely, deliriously happy now.

And he is. He really is.

But still, the boy finds himself just lying on the bed, his phone on his chest, his unguarded eyes fixed on the ceiling fan as if it'll transform into a divine messenger any instant now, and drop a divine message or two from the heavens.

Then—the phone buzzes.

Gojo doesn't even need to check the name.

He knows it is you.

It has never not been you.

You always call after dinner. Neither too late nor too early. You always wait until your clan elders are done with their evening work, and your family members have gone to bed, and it's finally safe to whisper. He can already imagine you tiptoeing to the farthest corner of your room with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder and your ugly pink blanket wrapped tightly around your frame.

Gojo waits for a moment. Then, he flips his phone open, watching its screen light up with the [chatterbox CALLING...].

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

He picks up after the fourth ring.

"Yo," he says, hoping he sounds as nonchalant as he feels right now. He frowns when he ends up sounding a bit too eager, a bit too warm—nearly stupidly so—however.

"Hi," your voice comes through a second later, very soft and just a bit shaky. It's only one word, but you say it like you mean it, like you were not too sure he would answer—which is why Gojo doesn't really mind when he tries not to smile, then fails.

"Took you long enough," he mutters, shifting onto his side so his hair flops back from his forehead—not that it is that long, though—"I was starting to think maybe you forgot your beloved betrothed, left to rot out here in the cursed wastelands of Tokyo."

"You have been there for less than a week, 'Toru," you huff—amused, he can tell. "And Tokyo is hardly a wasteland. Tokyo is Tokyo."

"Which is the biggest lie ever," he says, dead serious, "There are vending machines here that sell hot corn soup. In a can. Can you believe that? Hot corn soup in a can!"

There's a pause. A brief pause.

"...Okay, that is horrifying," you finally reply, sounding vaguely disgusted.

"Right?" Gojo exclaims, almost triumphantly, "I feel cursed just standing next to it. And Shoko drinks it."

"You need to report her to someone."

"I could," he says, but it comes out more like a whine, "but I think she would dissect me if I tried."

You giggle at that—the sound of it barely more than a breath, yet it's real and sweet and bright, and it fills the spaces between and behind his ribs like the warm spring sun. Gojo presses the phone closer to his ear.

"You sound good," you say after a while.

"Why do you sound surprised?"

"I'm not. I just..." He hears you falter for a beat, then speak again—softer this time, "I just—I'm glad. You were so tense before you left. Especially during the ceremony."

He shrugs, only to realise a moment late that you cannot see it. He settles on a careless hum, instead, "Those old geezers were breathing down my neck. Kept saying I would 'dishonour my role' by leaving the estate."

"Dishonour it how? By getting an education?"

"By thinking for myself, apparently."

He gets a sympathetic hum for that. And the quiet that follows feels soft, he thinks—definitely one of the comfortable ones—only for you, ever the chatterbox, to break it not even two full seconds later.

"And, 'Toru," you ask, "did your room end up okay? Is it strange, living with other students?"

"It's fine," he answers easily, "Geto is neat. Sort of a clean freak, though. Shoko is messy—way more than me. I took the bed near the window."

"Of course, you did."

"Of course, I did," Gojo echoes back, grinning at the chuckle you give, "Gotta have a dramatic background for my morning monologues, you see."

You snort. "What, like... 'Alas, o cruel world, my breakfast cereals expired yesterday'?"

"No, like—" Gojo deepens his voice dramatically, "—'The weight of the Gojo clan bears heavily upon my shoulders. Woe is me, for I am but a vessel of power and dashing good looks'."

A loud laugh erupts out of you at that—the sound of it so full and so open, it crackles in his ears and makes his chest hurt in a fashion he isn't too certain he has the training to identify.

The boy does not mind the pain, though. Not really, anyway.

"You're such a drama queen," you gasp out between giggles.

"You love it," he shoots back, flipping onto his stomach and grinning into his pillow.

You suddenly pause. And then—

"...I do."

Gojo almost doesn't hear you at first. But when he does, he thinks it's too soft, it's too blunt, it was said in a way too uncomplicated for it to have been by anyone who isn't you.

His smile stutters. It nearly collapses. He stares down at the triangles on the bedsheets, heart suddenly doing something irritatingly stupid inside his chest.

He changes the subject faster than he has ever teleported.

"So, well, um—what's going on in Boredom Central?"

You snort again. "Besides the elders calling me in for 'refinement sessions'? Nothing much, I guess... I did nearly get killed by a few cursed charms, though—"

"What!?" Gojo chokes.

"Your fiancée was nearly killed by cursed charms this morning," you repeat cheerfully, clearly mistaking his shock for something entirely different, "According to my aunt, I must not have handled them with enough respect. According to me, the charms were clearly made by someone moronic—why else would a charm backfire on its first use, hm? They clearly weren't made well."

"Your aunt's husband is the one who supplied those charms, right?" he asks slowly.

"Yeah, so? My point still stands."

Your reply draws a bark of a laugh from Gojo—the noise of it, short and sharp yet breathless. And it's not until he hears himself that he realises how tightly he has been holding onto his breath ever since arriving in Tokyo.

Not willing to go too much into what it may mean, he sobers himself, and listens as you talk about your day. How you caught your cousins sneaking out of the estate to go to a baseball match. How your mom scolded you for saying "UGH, I hate this," in front of an ancient scroll. How you tried to make his favourite dango, but almost burnt yourself in the process.

Gojo makes the appropriate noises as you speak—laughter, outrage, exasperation—but he mostly just listens. To your voice. To the many small shifts in your voice. To the way it never makes him feel like he's the strongest, or the most important, or the heir saturated with way too much power for only soul to hold.

To you, he is just 'Toru.

And he likes that. Maybe a little more than he ever should.

"...Hey," you say after quite some time, your voice much quieter now, "You're really okay, right?"

"I told you, I'm great," he quips, as casually as ever.

"I know, I know. It's just that... you sound tired, 'Toru."

