#Flight Search Engine

[travarcflights]

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[shrugst]

Flight Search Engine

Flight Search Engine

Our Flight Search solutions are designed to help you bring relevant search results to your travelers, every time. You pick the content to sell, decide which capabilities to enable and have the choice in how to establish your unique flight search engine.

The Flight Booking Engine of Travel Cloud Suite automates your airline booking process thereby improving revenue. It is designed for online travel agencies to provide ease of booking to the customers, where they can search and book flight tickets in real-time. Customers have the flexibility to select the preferred seat and updated with further stages of booking.

We offer best flight booking software as well as top-notch features and quotation system. The professional team at Travelopro develops flight booking software with B2B & B2C module.

Our model allows travel companies to sell flight tickets to B2B/B2C clients with real-time price and seat availability.

We develop Flight Booking System which enable travelers to search for flights in global destinations, book and make online payment. This Flight Booking Software System involve flight schedules, passenger reservations, and ticket records.

With the help of online booking engine software, the customers can easily book their tickets online and can also search for a specific flight they would like to book for themselves through multiple inbuilt flight search tools. It is quite time saving and money saving as suitable product can be purchased easily online.

The airline internet booking engine solution allows multi-channel integration for sales and reservations via web, mobile, call centres, on-site kiosks or front desks with full a back-end integration with each customer touch point.

Our flight booking system can also be utilized to issue manual booking within the system. With the system, XML or API can be expose or distribute to other partner to sell the content of the same system. The same flight ticket reservation system can be used in multiple branches and GSA with different markup and commission structure.

We provide end-to-end booking tool solution for the new distribution capability era in the airline distribution industry.

We provide a complete one-stop solution, customized to your organization's requirements. Whether you are a sole trader, start-up, small company or a multinational business, we can assist. We can provide you with a company web site, bolt-on system, mobile application and more.

We offer certified travel suppliers for airline reservation system, online booking software, GDS booking system, online booking engine, online flight reservation with latest travel technology features like flight API & GDS. Without flight reservation system, your travel portal is not complete portal.

It is a term specially used in sectors of PSS that is the passenger service system. These applications are the online network of the airline inventories. This has developed with the onset if the CRS, which is the computer reservation system.

How is Flight Booking System beneficial for Travel Agent in Travel Industry?

Travelopro, excels in the field of Flight Booking Software for the global clients with a wide range of inventory in the GDS and LCC flights and many flight API suppliers globally. So, we serve various geographies with domestic and international flight booking smoothly.

We offer an intuitive flight reservation system that is both modern and has a robust architecture, It has an intuitive customer interface with real-time reservation data and a simplified check-in process.

Our system uses responsive technology to optimize the screen dependent on whether the user is accessing it via a mobile, tablet or PC.

We provide travel technology products for hotel, flight booking engine, car rental, relocation, excursion, and customized packages, etc. We have deployed our work toward enhancing the efficiency of the B2B travel booking system, B2C and B2B2B corporates globally.

For the airlines industry, it has to offer various benefits to offer such as accuracy of the information, resolving grievances of the customers quickly and effectively, generating good revenue, multiplying surplus, building goodwill in the market of your brand etc.

By implementing the system, airlines can make sure that reservations can be generated not only by their own airline staff, but also by any travel agent using a GDS system.

Airline Reservations Systems include airline schedules, ticket tariffs, commuter reservations and ticket records. An Airline's direct allocation works within their own reservation system, along with pushing out information to the GDS.

Looking for a Flight Booking Engine that will Expand Your Business to the Next Level? 

Flight Booking Engine is not only about to sell more and more tickets but also to expand the brand value of the business to maximize the average value per transaction from new and returning customers. And our flight booking engine with responsive designs provide all the required characteristics to our customers.

Flight Booking Engine have taken off in a great way over the last few years to a point where most customers today prefer to book flight tickets online. Travelopro provides a robust flight booking software for travel agents that allows you to sell flight content to your B2C/B2B customers with real-time fares and availability.

Travelopro provides a powerful flight booking software that allows you to sell flight inventory to your B2C/B2B customers with real-time fares and availability. With Flight booking IT Solutions, travel agents can offer dynamic packages such as Flight + Holiday, Flight + Hotel, more for customers with best flight search and book functionality.

With mobile phones, tablets and PCs all being used to access the internet and airline websites, Travelopro provides a fully-responsive IBE which works with all devices.

We offer rich and quality flight inventory worldwide through one single B2B platform or API connection. Use access to global fares and to issue automatically the bookings no matter what country it is coming from.

Our booking solution displays airline availability and rates for several GDS and content sources against user search. This integrated Airline Reservation System delivers competitive advantages to your business by connecting to the large cache of flight data.

The online flight booking engine over the years has played quite a crucial role in generating more revenue for travel businesses by merging itself with an airline reservation system. The airline reservation system has also launched in online sale of flight tickets. No matter what, but a travel booking software in today's times need to consolidate an air booking engine as well.

Now, your travel business can venture into flight selling without worrying about building tech or airline agreements. The solution includes flight searching, ticketing, ancillary sales, and post bookings management process.

BENEFITS 

Self-Service Features

With Internet Booking Engine, passengers can book, modify flights and receive mobile boarding passes themselves, without having to call airline agents or visit airline offices and counters.

Fast Implementation

Internet Booking Engine solution can be implemented quickly without any infrastructure costs and can be integrated in any hosting system.

Extended Functionality

In addition to its booking features, Internet Booking Engine allows passengers to manage and edit personal information, reissue bookings add or cancel extra services.

Ancillary Products

Internet booking engine allows airlines to place and sell ancillaries during the ticket booking or check-in processes. Thanks to the Travelopro system's flexibility, it is possible to offer paid and free services as a 'bundle' or separately.

Why Choose Travelopro As A Top-Flight Booking Software Development Company Worldwide? 

Travelopro is a leading travel software development company, excellent experience in flight booking engine integrating XML suppliers and consolidators.

Travelopro's flight booking engine provides you best in class latest technology empowered flight booking software, which facilitates your end users' travel booking experience. This software is designed and developed in a manner that users can search and book flight tickets in real time. They also have the flexibility select the preferred seat and update with the further stages of booking.

This solution allows travel agents to build their own travel brand by using our fares and technology. Through using our innovative solutions for Flights, Hotels, Car, Hotel Extranet, Vacation Packages, Sightseeing, Transfers and many others, you can receive commissions and increase your income.

Our knowledgeable team in the flight booking engine and travel portal development can help travel companies to design travel portal software solutions and integrate with flight booking engines, GDS and Non-GDS solutions.

When it comes to flight reservations, travellers always look out for best deals and convenience when making their next flight reservation. On the other hand, it is necessary to be able to present accurate and real-time flight data to the traveller to make an informed decision with confident.

We have in-depth experience developing various travel portal models such as B2C, B2B, B2B2C, B2B2B, B2E and Corporate portals. Currently we are providing our services globally. This includes regions such as UK, Europe, south East Asia, USA, UAE, New Zealand, and Australia.

Incorporate the Travelopro Flights + Hotel Booking Engine to allow your customers to book packaged rates with flights directly on your B2C sites - increasing customer retention and direct long-haul business.

It comes with advanced features of one-way, round-trip, multi-city search option, GDS connectivity, calendar availability, quotation management, reservation management, payment gateway integration, reporting, and more to automate the flight booking process, provide instant booking confirmation and increase online flight ticket bookings.

Travelopro also offers B2C flight booking software - means Business to Customers. This is useful for all those who are in specialty of the business. We provide integrated online flight booking solution once root level study of your business. B2C Flight Booking System are developed for transpiring business transactions between the business and the customers.

Our flight booking system can also be used to issue manual booking within the system. Within the same system, XML or API can be expose or distribute to other partner to sell the content of the same system. The same Flight ticket reservation system can be used in multiple branches and GSA with different markup and commission structure.

Benefits of Our Flight Booking Engine  

Available on both web and mobile (responsive and native app)

Supports multiple sales channels - B2C, B2B, B2B2C, B2E and Corporate

Aggregation of both GDS and Non-GDS content into a single booking engine

Support for multiple currencies with real-time currency conversion

Multiple trip options including single trip, round-trip and multi-city trip

Dynamic packaging - flight + Hotel as well as Flight + Fixed Package

Ability to purchase add-ons such as extra baggage, insurance and meals

Flexi-search showing airline fares +/- 3 days around the selected date

Ability to specifically see the lowest fare on the selected date(s) for various Airlines

Several filters and sorting options including departure and arrival time, airline, price, no of stops, duration etc.

Ability to display fare and baggage rules

Auto e-ticket and voucher generation with your own branding

Ability to show flight promotions on the search results page

Ability to store frequent co-traveler details to save time during booking

Auto cancellation of unconfirmed bookings before the cancellation period starts

Ability to configure different suppliers for domestic and international flights

User-friendly interface for centralized customer and booking management

Book-now-pay-later feature to let customers make a reservation online but pay offline at a later date

Extensive booking reports for decision making and accounting reconciliation

For more details, Pls visit our Website:

[loveologystudies]

thinking about isat flight rising au.......

[nitunio]

they are so similar to me but one of them needs to be kicked down a flight of stairs

[kattheogcat]

Baby Fever

Pairing — Lando Norris x Teacher!afabReader

Summary — Oh who would have thought that the sight of you and a baby could make his heart stumble so hard it might trip right out of his chest...

Genre — fluff, established relationship

Wordcount — 1.6k

Warnings — nothing i'm aware of, some could consider kids a warning but ehh

Rating — sfw

A/N — Don't kill me about inaccuracys of the world of f1. I'm new here TT

The teacher bit is kind of only mentioned in like 2 or 3 sentences so theoretically you could gloss over that fact

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©kattheogcat on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!

Sweaty and with his hair sticking in every possible direction after pulling off his helmet, Lando climbed out of his car after having pulled back into the garage. The qualifying for tomorrow's race had left him at P3, he knew you – his girlfriend- were visiting the paddock today, the sun was out and bright and you were visiting the paddock today! (Yes, i meant to write that twice) To say he was in a good mood would not be a lie.

If only he knew where you were hiding.

Lando had only seen a quick glimpse of you earlier as he was speeding by the stands just as he was overtaking Leclerc in Turn 3 and since then you had been gone.

McLarens garage wasn´t that big, neither were others, so the possibility to get lost was out of question for the British driver. Especially since this was not your first time visiting him on race weekends even if it was rare. At this point you too, were quite familiar with the layout of McLarens garage.

And so, he walked past his engineers, helmet in his hand, eyes searching and in desperate need for a kiss after not having seen you all week. Lando was surprised you had managed to fly out at all, knowing that booking flights on short term in itself was hard but catching one that didn´t make you miss work either on Friday or Monday? Now that had always been the real challenge.

But not this time. This time you were there for both days and he couldn´t hide the little skip in his step walking to the lounge. Only to find it empty safe for their Team principle who was talking on the phone. He waved and slipped back out again.

Usually you were either waiting right at the pit wall or the lounge and at neither had he seen you.

“You looking for someone? Maybe your future Mrs. Norris?” Oscar grinned as he passed by Lando. The older reached to slap the other on the back of the head but missed when his Teammate ducked away in time.

“Don´t call her that.” He grumbled; his mood now dampened after not being able to find you.

“Please, you´ve been so gone for her it´s only a matter of time at this point.”

The Australian wasn´t wrong.

Lando rolled his eyes with a little sparkle and a smile threatening to break out at the thought of you wearing his ring on your finger.

“So? You searching for y/n? Think she´s over at Red Bull actually. Or at least i think that was her when I drove past.” Oscar trailed off for a moment and Lando looked confused.

“Red Bull? Why would she be there?”

“Kelly is here with little Lily and P. Maybe she went there to see the girls?” The other McLaren driver shrugged and unzipped his race suit to leave it hanging around his waist. Lando followed suit, the heat the layers were producing getting to him a bit; helmet laid down on the stand.

The older man ran his hand through his messy curls. Seemed like he was going to visit Max to collect his wayward girlfriend. But if Oscar was right and Kelly brought the kids then it made sense why you disappeared from him. You had probably slipped away as soon as you had seen Kelly and P was not above herself to cling to your leg to play with you.

“Guess I'm going to Red Bull then. See ya, mate.” He waved and ignored Oscar calling him Loverboy under his breath.

Quickly he hurried out of the McLaren garage and down the pit lane where Red Bull was, greeting crew members who were working through equipment or talking strategy. Something he should be doing with his own crew too.