Gojo falls silent for a beat—then sighs. It's an almost inaudible sound, but he thinks he can feel the weight of it settle some place deep in his bones, if only for a second.

"I think I am," he admits, slowly, softly, "But not in a bad way. Just... new place. New people. New everything. I'm learning how to be me, and not just what the elders want."

You hum in agreement, and a moment later, your voice follows—so gentle, it barely rustles the line.

"You can be you with me too, you know."

Gojo's throat tightens, just a little. "Yeah," he says, clearing his throat, "Yeah, I know."

"Good," you hum, the smile evident in your voice even if he can't see you right now—and then you yawn. The boy grins—suddenly feeling himself back in familiar territory again.

"Falling asleep on me already?" he smirks.

"No, no," you mumble—then yawn again. "'S just warm. And it's late."

Betraying his intention, his smile softens into something annoyingly yet unsurprisingly affectionate. He does not bother to fight it. "Go to sleep then, dummy."

"No... you hang up first, 'Toru."

"No, you hang up first."

"No, you!"

A sleepy laugh escapes you. "We are ridiculous," you mumble.

"We've always been ridiculous."

A tiny giggle answers from the other end.

There's a beat. Then, your voice drifts back, soft and sleep-drunk, "So... four rings tomorrow?"

"Four rings tomorrow," he echoes, his tone light and easy—before a yawn escapes him this time.

You giggle again, and the line goes quiet.

Gojo stays exactly where he is, phone cradled to his chest, and a soft, contented smile curling at his lips—as if he doesn't want the moment to end just yet.

find the sequel fic here!!!! © tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || header is from pinterest || masterlist.

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nilkanthengineeringworks · 2 years ago

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Types of Concrete Batching Plant: Which One is Right for You?

Introduction

Concrete batching plants are essential equipment for any construction project that requires large quantities of concrete. These machines mix the ingredients of concrete, such as water, cement, and aggregates, to produce a uniform and high-quality concrete mix.

There are different types of concrete batching plants available, each with its own advantages and disadvantages. The best type of concrete batching plant for a particular project will depend on a number of factors, such as the size and location of the project, the type of concrete required, and the budget.

Types of Concrete Batching Plants

Concrete batching plants can be classified into two main types:

Dry mix concrete batching plants: These plants weigh the ingredients of concrete in weigh batchers and then load them into a truck mixer. The truck mixer mixes the ingredients on the way to the construction site. Dry mix concrete batching plants are often used for large construction projects, such as highways and bridges Dry mix concrete batching plant

Wet mix concrete batching plants: These plants mix all of the ingredients of concrete at the plant and then transport the ready-mixed concrete to the construction site in a concrete mixer truck. Wet mix concrete batching plants are often used for smaller construction projects, such as residential and commercial buildings.

Other Types of Concrete Batching Plants

In addition to dry mix and wet mix concrete batching plants, there are also other types of concrete batching plants available, such as:

Compact concrete batching plants: These plants are smaller and less expensive than traditional concrete batching plants. Compact concrete batching plants are often used for smaller construction projects, such as home renovations and landscaping projects.

Mobile concrete batching plants: These plants are mounted on wheels and can be easily transported to different construction sites. Mobile concrete batching plants are a good option for projects that are located in remote areas or that require concrete to be mixed at multiple locations.

Stationary concrete batching plants: These plants are permanently installed at one location. Stationary concrete batching plants are often used for large construction projects that require a high volume of concrete.

Other Concrete Batching Plant Equipment

In addition to the concrete batching plant itself, there are a number of other pieces of equipment that are often used in conjunction with concrete batching plants, such as:

Cement silos: Cement silo are used to store cement in bulk. Cement silos can be found at both dry mix and wet mix concrete batching plants.

RMC plants: RMC plant, also known as ready-mixed concrete plants, are wet mix concrete batching plants that produce ready-mixed concrete. Ready-mixed concrete is concrete that has already been mixed and is ready to be poured at the construction site.

WMM plants: WMM plants, also known as wet mix macadam plants, are wet mix concrete batching plants that produce wet mix macadam. Wet mix macadam is a type of concrete that is used for paving roads and highways.

How to Choose the Right Concrete Batching Plant

When choosing a concrete batching plant, it is important to consider the following factors:

Size of the project: Larger projects will require a concrete batching plant with a higher production capacity.

Location of the project: If the project is located far away from a concrete batching plant, it may be more cost-effective to choose a mobile concrete batching plant.

Type of concrete required: Different types of concrete require different mixing methods. For example, high-performance concrete may require a special type of concrete mixer.

Budget: Concrete batching plants can range in price from a few thousand dollars to millions of dollars. It is important to choose a concrete batching plant that fits your budget.

If you are unsure which type of concrete batching plant is right for your project, it is best to consult with a concrete batching plant expert.

Conclusion

Concrete batching plants are essential equipment for any construction project that requires large quantities of concrete. There are different types of concrete batching plants available, each with its own advantages and disadvantages. The best type of concrete batching plant for a particular project will depend on a number of factors, such as the size and location of the project, the type of concrete required, and the budget.

#cement silo #compact concrete batching plants #concrete batching plant #concrete batching plants #Dry mix concrete batching plants #Mobile concrete batching plants in Gujarat #RMC plant #stationary Concrete batching plants #types of concrete batching plants #Wet mix concrete batching plants #Wet Mix Macadam Plants

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zeroxxlhero · 6 months ago

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Beast • Vi

Warnings: 18+ characters, werewolf! Vi, hunter! reader, blow jobs, bondage, teasing, rough fucking, talks of drugging, questionable consent, past established relationship, lingering feelings, slight possessive tendencies, descriptions of Vi having a happy trail, use of the nickname ‘puppy’ ‘baby’ ‘sweet bit,’ mentions of vampire!Caitlyn, power play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, vaginal sex

Pairings: Vi x You

Fandom: Arcane (League of Legends)

Your job was to hunt monsters—vampires, werewolves, the undead, and anything else that wasn't considered to be human. So what happens when you've got Piltover's most infamous werewolf in your grasp and she can't control herself despite the past that was shared between the two of you?