Lando wasn´t sure what he would expect once he walked through the door of Red Bulls Lounge. P excitedly going on about what Max had taught her about racing? Sure, why not. You entertaining the young girl with little games you knew from work? Not out of the ordinary. Kelly and you catching up on how things were going? Definitely withing the realms of possibility. You and Max teasing the shit out of each other? Weird yet not as the World Champion had adopted you sometime during your first visit to the grid.

But you sitting cross-legged on a couch, baby snuggled deeply into your arms while P was attached to your side and you cooing over Lily like she was the most precious thing in the world with eyes so wide they were sparkling did something entirely different to him.

Kelly came up behind him as Lando stood rooted to the floor in the doorway, the woman having used the moment in which you were entertaining the kids to go to the restroom in peace.

“Someone looks a little starstruck. You good Lando? Or is seeing you girlfriend with a baby making you lose the last 2 brain cells?” the woman asked with a smug grin, knowing all too well what was going on inside of his head judging by the dumbfounded expression on his face.

Mouth slightly agape, utterly lost for words and with his heart pounding louder than any adrenaline rush on the track could ever cause was how he stood there, trying to force words out that were mor intelligent than a chocked-out stammer of syllables.

“I do have to admit though, she´s great with kids. Must be the teacher gene in her. Lily usually won´t let me go further than a foot before wailing like her world is shattering. But with y/n she went over like nothing out of the ordinary. Should I be hurt that my youngest took to her so easily or happy that I could go pee alone for once...” Kelly really could have talked to a wall in that moment and nothing would have changed. Her words were like white noise in his ears and while the talk of plans for the future had always made him want to roll his eyes, suddenly the thought of you with a little one of your own with him did not sound bad at all. Especially when he was allowed to witness the moment Lily kicked her feet in pure delight when you sweet talked the baby while her big sister made funny faces at her.

God Lando thought his heart was going to combust from the pure sugar this scene sent though his veins.

He jumped when a small fist made contact with his shoulder.

“Or should I be madder that you aren´t listening to me?”

Kelly had a perfectly plucked eyebrow raised in mock anger at his distraction folowed by an amused huff.

“Sorry... huh?” The McLaren driver finally reacted and looked at the mother.

“Oh boy, I see why Max can´t stop complaining now.” She walked past him and sat down beside you. The return of your friend made you look up and if Lando had ever thought he couldn´t love you anymore then he already had, he was now proven wrong.

“Baby! Look I have a baby!” you grinned up at him as he stepped fully into the lounge.

P quickly got up to wrap her arms around his midsection.

The phrasing of your words had his heart stumble a little and he had to take a second to greet the girl hugging him before he could get himself together enough to take his place beside you. Even if the baby gurgling up at you in your arms you did not hesitate to demand a kiss from the man that could make your heart race faster than any of those damn cars could ever dream of going.

“Hi baby...” you whispered when his lips pulled away only to hover right in front of your face. “Missed you.”

The kiss hadn´t been anything fiery or passionate, just a simple press of his mouth to yours but it served enough for the butterflies to start a fiesta in your stomach.

“Missed you too. Though I can see why you´d come see these two first.” He nodded to Lily and then to P who was clinging to his other side and giving you a toothy smile that made you both laugh.

“What can I say other than who could say no to baby and P cuddles? They are amazing company. Isn't that right P?”

“Thats right!” The girl grinned and stuck her tongue cheekily between her teeth before bouncing over to her mother.

“Did mom give you candy P?” Lando huffed at the sight of the hyper girl.

P almost vibrated in her spot. “No y/nie did! She brought me cherry gummies and licorice! But I didn´t like that one. But the gummies were yummy!”

“So yummy that she inhaled the entire bag...” Kelly sighed.

“Sorry.”

You were not sorry. You knew it, Lando knew it, and Kelly did too. And max was going to find out rather soon as his bonus daughter zoomed out of the lounge. Kelly got up, carefully picked Lily out of your arms which caused you to frown a little before she was out the door and after her oldest child.

Your boyfriend looked back at you in silence and you met his eyes. You felt the arm he had placed behind your head on the back of the couch shift.

“What?”

Lando shook his head with a gentle smile and soft eyes.

“Nothing.” He leaned in to whisper against your mouth. “Babys look good on you though...”

[chronicowboy]

Eddie isn't sure what he's expecting when Buck meets him at the airport. Red-rimmed eyes, splotchy face, hunched shoulders probably. Not this. Distant eyes, blank face, straight-backed. He'd been braced to catch Buck as soon as he landed, had spent his whole flight locking every bit of his own grief away to be thought about at a later date, let the guilt pool in his chest instead.

I should've been there, I could've -

He'd been ready to catch Buck, but it's Eddie who falls into Buck's waiting arms. Eddie who tears up. Eddie who clutches at the back of Buck's shirt like a scared child. And it's Buck sweeping his hands up and down Eddie's back, holding him together, murmuring:

"It's okay. I've got you. It's not your fault."

Eddie doesn't cry in LAX. His grief is a private thing. Always has been. He locks it into his bedroom and lets it out behind closed doors. But Buck is the safest space he's ever had, so he lets himself break a little. Lets himself shake apart under Buck's hands until he can ground himself with a deep breath at the junction of Buck's neck and shoulder. Until he can stand on his own.

Buck looks at him, eyes searching, deepest of furrows between his brows, so devastatingly gentle. And Eddie kind of wants to fucking scream at him for being okay. He'd needed to take care of Buck. He'd needed to have something to do. But now Buck is looking at him like he can fix him, and Eddie wants him to. So badly. But Buck knows Eddie's grief is for South Bedford Street, not LAX, so all he does is lead Eddie out to the parking lot.

It's a silent drive. Buck tells him the details of the funeral. Clinical. Sparing. And Eddie watches Buck's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. Listens to the creak of leather under an unyielding grip. And he sees it then. The countdown over Buck's head, ticking away steadily. He's grateful in a way.

They pull up to the house silently. The engine falls quiet. And they stare at the door. The door Bobby had appeared on the other side of just a few months ago for a goodbye dinner. At the house. The house Bobby made coffee in when Eddie couldn't stomach being alone. At the home. The home Bobby helped him build in every way.

Buck gets out of the car. Eddie follows. Buck unlocks the door. Eddie locks it behind them. Buck disappears into the kitchen. Eddie pauses.