Vi’s consciousness returned slowly, reluctantly, dragging her up from a heavy, drugged slumber. The first thing she registered was the taste—a metallic tang of blood mixed with the acrid bitterness of drugs. She gagged, her dry tongue scraping against the roof of her mouth as her body stiffened. Her head throbbed a dull, relentless ache that paired cruelly with the chill sinking into her bones.

When she finally cracked her eyes open, the dim light seared into her vision. It flickered weakly overhead, illuminating the damp, cracked concrete of the room around her. It took her a moment to register the tension in her limbs, the cold bite of steel digging into her wrists and ankles. She was suspended against the wall, arms stretched above her head and feet barely brushing the ground. She shifted, testing the bonds, and the rattle of heavy chains echoed in the silence.

Her strength surged instinctively, muscles coiling and pulling, but the cuffs didn’t budge. A sickening realization hit her as her power faltered—it wasn’t just the physical restraints. Whatever alloy these chains were made of, it was suppressing her abilities. The familiar heat of her werewolf strength, the heightened senses, the fire that fueled her—everything felt muted, like a dimly lit flame about to sputter out.

Panic and fury rose in equal measure, but a new sensation cut through the haze. A scent. Sharp, familiar, and infuriating. Her instincts sharpened, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as a low growl rumbled in her chest. Her head snapped to the source, her glowing eyes narrowing as she took in the figure seated a few feet away.

There you were, lounging comfortably in a chair, legs crossed, one hand resting lazily on the armrest. The smirk on your face was maddening, a mixture of amusement and confidence that made Vi’s blood boil. You were watching her like she was an animal in a cage, the flickering light above casting shifting shadows across your features.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you said casually, your voice dripping with mockery. “Did you sleep well?”

Vi bared her teeth, the growl in her chest deepening. “You,” she spat, her voice hoarse but laced with venom. “What the hell did you do to me?”

You chuckled softly, leaning forward slightly in your chair. “Me? Oh, Vi, don’t give me so much credit. You did most of the work yourself.” Your tone was infuriatingly nonchalant like this was just another casual encounter. “You should thank me. It’s been so long since you let the wolf out. I just… helped things along.”

Her jaw tightened, her glowing eyes boring into you as she tugged at the chains again. The metal bit into her wrists, drawing a thin line of blood, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stand the smug look on your face, the way you seemed to enjoy every second of her struggle.

“I’m going to kill you,” she snarled, her voice vibrating with rage.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair. “Is that so?” you mused, tilting your head as if considering her words. “You seem a little… tied up at the moment.”

The taunt ignited her fury, her muscles straining as she pulled harder against the chains. But the cuffs held firm, their enchanted weight draining her energy with every movement.

“You’re a coward,” she hissed, her teeth bared. “Can’t beat me face-to-face, so you resort to this?”

Your smirk widened, your gaze sweeping over her like she was a piece of art. “Coward? No, Vi. I’d call it… resourceful. You haven’t been yourself lately. Too much time pretending to be human. You’ve forgotten what you are.”

Vi’s growl turned into a snarl, the sound echoing in the confined space. She wanted to tear your throat out, to rip you apart with her claws. And yet, beneath the boiling rage, something else simmered. The heat in her veins wasn’t just anger—it was sharper, hotter, and far more dangerous.

You stood, the movement slow and deliberate, your boots clicking softly against the floor as you approached her. She tensed, her glowing eyes locked on you as every fiber of her being screamed to attack. But the damn chains held her back, leaving her helpless as you stopped just inches away.

“Did you enjoy your little snack?” you asked, your voice low and teasing as your fingers brushed her jaw. She jerked her head away, but the chains didn’t give her much room to move. Your grin widened at her defiance, and your hand trailed downward, your fingers ghosting over the hard ridges of her abdomen visible through her white tank top.

“You’ve kept yourself in good shape,” you murmured, your tone almost reverent as your hand lingered for just a second too long. “I’ve missed this… missed you.”

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, heat flaring under your touch. She hated it, hated the way her muscles tightened, the way her breath hitched. Her rational mind screamed to lunge for your throat, to end this, but another part of her—the wolf, primal and raw—felt something else entirely. The lines between hatred and something darker blurred, twisting her fury into something volatile.

“Get your hands off me,” she growled, her voice low and dangerous, but there was a tremor beneath it. She hated herself for it, hated the way her body betrayed her.

You leaned in, your breath warm against her ear as you whispered, “Or what? You’ll tear me apart? Do it, Vi. You’re close enough.”

Her teeth clenched, her jaw tight as she fought the conflicting emotions raging inside her. She could do it. She could end this right now. But she didn’t. Something inside her stopped her, held her back, and infuriated her even more.

You pulled back slightly, your smirk never faltering as you met her glowing eyes. “That’s what I thought,” you said softly, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You can hate me all you want, Vi, but we both know it’s never that simple.”

With that, you stepped back, leaving her seething and breathless. The heat in her veins burned hotter, her hatred for you tangled with something she couldn’t name. And as you turned and walked back to your chair, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness, she realized this was far from over.

Vi’s breath was ragged, her chest rising and falling as she glared at you, her glowing eyes burning with barely contained fury. She struggled against the chains again, the sharp clink of metal filling the room, but it was no use. She wasn’t going anywhere.

“What are you going to do with me?” she snarled, her voice low but shaking with anger.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest as your smirk shifted into something colder, more calculated. “Oh, right,” you began, your voice almost casual, but the undertone of malice was unmistakable. “I’m turning you over to Piltover. They’ve been very interested in getting their hands on you. Seems there’s quite the bounty on your head.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and a string of curses left her lips. “Those bastards are still after me?” she growled, her voice dripping with venom. She tugged at the chains again, her muscles straining uselessly against the unyielding metal.

You scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Still after you?” you repeated, a mocking lilt to your tone. “You killed three enforcers, Vi. Piltover doesn’t just ‘forget’ about things like that. They want you locked up—like the true beast you are. And once they’ve got you in their cages, they’ll make sure to treat you like the dog you’ve always been.”

The words hit her like a slap, and she felt her anger boil over into something hotter, sharper. Her glowing eyes burned brighter as her lip curled in a snarl. “Watch your damn mouth,” she growled, her voice low and dangerous. “I didn’t kill those enforcers for no reason.”

“Oh?” you said, raising an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. “Any noble reason you had for tearing them apart?”

Her teeth clenched, her jaw tightening as the memories surfaced unbidden. The blood. The chaos. The lives she’d tried to protect, only to end up being painted as a monster. “It wasn’t that simple,” she hissed, her voice thick with frustration. “You don’t know the whole story—”

“Don’t care,” you cut her off abruptly, waving a hand as if brushing her words aside. “Whatever happened between you and Piltover? That’s your mess to clean up, not mine. Save your excuses for them. I’m just the middleman here.”

Her hands curled into fists, the chains rattling faintly as she strained against them once more. “You’re a damn coward,” she snapped. “Selling me out to them like this. Is this what you’ve become? A lapdog for Piltover?”

You laughed, low and sharp, the sound grating against her ears. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about loyalty. It’s about business. And you?” You gestured toward her with a flick of your wrist. “You’re a very lucrative business opportunity.”

Her growl deepened, reverberating through the room. “You’re scum,” she spat, her voice vibrating with barely-contained rage.

“And you’re staying right here,” you retorted coolly, your tone suddenly devoid of humor. “Chained up, where you belong, until I hand you over to them. Whatever happens after that? Well, that’s between you and Piltover.”

She glared at you, her glowing eyes blazing with defiance. Her body screamed to lash out, to fight, to destroy the chains and rip you apart. But she was trapped, helpless, and for now, all she could do was seethe. “You’re making a mistake,” she growled. “They’ll screw you over just like they screw everyone else.”

“Maybe,” you said with a shrug, unconcerned. “But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

You leaned back in your chair again, your smirk returning as you watched her, the tension in the room thick and heavy. “So get comfortable. You’re not going anywhere.”

Vi’s chest heaved, her breaths coming faster and more ragged. A faint sheen of sweat began to form along her brow, trailing down her temples and dampening the fabric of her white tank top. The scent of blood and drugs still lingered in her mouth, but it wasn’t what consumed her senses now—it was you. That damn scent of yours, so sharp, so familiar, was seeping into her nose, drowning her in memories she didn’t want to recall.

Her beastly instincts stirred, clawing their way to the surface. She clenched her jaw tightly, willing herself to focus on anything else, but her body was betraying her in the worst possible way. The heat pooling in her chest, spreading lower with every second you remained in her line of sight, her cock reacting at the sight of your presence—only fueled her frustration. She strained against the chains again, desperate for some kind of outlet, her glowing eyes flickering wildly between fury and something darker.

You, of course, noticed. How could you not? The subtle shifts in her breathing, the flush rising to her cheeks, the tension radiating off her body like a storm waiting to break, and the fucking bulge in those jeans that hugged her strong thighs and calves—it was all too deliciously obvious. You leaned forward in your chair, resting your chin lazily on your hand as your lips curled into a wicked smirk.

“Oh, what’s this?” you purred, your tone dripping with mock concern. “You’re looking a little… flushed. Is something wrong?”

“Shut up,” she snarled, her voice hoarse and cracking with barely-restrained anger. Her head whipped toward you, her glowing eyes blazing, but the sight of your infuriating grin only made her heart pound harder.

You chuckled softly, the sound low and teasing as you tilted your head, studying her like a predator watching its prey. “Oh, come on now, puppy,” you said, your voice a cruel mix of taunt and amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re getting all worked up because of me.”

Her reaction was immediate. The chains rattled violently as she threw her weight against them, her teeth bared in a feral snarl. “Don’t call me that!” she snapped, her voice rising to a furious roar that echoed in the room.

But her outburst only made your grin widen. You stood slowly, your movements deliberate as you crossed the short distance between you and her. The tension in her body grew sharper, her breath hitching as you stepped close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off you.

“Puppy,” you repeated, your voice soft but dripping with condescension. You reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against her jaw. She jerked her head away, but the chains limited her movement, leaving her vulnerable to your touch.

“Don’t touch me,” she growled, but her voice wavered, betraying the turmoil raging inside her.

You leaned in closer, your lips curving into a smirk as you whispered, “Why not? Afraid of what might happen if I do?”

Her breath hitched again, and she cursed under her breath, her glowing eyes locking onto yours with a mix of rage and something far more primal. Her body was at war with itself, the beast inside her clawing for control, driven wild by the maddening combination of your scent, your presence, and the infuriating smirk that made her want to rip you apart—and maybe something else entirely.

“Shut up,” she growled again, her voice shaking as much with frustration as with effort to suppress the wolf inside her.

But you weren’t going to let up. The way her body tensed, the way her glowing eyes flickered with barely-contained chaos—it was far too entertaining. “Oh, I see what’s happening,” you said, your tone low and teasing as you leaned in just a fraction closer. “The big bad wolf can’t decide if she wants to bite… or beg.”

Her snarl was immediate, her teeth snapping at the air between you as she strained against the chains again. “I’ll kill you,” she spat, her voice trembling with the intensity of her emotions.

But you didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as bat an eye. Instead, you laughed—a soft, almost pitying sound—as you leaned back, letting your gaze sweep over her once more. “Oh, Vi,” you murmured, your voice dripping with amusement. “You’re a mess. But don’t worry…” Your smirk deepened as you took a step back, leaving her panting and glaring at you. “I like my puppy messy.”

Her growl was guttural, feral, and filled with unrelenting fury, but no matter how much she fought, she couldn’t escape the chains—or the maddening effect you were having on her. And it didn’t make it any better when you were on your knees in front of her, unbuckling that hideous brown, leather belt that she liked to wear and slipping it off.