Can't quite separate Bobby from kitchens in his mind. And it's not like Bobby ever cooked anything in Eddie's kitchen, but there's some stupid grief-crazed part of his brain that thinks he'll find Bobby at the stove for a last supper. A parting gift to Eddie. Because Bobby was always too good. Too generous. Too understanding. When it came to Eddie.

When he finally makes it in there, Buck is stood staring into the fridge. Vacant. Eddie joins him, presses their shoulders together as hard as he can without knocking Buck away, and looks at Buck's fingers curled loosely around two beer bottles. Eddie knows it's not the early hour staying his hand.

It feels wrong. To find comfort in alcohol at Bobby's expense.

Carefully, Eddie unpicks Buck's fingers from the bottles and watches as Buck's arm falls limp to his side with such weight it bounces off his hip. Swings once, twice, stops suddenly. Eddie grabs the water filter. Closes the fridge.

"Sit down," he whispers. Sure, steady.

Buck sits down.

Eddie grabs two glasses. Fills them with water. Leaves the filter on the side. Who cares? Who fucking cares? Takes the glasses over to the table in shaking hands. Spills only a little. Sits opposite Buck. Stares into his cup.

"I didn't say it back," Buck rasps eventually.

Eddie picks his head up with great effort. Ony manages it because he wants to see what hurt he's caused. Their missing medic. Absent in their hour of need.

"What?"

"B-he-he told me he loved me." Buck's eyes go wide. Horrified. Haunted. Hollow. "He t-told me he l-loved me, and I could-couldn't say it back be-because that would mean..." Buck chokes a sob into his hand. "I thought we'd fix it. I-I-I thought we'd find a way. We-we always do. I couldn't say it-it. I didn't want t-to let him go. And now, he's..." Buck's face crumples first. Then, the rest of his body follows, folding in on itself in the chair until he looks almost as small as Christopher had the first time he'd ever sat at this table. "He's d-gone, and he doesn't know I love him."

"He knows, Buck." Eddie's hand curls into a fist on the tabletop. Doesn't know what to do. For all he'd been ready to hold Buck together, he's not sure how. "He knows you love him, Buck. You told him every single day."

"But I never said the words!" he snaps. Pure rage. Pure guilt. He looks up at Eddie. Blue eyes wet and red and wild. The rage and the guilt seeps away, leaves only pure grief. "I never said the words."

He sobs then. Doesn't choke it down. Lets it out. Eddie reacts like it's instinct even though he's never done this before. Just somehow knows in his bones what to do when it comes to Buck.

He stands, rounds the table, slides a hand into Buck's hair, one on his shoulder, pulls Buck's face into his stomach and holds him there, holds him together. Buck's fingers tangle themselves in Eddie's belt loops. A lifeline. And Eddie holds him tight as he can.

"All the times you cooked for him. All the times he cooked for you. The two of you cooking together. You had your own language, Buck. He knows you love him."

And all Eddie hears is: you're gonna stand there with a hundred-something bodies on you and tell me I'm not fit for duty. Did Bobby know Eddie loved him too?

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Eddie drops his cheek to the top of Buck's head. Stops holding Buck together and starts holding on. Buck's hands grasp at his hips, twist into the back of his shirt just like Eddie's had at the airport.

And all Eddie hears is: I just want to make sure you don't think you have to lose everything before you can allow yourself to feel anything.

[paucubarsisimp]

surprise gone wrong

pairings: lando norris x reader

summary: in which you try surprising lando...

warnings: angst, cheating

melbourne, australia – sunday night

you hadn’t been this excited in weeks.

the plane landed thirty minutes early, but it still felt like it took forever to reach the city. every step off the plane, through customs, into the cab—it all buzzed with a kind of electricity that made your fingers twitch. you were barely keeping it together.

you were going to surprise him. your boyfriend. your person.

lando.

you hadn’t seen him in three weeks. the season had barely started, but it already felt like the world was swallowing him whole. interviews, practice, media, debriefs. your conversations had gone from long, late-night calls to quick voice notes and blurry facetimes while he was on the move.

but today was different.

he won. first place. finally.

you watched it on the tiny tv at home, hands over your mouth, heart pounding with his. and when he crossed the finish line, when the team screamed over the radio, when his voice cracked through the headset—you felt it all. pride. joy. love.

you booked the flight that same hour.

you didn’t tell him. didn’t want to. it was supposed to be a surprise. you wanted to show up, wrap your arms around him, and whisper, “you did it. i’m here.”

the rooftop bar was chaos.

you barely made it through security, but someone from mclaren must’ve recognized you and let you up. the elevator was packed with strangers—some people dressed like they lived here, others clearly part of the racing circus. cameras were already out. music thumped through the walls.

when the doors opened, the night hit you full force.

neon lights. booming bass. drinks spilling over glasses. laughter, loud and echoing. flashes from phones and disco balls and champagne bottles. the kind of party that blurred together like a fever dream.

but your eyes were searching for one thing. just one.

him.

and then you saw him.

lando.

halfway across the rooftop, surrounded by a crowd of familiar faces—some engineers, a few of the pr team, people you’d met once or twice. his curls were a mess, shirt slightly untucked, a drink in one hand, and that signature post-win smile stretched wide across his face.

your breath caught in your throat.

god, you’d missed him.

you stepped forward, your fingers gripping your purse a little tighter, heart ready to burst.

and then everything stopped.

because she was there.

a girl. standing too close. laughing at something he said, one hand on his chest.

and before you could even blink, he leaned in. and kissed her.

slow. familiar. like it wasn’t the first time.

you froze.

it was like your body short-circuited. like someone hit pause on the world, but forgot to tell your heart to stop breaking.

his hand was on her waist. hers tangled in his curls—the curls you used to touch when he couldn’t sleep, when he was anxious, when he needed grounding.

and he was smiling into it. drunk. relaxed. like there was nothing wrong.

like you weren’t even real.

you didn’t know how long you stood there.

you couldn’t move. couldn’t blink. couldn’t even breathe properly.

the music was too loud. the lights too bright. the room spinning too fast.

lando norris—your lando—was kissing someone else.

and you were just… standing there.

uninvited. unseen. the girl who showed up late to her own story.

your heels clicked too loudly as you turned around. pushed through the crowd. passed people who didn’t know you, didn’t care. the elevator took forever. someone asked if you were okay. you nodded without hearing them.

once outside, the air hit you like a wave.

melbourne at night was still buzzing. people celebrating. cars honking. the city alive.

but your world had gone completely, painfully still.

you walked. didn’t know where. didn’t care.

you just needed to get away from that rooftop. away from the music. the cameras. the kiss.

you had come here to surprise him. to celebrate with him.

but he had already moved on.

sunday night – 1:42 a.m.

you didn’t remember getting to the hotel.

your phone said it was fifteen minutes away, but your mind had gone quiet somewhere between leaving the club and stepping into the empty, too-clean lobby. everything felt hazy. like you were watching yourself from the outside, like you were just playing a part in a story that was never really yours.

the keycard slid into the door with a beep. you stepped inside the room. lights off. no sounds. just the low hum of the air conditioning and the dull ache behind your eyes.

you dropped your purse on the chair. kicked off your heels. the dress, once so carefully picked for him, slid to the floor with a whisper.

you stood there in silence. bare. weightless. like if you closed your eyes, you could just disappear.

but you didn’t.

you walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and finally—finally—let it out.

not the sobbing kind of cry. not the messy, movie-scene breakdown.

this one was quieter. smaller.

it started in your chest. then your throat. then your eyes, slow and warm and unrelenting.

you buried your face in your hands. curled in on yourself.

this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

you’d imagined it so many times.

lando opening his hotel door and seeing you there. his eyes going wide, grin stretching across his face as he pulled you in, lifted you off your feet like he always used to. his voice thick with disbelief, “you’re actually here?” followed by kisses, laughter, maybe even tears.

you would’ve run your hands through his curls, whispered, “you did it, baby,” and he would’ve held you like the world had stopped.

that was the version you flew across the world for.

but instead, he kissed someone else.

and smiled while doing it.

your phone lit up on the nightstand.

1:51 a.m. text from: oscar

hey, lando’s pretty out of it. you coming by? he’s been looking around like he forgot something. maybe you?

you stared at it.

what were you supposed to say to that?

you started typing.

i saw him.

paused.

deleted it.

typed again.

i’m here.

no. not right.

you sat there, thumbs hovering over the screen, heart pounding in your ears.

finally, you sent:

tell him congrats.

short. distant. detached.

you turned the phone face down after that.

you laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms crossed over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together. the sheets smelled like hotel bleach and artificial lavender. the kind of clean that made everything feel more sterile. more empty.

you used to feel so close to him, even when he was halfway across the world.

but now?

you’d never felt farther away.

you thought about calling someone. your sister. your best friend. anyone who could make this moment less sharp. less lonely.

but how do you explain flying across the world to surprise someone, only to find out they stopped waiting for you?

how do you explain watching the person you love put their hands on someone else like it meant nothing?

you didn’t want to talk.

you just wanted to forget.

your eyes fluttered shut. and for a second, the image played again behind your eyelids.

lando, laughing. her fingers in his hair. his mouth pressed to hers.

your stomach turned.

you rolled over, facing the wall, trying to breathe past the ache.

you came all this way. you were the surprise.

but he didn’t even notice you were gone.

flashback – eight months ago, london

the rain had come out of nowhere.

you were both soaked—shoes squishing, clothes clinging to skin, hair plastered to your faces as you ran down the narrow london street, laughing like idiots.

lando had forgotten an umbrella. of course.

“i told you to check the weather,” you teased, huddled under a shop overhang, trying to catch your breath.

“you did. i just didn’t listen.”

he was grinning. water dripping from his lashes, curls a mess. he looked ridiculous. beautiful.

you stared at him, heart full, cheeks aching from smiling.

“we’re actually drenched.”

“romantic, though.” he leaned in, bumping your forehead with his. “like a movie scene.”

“a very soggy movie scene.”

he laughed. and then he kissed you. right there, in the middle of the street, while strangers rushed past and the sky kept pouring.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t perfect. but it was real.

that was the thing with lando—he made even the messiest moments feel soft. warm. like something you wanted to wrap yourself in.

later, back at his place, you sat on the kitchen counter in his hoodie while he made tea. music playing low, windows fogged up from the cold. the quiet kind of night that felt like home.

he walked over, pressed a mug into your hands, then stood between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“i hate how much i love you,” he said softly, eyes on yours.

you raised an eyebrow. “that a bad thing?”

he shook his head. “no. just scary. i’ve never had this before.”

you swallowed.

you’d never had it either.

“what’s ‘this’?”

“you.” he smiled, just a little. “you feel like the only thing that makes sense when everything else is insane.”

you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

“then hold onto me, yeah?”

“always.”

and you believed him.

present – melbourne, 3:13 a.m.

you were still awake.

still staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

the hotel room was quiet except for the occasional car down on the street below. you hadn’t moved much. your body felt heavy. not tired, just… hollow.

you kept replaying that night. london. the rain. his hands. his words.

he said he’d hold onto you.

but somewhere between then and now, his grip slipped.

or maybe yours did.

maybe the distance got too loud. maybe the silence in between texts got too long. maybe love needs more than belief to survive.

you reached for your phone again.

no new messages.

not from him.

not from anyone.

you considered texting him. asking why. asking if he meant to do it. if he even knew you were there. if she was just some mistake or someone he’d already planned on seeing long before tonight.

but deep down, you knew the answer.

lando never did things by accident. not like that.

you turned your phone over again. shoved it under the pillow.

whatever you had—whatever you were—maybe it wasn’t enough anymore.

pt.2 alt ending

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 10 Finale

First contact, take two.

Go check out @keferon as the creator of the AU!

———————————————————————

Prowl stared at the lifeless body on the floor.

Visor dim, chest closed. Were it not for the absolute silence it offered, one might, without listening closely, assume it was merely an unconscious mech.

He ran the numbers again.

Odds of Survival 17%

The edge of his desk pressed a hard line against the backs of his legs and the palms of his servos. A steadily growing back log of frantic comms messages plinked across his processor like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs.

Red Alert: 13 messages and counting.

Velocity: 2 messages.

Elita One: 3 messages. . . 4 messages.

Odds of Survival 15%

Knocking- no, banging at the door. Red Alert, 76%.

Muffled, “Prowl open the door!”

“Answer your comms!”

“What’s happening in there?!”

Red Alert, 99%.

Slowly, Prowl moved his doorwings in a slow arch, quadruple checking that everything in his office was exactly where he needed it to be. Maximizing his chances.

“Open the door. Now.”

Elita (98%) was still speaking to him and not physically breaking into the room by force.