Vi huffed and snarled with a predatory tone, a deep rumble settling in her chest as she watched you pull her jeans down to her knees, her cock jumping out in an angry flush of red. It twitched and throbbed with every angry pulse that ran through it, two visible veins running up the sides. The base of her cock held a tuft of dark hair that trialed from her crotch up to the middle of her stomach, an opposite contrast against her pale skin. And it was so much of it.

She never shaved. She had no use for it because the hair would just grow right back in a day or two and besides, Vi with a happy trail was the best Vi.

You licked your lips in anticipation. "Don't you fucking dare," Vi snarled, but her hips betrayed her by nudging forward slightly as if encouraging you to go ahead.

“Aww, puppy, why didn’t you just say this is what you wanted? I might’ve indulged if you played nice the first time.”

Vi whipped her head away like she didn’t want to be a part of the situation, her ears and cheeks betraying her feelings about the entire ordeal. “Shut up.” She snarled. A grunt stops in the back of her throat when she felt your tongue run up the underside of her cock, before you planted a wet kiss on the tip, teasing it with the point of your tongue in teasing, sexy licks.

"Mmm, you can't hide how much you want this," you murmured, your hot breath ghosting over Vi's sensitive flesh. You flicked your tongue out to taste the leaking pre-cum from her tip, savoring the salty flavor.

Vi's chains rattled as she strained against her bonds, a low growl rumbling in her chest. "Fuck you," she spat, but her voice wavered with barely-contained need.

You smirked up at her, maintaining eye contact as you slowly dragged your tongue along the underside of her shaft again. Vi's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and arousal, her muscles tensing as she fought against her baser instincts. "Just give in," you cooed, swirling your tongue around the swollen head of her cock. "You know you want to."

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself before diving in. With a wet pop, you release Vi's cock from your mouth, firmly pumping it with your hand instead. You can see the frustration in her eyes at the loss of contact, and a sadistic part of you relishes the power you have over her. But you can't tease for long, not when the sight of Vi all tussled up and desperate is driving you wild.

Without warning, you take her again, your lips stretching obscenely around her girth as you push forward, swallowing her down as much as you can in one fluid motion. Vi's back arches off the wall, a strangled moan escaping her lips as you engulf her.

You hold yourself there for a moment, savoring the feeling of fullness in your throat, before pulling back slowly. You dive in with a punishing pace, your head bobbing up and down Vi's dick with gusto. You can feel every thick vein and ridge dragging against your tongue, the taste of her pre-cum coating your taste buds with each stroke. Your cheeks were hollow as you applied more suction, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from Vi's quivering form.

Her chains rattle and clank with the force of your movements, the sound of a debauched accompaniment to your lewd slurps and gags. Vi's hands ball into fists above her head, her muscles bulging and straining as she fights the urge to reach out and grab your hair, to control the pace of your assault. But the chains held her back, leaving her helpless to do anything but endure the blissful torment you're inflicting on her.

You can taste the telltale hint of Vi's impending release on your tongue, the subtle shift in her flavor signaling her growing arousal. But before she can crest that final peak, you pull off with a wet pop, her cock slipping from your mouth with ease.

Vi's angry growl echoes off the stone walls, her hips thrusting forward involuntarily to seek out your welcoming heat. But you deny her, settling for a few slow pumps of your fist along her cock instead. You can see the anguish in her eyes, the physical manifestation of Vi's need. She's so close, teetering on the razor's edge of ecstasy, yet you cruelly keep her there, suspended in limbo, unable to find completion.

"Oh Vi," you purr around her throbbing cock. "What would your little vampire girlfriend think? Is she on your mind right now, even as I'm giving attention to you like this?" You pause, pumping her dick slowly as you gaze up at her with hooded eyes.

"Tell me, what's she doing while we're playing over here, hmm? Probably chained up, helpless... just like you."

Vi struggles to form words, her chest heaving as her pupils blow wide with lust. Guttural moans spill from her lips as your skilled mouth continues its sensual assault, all thoughts of Caitlyn rapidly fleeing her pleasure-addled mind. She can only focus on your hot, wet tongue worshipping every sensitive inch of her engorged flesh, driving her higher and higher with each flick, suck, and lick.

You move closer, your lips brushing against Vi's sensitive flesh, your tongue darting out to lap at the weeping tip. Vi moans brokenly, her body shuddering as you tongue-fuck her tip, probing for more of her.

At the same time, your hand never falters in its movements, pumping her shaft with increasing speed. You twist your wrist on each upward stroke, applying just the right amount of pressure to the sensitive underside of Vi's cock to drive her wild. Your mouth is soon joined by your lips, sucking hard at the engorged head of her cock. You hum around her length, the vibrations adding a new dimension to her pleasure.

And just like that, Vi's resolve shatters, the final threads of her control snapping like overstretched rubber bands. With a hoarse shout, her back arches, tendons, and muscles straining against the chains as her climax barrels into her at full force. Thick, heavy ropes of her seed arc through the air, painting your heaving chest with cum.

You can feel the heat of her release, and see the raw, unbridled passion contorting her features as she rides out the crest of her pleasure. Vi's fingers dig deep into her palms, almost drawing blood as her hips spasm and twitch, wringing out every last drop of her climax. Your pussy throbs in time with Vi's orgasm, the sight of her coming undone at your hands stoking the flames of your desire to new heights.

You slowly pull away, a triumphant grin spreading across your face as you rise to your feet. Vi pants heavily, still trapped in the throes of her climax, her hips twitching with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Without a word, you turn and hook a finger in the waistband of your pants, pulling them down to your ankles in a single fluid motion. Your dripping pussy is now fully exposed to Vi's heated gaze.

"Looks like you’re ready to go again," you purr, and with a coy glance over your shoulder, you line yourself up with Vi's cock. You bite your lip, keeping eye contact as you start to sink, impaling yourself. You can feel every ridge and vein dragging along your inner walls, the delicious friction quickly stoking the embers of your need into a raging inferno. By the time you're fully seated, your walls are fluttering and grasping at the thick cock stretching you open. You pause there, savoring the feeling of being so utterly filled. Then, with a throaty groan, you start to move, rolling your hips in a sensual rhythm as you chase your pleasure.

The chains clank and rattle with your movements, the sound of a debauched accompaniment to the lewd slapping of flesh on flesh. You lean forward, giving yourself the leverage to take Vi deeper. Your breasts sway with each bounce, your nipples pebbled and straining for attention.

"That's it, puppy. You’re doing so good," you encourage, reaching down to rub tight circles around your clit. Your fingers dance over the sensitive bundle of nerves, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core with each touch.

Vi can only watch with half-lidded eyes as you take your pleasure from her, her hips bucking up involuntarily to meet each of your downward thrusts. She tugs at the chains, desperate to touch you, to feel the soft skin and firm curves of your body beneath her fingers. But they hold steady, keeping her bound and helpless against the wall.

Her frustration manifested in a low growl that vibrated from deep within her chest, her canines glinting menacingly as she lunged at the restraints binding her. "Let me out," Vi rasped, her voice raw and gravelly, filled with an almost palpable urgency. "I need to feel you."

You glance back at her over your shoulder, a wicked grin playing at the corners of your mouth. "What's the matter, big bad wolf? Can't get free?" You punctuate your words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding yourself down on her dick until you can feel the head bump against the entrance to your womb.

"Fuck you," Vi snarls, her face contorting with a mixture of rage and lust. "Just sit still and let me fuck you already." She tries to rock her hips, to drive herself deeper, but the chains restrict her movements, leaving her unable to do much more than meet your thrusts with an awkward jerk.

You let out an exaggerated tsk, shaking your head slowly as if deeply wounded by her eagerness. A playful smirk dances on your lips as you lean slightly, your voice smooth and laced with feigned sweetness. “Patience, puppy,” you purr, each word dripping with mockery. “There’s no need to be so... impatient.” The air around you seems to crackle with a blend of amusement and teasing authority, making it clear that this little game is far from over.

To drive home your point, you slow your movements, rolling your hips in a maddeningly slow circle. Each rotation grinds your sensitive clit against Vi's pelvis, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core, but leaving her frustratingly unfulfilled.

"Beg for it," you demand, your tone leaving no room for argument. "Beg me to let you fuck me like the desperate dog you are."

Vi’s muscles quiver with the strain of her restraint, the tension evident in every sinewy fiber of her being. Her eyes blaze with wild, untamed fire, narrowed and fierce as they fixate on you. Behind her fierce gaze, you can almost perceive the primal beast lurking just beneath her skin, thrashing against the confines of her control, yearning to break free and unleash its raw power upon the world.

“P-Please," she chokes out, the word foreign on her tongue. "Please, let me fuck you." She strains against her bonds, her movements jerky and uncoordinated in her eagerness to be granted release.

But even as she begs, Vi knows you hold all the power here. You are the one in control, the one dictating the terms of this dance. And she hates it, hates the way her body reacts to your dominance, hates the way her cock twitches and throbs at your every command. But she also craves it, craves the way you make her feel, the way you push her to her limits and beyond.

"More," you encourage, your free hand moving to squeeze your nipple. "Tell me how badly you want to feel me tight and hot around your cock. Describe every dirty, depraved thing you want to do to me."

Vi's breath comes in harsh pants, each exhale hitching as she struggles to find the words. But you won't relent, won't give her the satisfaction of release until she bares her deepest, darkest desires. "I want to fuck you," she growls, her voice low and guttural. "Hard and fast, until you can't walk straight. I want to bend you over and pound into you until you scream. Until my name is the only thing you can remember."

Her hips twitch with each filthy promise, her cock pulsing inside your clenching heat. You can feel her getting closer, her body tensing as she teeters on the precipice of climax.

But still, you hold off, determined to draw out her pleasure, to make her beg and plead for every thrust. You slow your movements, each stroke languid and deliberate, designed to drive her out of her mind with lust. "Then what?" you taunt, your breath low enough to be a shell of a ghost. "What will you do once you have me at your mercy?"

Vi's tongue lolls out, her eyes hazy and unfocused as she struggles to concentrate. But your question breaks through the fog of desire, igniting a fresh wave of need. "I'll fuck you in every hole," she snarls, her words punctuated by the clank of the chains as she strains against them. "Until you're dripping with my cum. Until everyone knows my fucking name." Your pussy flutters at her promise, your core clenching around her as you imagine the scene she paints.

You grind your hips down hard, relishing in the feeling of Vi's thick dick stretching you wide. Each circle of your hips drags your sensitive clit against her pelvis, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. "Yes, that's it," you encourage, your voice high and breathy with pleasure. "Show them all what a good little fuck toy I am for you."

Vi's nostrils flare at your words, a low growl rumbling in her chest. You can almost picture it—you, bent over and presented like a bitch in heat, Vi's hips snapping as she takes you from behind, her teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder as she marks you for all to see.

The mental image is enough to send you careening towards the edge, your climax rushing up to meet you like a freight train. You fuck her hard and fast, your hips moving in a frenzied pace as you chase your release.

Just before you hit that sweet spot, before the stars explode behind your eyelids and your vision whites out from the force of your orgasm, you pull off abruptly. The sudden loss of Vi's cock leaves you empty, your pussy clenching around nothing but air. You can feel your juices trickling down your thighs, your core aching to be filled again.

But you deny yourself, instead reaching behind to give Vi a few rough pumps. The slick sound of her pre-cum coating your fingers fills the room, mixing with your labored breaths and Vi's pained grunts of overstimulation.

"Please," Vi begs, her voice raw and broken, "I need to cum. Need to be inside you again." Her eyes are wild, the beast within her rising to the surface, no longer content to be denied its prize.