Odds of Survival 20%.

Without looking away from the body, Prowl unlocked the door to his office.

Guarded and cautious, the captain and security officer entered the room. Elita had a weapon drawn, but kept her blaster aimed at the floor, locking onto the body with an iron focus.

Conversely, Red Alert sucked in a vent at the sight, immediately raking his optics over every visible surface, searching frantically for signs of danger.

“What happened-how’d he get in here-who’s he work for-why’d you stop responding-where has he been-WHAT HAPPENED?!”

The mech was practically bouncing off the walls, static crackling with enough excess charge to diffuse the room with a heavy scent of ozone. The only reason Red Alert wasn’t currently tearing the place apart already was the way he looked at every object like a potential improvised explosive.

Ignoring the smaller mech, Elita ordered an answer, “Prowl. Explain. Now.”

His fans were audibly running high. Prowl did nothing to mask the obvious sign of stress. He carefully recited his script.

“Roughly one cycle ago, I rescued an unconscious mech from deep space after he’d fallen from a quintesson gate tear. He was friendly, albeit very unfamiliar with his surroundings. Including some of the very common alien species on board our transport.”

Calmly, Prowl looked up to read the other mechs reactions so far. Elita was remaining mostly focused on the body, but sent a sidelong glance aimed towards the tactician. Meanwhile, Red Alert looked ready to burst, about to interrupt Prowls script.

“You may search my office as I explain.” The security chiefs engine practically growled by the fourth word of being given permission, and dove behind Prowls desk for frantic inspection.

The captain nodded her head for Prowl to continue.

“Over the course of our short time together, I collected more unusual details about this mech. Compiling them in an effort to better understand “Jazz” as he refers to himself.” With a flick, Prowl brought up the conspiracy board for Elita Ones review.

The blue glow helped illuminate the dimmed office interior.

The alternate Functionalist Creation Theory was already deleted, leaving just the alien theory.

“On route towards the pick up location, Jazz, through somewhat clunky common, explained he was built specifically to fight quintessons. This claim immediately became verifiable when we were attacked by a not inconsiderable quintesson force.”

His doorwing twitched another scan.

Without turning around, Prowl knew the exact moment Red Alert discovered Jazz’s shoulder piece he’d stashed in his desk to be found. The sound of sudden disgust followed by a dropped clunk was reassurance enough.

“He then saved my life, multiple times and at significant injury to his own frame, as you are no doubt aware of Captain.” She did in fact look more closely at the fresh welds along the shoulder she’d seen barely clinging on not forty breems ago.

“After sustaining these injuries, I assisted Jazz with some basic field repairs. During which I discovered they had no previous experience with anesthetic and generally seemed to expect significantly harsher treatment than what I would consider “normal or ethical” medical care.”

Prowl vented, nodding towards the screen. “Bluestreak can verify the accuracy of these statements. There are some transcripts of our conversations on the board as well.”

Faintly, Prowl could hear Red Alert mouth the words, “ -don’t always die either, sometimes they just go crazy??” in quiet horror.

Odds of Survival 25%

The increase steadied Prowl slightly as he continued. “On our way to the medbay, Jazz expressed some anxiety over being treated by a professional. He-“

The praxian swallowed.

Prowl couldn’t really act, but luckily he didn’t have to. “He requested not be restrained or sedated, and gave- permission, to use force against him if he did become.. ungovernable.”

For the first time, Prowl released a servo from the desk and used it to gesture broadly to the whole situation.

It fell somewhat limp at his side.

“Velocity preformed the necessary repairs, noting a sudden decline in Jazz’s language capabilities as well as strong evidence for prior medical abuse.”

“Shortly afterwards, Jazz temporarily fled the medbay.”

That eleven letter word was a load bearing component of Jazz’s survival.

Some of the tension returned to the room as they were all reminded of the inciting incident. Prowl had significant practice in withdrawing his emotions, and now more than ever did he need to appear neutral.

“Jazz escaped by utilizing a strong magnetic grip to both damage the locks as well as scale the ceiling through the blind spots of the cameras. He traveled only a short distance into Rune’s office, where the therapist was able to talk him down somewhat. Jazz then sought to “tell me something important” encountering Whirl along the way.”

Red Alert had finished tearing apart Prowls desk, and was now carefully inching his way closer to the body still on the floor. Hesitantly, as if it could strike without warning.

Prowl resisted the urge to tense.

“Both mechs can corroborate the timeline. Shortly after, I discovered Jazz lost in the halls and brought him to the nearest room I had control over. My office.”

Inspecting the frame for subspace pockets it didn’t have, the security chief crackled lightly with frustration.

Snippily, Red Alert snapped at him, “So the oil pot got you alone, in your office no less, under the pretenses of distress JUST like I said he would.”

“Red Alert.” The smaller mech jolted but looked his Captain in the optics. Elita One held a steady, cold Calm over the room. Her field not to be overruled. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Well, no. But I haven’t looked everywhere.”

The Captain silenced him with a raise of her hand. “Then finish your search, and Prowl will finish his report.”

She nodded for them both to resume their parts.

Odds of Survival 33%

The tactician nodded gratefully in return.

“Jazz was behaving irrationally. Nervous. Confused. He made statements that didn’t make sense and given his helm injury, I had strongly suspected he was crashing. Or his species equivalent to it.”

Prowl watched very carefully as Red Alert finished his search, faster than expected. The total lack of any signs of life coupled with the mention of crashing made the mech’s optics go impossibly wide. “Did he- is he?”

Prowl passively waved his servo at the body. “He’s not dead, although by cybertronian standards it may appear that way. This state is relatively normal from what Velocity has noted.”

“So if you thought he was having a medical emergency, why didn’t you call for help?” The captain didn’t quite relax, but did seem to accept Jazz wasn’t going to spring up at any moment.

No no no no. Please god no.

Prowl snapped out of the memory. Once more resetting his optics.

“He. . asked me not to. I chose not to risk agitating him or his injury further.” Prowl’s wings twitched minutely, tracking Red Alerts movement towards Greens habitat.

“And then?”

“He confessed to me he was an alien.” Prowl stated mirthlessly.

For the first time Elita took her eyes off the body, cycling her optics and turning towards Prowl, who could only press his mouth into a thin line.

“Jazz was totally unaware he was completely isolated on an unknown alien vessel. At least until very recently.” Prowl finished.