You bite your lip, considering for a moment before giving a single, sharp nod. You turn back around, bracing yourself against the wall once more. Without a preamble, you sink onto Vi's dick, taking her to the hilt in one smooth motion. You don't give yourself time to adjust, instead starting to move immediately, your hips rising and falling in a rapid, steady rhythm. Each downward stroke grinds your clit against Vi's pelvis, the added stimulation quickly pushing you toward the brink. You can feel Vi's cock twitching and pulsing inside you, her release just as close.

You reach down, your fingers finding your swollen nub and rubbing in tight, fast circles. Your moans echo off the stone walls, mingling with Vi's growled curses and grunts of pleasure.

The feeling of Vi's cock twitching and throbbing, her sharp exhales and low moans, send you hurtling over the edge. Your orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as pleasure courses through your veins. Your walls clamp down around Vi's cock, milking her for all she's worth. With a hoarse shout, Vi slams into you one final time, her back arching off the wall as she hits her peak.

You can feel her coming inside you, her hot seed flooding your core. It's almost too much, the sensation of being so deeply filled, so thoroughly stuffed. You don't let up, your hips continuing their relentless pace even as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.

And you're not about to let Vi rest, not when your lust has yet to be sated. You continue to fuck her, each roll of your hips wringing another choked moan or gasp from her slack lips. Even as her cock sputters inside you, you persevere, your greedy cunt clenching around the semi-hard dick in a desperate attempt to coax out another load. Your juices mingle with the mess of your last release, easing the way for your frantic movements.

You can feel every ridge and vein rubbing against your sensitive inner walls, each pass sending sparks of overstimulation shooting up your spine.

Vi's eyes are glazed, her tongue lolling out as she struggles to form coherent sentences. "Nuh- uhh- I ca-can't," she slurs, her words coming out in short, choppy bursts between panted breaths. You can see her pulse hammering in her neck and can hear the harsh sawing of her breath as she tries to regain control of her body.

But your relentless assault on her still-twitching dick makes it impossible. Each movement jolts a fresh wave of sensation through her nerve endings, each drag of your hips blooming heat in her wake. "P-please, you've- I've already..." She trails off, unable to finish the thought as another tremor wracks her frame.

Each stroke brings you closer to the edge, the dull ache of overstimulation blossoming into a supernova of pleasure. Without warning, you hit your peak, your walls clamping down around Vi's cock in a vise-like grip, again. Your orgasm crashes into you, the force of it making your vision go white. You have to force your legs to hold yourself up, gasping and shuddering as you ride out the aftershocks.

But Vi is too far gone to notice your own pleasure, her own climax rushing up to claim her.

With a strangled shout, Vi erupts inside you, her seed flooding your already-full pussy. The sensation of being so thoroughly claimed, so completely marked by her essence, sends you spiraling into another mind-numbing orgasm. Your cunt clenches around her spurting dick. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over you both as you come undone by each other’s touch. You can feel Vi's thick ropes of cum sloshing inside you, her release spilling over to trickle down your trembling thighs.

The lewd sound of your combined fluids gush from your stuffed hole with each twitch of Vi's cock, the obscene noise mixing with your cries of ecstasy to fill the room. It's filthy, depraved, and utterly delicious.

As Vi slumps against the wall, her chest heaving and her limbs trembling from the force of her release, you pull off her dick with a wet pop. Her cock, still half-hard and slick with your combined juices, slaps against her belly as you move, the sound obscene in the heavy silence of the room but you don't give her time to catch her breath, immediately dropping to your knees in front of her.

You take Vi's spent flesh in your hand, giving it a few firm strokes before wrapping your lips around the head and sucking hard. Despite her best efforts to push you away, Vi's hips twitch forward, seeking more of your warm, wet mouth.

"Ah- ungh- that's- fuck!" she gasps, her head falling against the stone as you take her deeper.

You ignore her pleading, your mouth sliding down her length to take her to the root. Your nose is buried in the coarse hatch of hair at the base of her cock, the musky scent of sex and sweat filling your nostrils. You can feel Vi's pulse hammering against your tongue, her veins hot and throbbing against the sensitive muscle.

With a low hum, you start to move, your head bobbing up and down her cock in a steady rhythm. Each pass of your lips wrings a fresh moan or gasp from Vi's parted lips, the sound spurring you on. You can taste the salt of her skin, the tang of her release on your tongue. It's intoxicating, and addicting, and you can't get enough.

You continue your assault on Vi's dick, your mouth never breaking suction as you pump her towards another release. Each flick of your tongue, each scrape of your teeth, sends her closer and closer to the brink.

"Please, please, ah, oh, god!" she chants, her words no longer coherent as the pleasure mounts. Her back arches, her nails digging into her palms as she tries to find purchase. But there is none, no escape from the overwhelming sensation of your lips wrapped around her. With a sound between a moan and a howl, Vi's head snaps back, her throat bared to the ceiling. Her release hits her like a freight train, her whole body going rigid as she comes.

You can feel her pulsing against your tongue, the hot spurts of her cum flooding your mouth. You swallow greedily, relishing the taste of her on your tongue.

But even as Vi spasms and twitches, you don't relent, your mouth continuing its sensual assault. Each suckle draws another strangled cry from her lips, her voice raw and hoarse from overuse.

You can feel her softening against your tongue, yet still, you persevere, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from her exhausted body. It's only when Vi goes limp, her knees finally giving out beneath her, that you release her with a final, loving kiss to the tip.

You rise to your feet, stepping back to admire your work. Vi is slumped against the wall, her eyes glazed and unfocused, her chest heaving with each breath. Your legs feel like jelly, and your knees are weak from the intensity of your shared pleasure.

With a final, satisfied smirk, you turn and saunter away, leaving Vi to bask in the afterglow.

The world around Vi was hazy as she blinked herself awake, the edges of her vision blurred by exhaustion. Her muscles ached with every movement, and even after what felt like a long sleep, a bone-deep fatigue clung to her like a second skin. The soft fabric of a fresh tank top brushed against her skin, and she realized her filthy clothes were gone. She glanced down at the dark blue jeans and black socks that had replaced them. Someone had changed her while she was out cold, a realization that made her chest tighten with unease.

Her head turned slightly, scanning the room. No chains bound her wrists or ankles anymore, but the faint smell of iron—the memory of restraint—lingered. Another scent hit her nose, one she couldn’t ignore. You. It was subtle yet overwhelming, woven into the very air of the room. Her senses sharpened, and her instincts screamed to get up and find you.

Vi swung her legs over the side of the bed, every movement heavy and deliberate. She braced herself against the mattress, her breaths measured as she tried to push through the soreness. Her amber eyes darted around, searching for any sign of you. Her ears perked at the faint sound of running water, the steady rhythm of it muffled behind a door.

She was about to stand when the bathroom door creaked open. Steam curled out into the room like a misty shroud, and you emerged, dressed casually, your face damp. A toothbrush and toothpaste were in your hand, your other hand tugging a towel from your neck. Your skin glowed faintly with the freshness of a shower, and Vi’s nose twitched at the clean, soapy scent mingling with your natural musk.

Her breath hitched for a moment as a sudden memory—a wild, visceral flash—forced its way into her mind. She remembered you kneeling in front of her, sucking her cock, and fucking yourself against her until she was seeing the stars. The way you’d handled her yearning—her stamina, her size, her libido. It was overwhelming in its sense.

The wild, timeless encounter the two of you had shared flashed vividly in her mind—the way you moved, the way you handled her, the way you’d managed to put a werewolf like her down to rest. She hated admitting it, but there was a strange satisfaction in knowing that someone had finally given her a challenge. Her lips parted slightly, her breath hitching as she tried to suppress the emotions bubbling up inside her.

“Still tired?” you asked casually, your voice cutting through her thoughts. You leaned against the doorframe, drying your hands with a towel. That smirk of yours—it was infuriating and smug as if you could read her every thought.

Vi exhaled deeply, shaking off the weight of her grogginess. “So, what’s the deal?” she asked, her voice gruff. “Are Piltover’s officers coming to get me, or is this just some elaborate game you’re playing?”

You tilted your head slightly, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “You’re sharper than you look,” you said, your tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “But I’ll tell you this much—your shoes are at the edge of the bed, and the door’s unlocked.” You motioned toward the far side of the room, where Vi’s well-worn brown loafers rested neatly side by side.

Vi frowned, her eyes narrowing as she tried to gauge your intentions. Your words were casual, almost dismissive, but the way you carried yourself—the glint in your eyes, the confidence in your posture—told her there was more to this than you let on. She was free to leave, but something about the way you’d said it made her hesitate.

“You’re serious?” she asked, her voice low but skeptical.

You shrugged nonchalantly, crossing your arms. “I’ve got no reason to keep you here if you don’t want to stay. Go ahead, Vi. The door’s right there.”

Vi stared at you, her instincts warring with her logic. Everything about this situation felt off, like a trap she couldn’t see. Yet, there was no denying the temptation of freedom. Still, your calm demeanor made her chest tighten with suspicion.

Her gaze lingered on you, and for a brief moment, the room was silent. She could still smell you in the air, a scent that clung to her senses and stirred something primal deep within her. It made her uneasy, but it also made her curious.

“I don’t buy it,” she declared, her voice steady as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a defiant gesture that drew attention to her unwavering stance. A flicker of suspicion danced in her eyes as she leaned slightly forward, challenging you with her gaze. “What’s your angle? You expect me to believe you’ll just let me walk out of here after all of that?”

You took a deliberate step forward, your boots softly thudding against the ground as you closed the space between you. Vi stiffened at your approach, her body tensing like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment. But before she could respond, you gently raised your hand, fingertips grazing her cheek, the warmth of your skin contrasting with the cool air around you. Leaning in, you felt the subtle charge of the moment, suspended in an intimate stillness that enveloped you both.

Before she had a chance to fully grasp the moment, your lips brushed against hers with a tenderness that sent a spark through her. It wasn’t a forceful kiss, nor was it a hurried peck. Instead, it unfolded like a delicate whisper—intentional, gentle, and infused with warmth. The kiss lingered, a sweet imprint that hung in the air, capturing the heartbeat of the moment, before you finally drew back, your hand falling softly to your side.

“I’ll see you around,” you murmured, your voice a smooth whisper that danced through the air, playful and teasing, as your eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief.

And just like that, you vanished from her sight. With each deliberate step, your presence seemed to float away, subtle yet impactful. As you glided past her, the air around you shifted, carrying an unspoken sense of resolve. The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, and with a final glance over your shoulder—your expression unreadable—you stepped through the door, leaving her enveloped in a silence that felt both heavy and unresolved.

Vi stood there, rooted to the spot, her body tense as her mind raced in turmoil. Her fingertips grazed her lips, still warm and tingling from the unexpected kiss, while her piercing gaze flicked anxiously toward the slightly ajar door. The realization of what had just unfolded began to wash over her, each wave of emotion crashing against the shores of her stunned consciousness.

It took her a moment to pull herself out of the haze that enveloped her. With a low, guttural growl escaping her lips, she pivoted back toward the bed, the heavy weight of exhaustion pulling at her limbs. She reached for her shoes, their worn leather cool against her fingertips, and slipped them on, feeling the familiar snugness encasing her feet. Though the soreness of her muscles throbbed like a distant echo, it wasn’t nearly enough to hold her back. She felt a fire flicker to life within her, propelling her forward despite the lingering fatigue.

She stepped out into the brisk, invigorating morning air, each breath forming a delicate plume of vapor that danced in the soft glow of dawn. The ground was blanketed in fresh snow, its surface crunching rhythmically under her sturdy shoes as she paused to glance back. A flicker of hope sparked within her, a silent wish that you would emerge from the warmth of the indoors to join her in this serene winter wonderland.

But maybe not this time.

But there was no doubt that she'd see you again.

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