There was a flicker of some other emotion through Elita’s field. He’s had enough people pity him to recognize the sensation.

A yelp from Green’s habitat had both Prowl and Elita One rounding on Red Alert. The mech was clutching his servo like it’d been lacerated.

“It tried to bite me! It tried to bite me!”

Sure enough, a low throaty hiss emanated from the top of Green’s enclosure. The flyt glared down over the edge of her highest platform at the short mech. Her crest and throat were flushed a dark purple with territorial fury.

“An erratic mech is forcibly intruding on her personal space. The urge to bite is a sympathetic one.” Prowl growled, stood in the center of his completely overturned office.

“Leave the damn flyt alone Red. Prowl, get to the fragging point.” At last, Elita holstered her weapon, glowering at them both.

Odds of survival 45%

The tactician turned back to the captain, “Between the shock, exhaustion and his injuries, I believe Jazz went into his species version of an involuntary shutdown. I have done everything I can to stabilize him from crashing.”

He rubbed his helm where his own would-be crash had wanted to form, “I have the relevant experience.”

Elita One studied Prowls face with a piercing gaze. Narrowing slightly.

“Why did you stop responding to comms for almost a full breem?”

His fans still running on high, helm burning and sensor net itching, Prowl put all his will into suppressing any exhaustion born sass.

“I nearly crashed.”

“You nearly crashed.” Elita reiterated.

Prowl nodded.

The captain considered this for a time.

“Red Alert, I want this ship deep cleaned. Full search and scan from top to bottom. Get the ceilings covered and figure out something for the locks to counter the super magnet situation.”

Optics brightening to luminosity of head lights, Red Alert stammered in reply, “E-even your quarters Captain?”

Elita looked like she was contemplating the taste of a fistful of nails, rolling her optics as she grit out, “Yes. This one time, and you explicitly do not have permission to place any form of surveillance inside.”

Red Alert saluted so hard he left a dent.

“YES CAPTAIN I WON’T MAKE YOU REGRET THIS CAPTAIN THANK YOU CAPTAIN!”

“Go!”

The red mech had his sirens blaring before his tires even hit the ground. Leaving the remaining mechs almost alone.

The sound of Elita One’s peds clacking against the metal floor made Prowl’s wings twitch.

Arms crossed, she stared the praxian down.

“Tell me everything you just redacted.”

Prowl did not immediately respond, still staring down at the body on the floor. His doorwings rotated satellite slow.

Without a word, Prowl took his weight off of the desk, walking up to Greens enclosure, where he gently pushed the flyt aside and collected what was hidden beneath her.

“This-“ Prowl cupped his servos around a small white and blue form, “is Jazz.”

——————

The logic cascade nearly consumed him.

Prowl was holding Jazz’s spark.

Jazz.

The mecha’s chest plate had opened. Revealing only the faintest glow within, washed out entirely by the harsh overhead lights of Prowls office.

Irrationally, Prowls higher functioning stalled out and his processor defaulted to some spark deep coding to make sense of what was happening.

He’s exposing his spark. He’s showing me his spark and he’s still crashing.

He’s going to crash and die with his fragging spark out in my office Oh fragging Primus Not here not like THIS.

A ringing.

Shrill and strangled. A dissonant sting.

An EM field.

Jazz’s EM field.

Faint. Faint but sharp, like an almost invisible shard of glass that only becomes known once it’s lodged itself beneath your armor.

The scream warbled and popped like a blown radio speaker. Some-thing fell forward from Jazz’s chassis.

His spark his spark his spark is falling out of his chest.

Jerking forward on instinct, Prowl cupped his servos and caught what wasn’t a spark- that’s not a spark this is NOT A SPARK.

A body, limp and silent. Tissue paper light in the way only non-metallic life forms can be.

It’s in his servos it’s in his servos it’s in his ser>%$.

Prowl was static. From his mind to his body. Pure static. Frozen yet screaming internally on his knees, staring down at everything that made Jazz alive.

He held the Spark-body-organic-not spark- Spark-SPARK-SPARK-ITS NOT JAZZ-NOT A SPARK ITS \#}>%*!? JAZZ-IT IS JAZ%-IT IS-IT IS- in his servos.

Gently.

Sparks Organics were very fragile.

He knew that. Prowl held onto that. Gently. Very gently.

He slotted the simple equation into place.

How to keep Jazz not-spark alive.

Odds of Survival. . .

——————

The weight in his palms felt imaginary. Too small to be real.

Yet here was Elita One as his witness. Thrown Off was a look seldom worn by the Captain and it was clearly an uncomfortable fit.

“This is Jazz?” She echoed Prowl, reaching out a servo to the unconscious whatever Jazz was.

The praxian stiffened, manually canceling the move to pull Jazz away from the other mechs reach. He didn’t, however, quite manage to cancel his vocalizer, a “Please be careful.” busting out despite himself.

Elita shot him an affronted look, plucking Jazz from his servos. “I know how to not kill an organic Prowl.”

She turned her servo over, using her thumb to roll the alien onto its back. “You let me hold Green.” She muttered.

“Green is much larger and I actually know what she is.” He was hovering, Prowl knew he was hovering and that Elita hated it when people hovered but it was really just a race to see who pissed off who first right now.

“Okay, okay, so what’s wrong with.. this one?”She gestured with the digit she was using to prod Jazz, closely examining the unconscious organic.

Not for the first time that day, Prowl rubbed a servo over his head, “I-I am unsure. It’s incredibly faint but he is breathing. I did mean it when I said I think he fainted from shock and possibly exhaustion. Organics typically require rest and fuel much more frequently than us and Jazz was extremely active for a highly extended period of time.”

Prowl cleared his vents, “At least, compared to a flyt. I do not have many other data points for comparison.”

Considering this, Elita frowned at the aliens inorganic casing and then at the motionless mecha on the floor. Definitely an aesthetic match. She considered something for a moment, frowning.

“Do you- Ew, ew, it’s twitching. Take it. Take it back.”

Not quite panicking, Elita effectively half-tossed half-dropped the alien back into Prowls anxious servos.

For several long and ancient clicks, neither mech moved, holding perfectly still as the alien shifted in Prowls servos.

Holding him like this, Prowl can feel Jazz’s field again. Faintly, like the sound of rustling branches on the edge of conscious hearing, the field tickled his palms. Unlike the mecha, Jazz’s visor wasn’t opaque, allowing Prowl to see the faint scrunch of his face and the way it smoothed out again once back in Prowl’s care.

His field dropped back into a near silent whisper.

Prowl made a ball of his servos, sealing off Jazz from anything else that might happen.

“We can set them up in a holding cell or something.” Elita said quietly, flicking her hand in exasperation. “Maybe under a glass bowl. I’ll arrange for someone else to handle questioning.”

The praxian straightened up at that, looking back to his captain, “Sir, I am the best suited to question Jazz.”

Arms crossing, Elita One gave Prowl an appraising look. “You said so yourself that you nearly just crashed. Why can’t anyone else do it?”

Nodding in understanding, Prowl pitched his counter argument, “As it stands, I have the best rapport with him. The only other mechs Jazz has met is Bluestreak, Velocity and yourself.”

“Jazz gets along with Bluestreak, however my brother is not well suited for interrogations.” Which wasn’t entirely true, Prowl kept to himself. Subjecting detainees to Bluestreaks small talk for several groons frequently made said individuals much more receptive to questioning by subsequent officers.

That currently didn’t help however.

“Velocity is a medic, which Jazz is terrified of and has zero experience with interrogations.” The knowledge of where this chaos began was still fresh. Fresher still was Prowl’s memory of Jazz pleading to not wake up on a table.

“And I mean no offense captain, but the last time Jazz saw you, you had threatened to rip off one of his arms and beat him with it.” Elita shrugged and gave Prowl a “Fair Enough” look.

“Statistically speaking, Jazz is most likely to answer honestly to someone he considers an ally. Regardless of how others may view my reputation, Jazz did specifically choose me to explain himself to before he lost consciousness.”

Venting, Elita considered the facts and stepped slightly closer. Prowl held his posture as formally as he could despite how his servos were positioned. The harsh look in his captains optics softened only slightly hearing his fans continue on high power.

“Are you sure you can handle this? Medically speaking?”

In a rare break of form, Prowl let his doorwings sink to a less physically taxing position. “The initial shock has passed. I will not crash.”

Probably. 67%.

Breaking eye contact, Prowl stared at the mess of data pads now scattered on his office floor. 85% of which was commissioned work directly from Megatron.

“I do not know how long it will take for Jazz to wake up. I do know I will not be very effective at my job until this is resolved.”

Finally stepping back, Elita had the look of someone using comms. “Officially, I’m putting you on medical leave for the next couple cycles. Megatron will have to make his own poor decisions for awhile.”

She paused by the body. “What do we do with this?”

It was heavier than it looked. Prowl knew now from experience. The mechs needed to remove it would add to the list of possible loose ends to an already sensitive situation.

“We can leave it for now. I will not allow Jazz access to it until I am more certain of his intentions.”

She hummed in response. Eyeing where Jazz was currently contained, Elita made her way to the door, “I need to go do damage control, alert me the instant their condition changes. Yours too.”

“Understood. And thank you. For listening.”

Awkwardly, Prowl looked anywhere but the captain, and Elita wordlessly waved him off. Both mechs quickly abandoned the moment of mutual care and thankfulness in favor of their usual personas.

Soon enough, Elita was gone.

Cracking open his hold, Prowl peeked at his alien charge.

Still sleeping.

Almost imperceptibly, Prowl could make out the slight rhythmic expansion of his chest. Limbs tucked close, Jazz was loosely curled on his side into a ball, showing no signs of waking.

Odds of Survival 63%.

The gauntlet was over, now it was all up to Jazz.

——————

Prowl lay slumped over on his desk.

His arms fenced in a pile consisting of every instant cold pack he kept in his office, which were currently arranged to completely bury his head.

After two and a quarter groons, the packs were mostly room temperature but the way they blocked out most light and sound was nice.

The door to Green’s habitat was left open. It was a risky move but a pleasant surprise that the flyt chose cuddles over consumption in regards to the small alien. Prowl hadn’t counted on her getting protective over the fellow organic, but it was certainly a relief.

Placing Jazz back in Greens nest seemed the safest option at the time. Soft but contained. Green certainly had no qualms and arranged herself as she saw fit. Prowl figured she must know more than him about this and let her be.

Currently, the flyt had started trilling happily. Prowls doorwings twitched. Scanning the room for the umpteenth time before relaxing again.

The only other sounds were the noises the Lost Light usually produced and Prowls own body functions.

It was quiet. As quiet as his office normally was anyways. The flyt continued her quiet song.

Actually, Green was trilling very loudly right now.

Then, Prowl picked up on a second, much stranger pitch.

Speech. Specifically speech in the tone of cooing.

Rising from his mountain of maladaptive coping, Prowl lethargically turned his helm to the habitat. The cooing continued unawares.

Standing now, Prowl looked into Greens nest to see what was going on.

The flyt had her beak almost tucked against her belly, forehead pressed against Jazz’s chest.

Awake, and lying on his back, the alien was reaching around the flyts comparatively massive head to scritch and scratch at the back of her neck. Paying special attention to the crease where Green’s crest met her head, causing the flyt to trill like crazy.

All the while, the alien matched her vocal tone, speaking absolute nonsense in his native language. {D’aww you like that big guy? Yes you do! You’re just a giant love bug aren’t you?}

It took a couple tries, but after several resets Prowl believed his optics were working.

The alien noticed him at last and smiled at him from around Green. “Oh hey Prowler!”

“Are-“ his voice clipped.

Resetting his vocalizer this time, Prowl tried again, “You are remarkably calm right now.”

Not stopping his ministrations, Jazz hummed nonchalantly, “Well yeah, s’not like this is real.”

Prowl felt he had underestimated Jazz’s capacity to screw with his head.

“What.” He searched for any signs that he had fallen into defrag. Finding none.

“You think this isn’t real?” Prowl asked incredulously.

Jazz raised an eyebrow, smiling at the tactician.

“Prowl. Babydoll. I’m petting a {dinosaur.}”

He said with the most “you serious right now?” look reserved for only the most ridiculous of questions.

Prowl, might, kill Jazz himself.

Very hide-able body.

Very feasible.

He’s hidden bigger.

Instead, Prowl schooled his emotions. He would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to loose control like he did during Jazz’s confession.

Bringing his servos together as if he was a praying mech, Prowl calmly asked, “Why do you think this isn’t real?”

Jazz shrugged, “I mean, which is more likely? That I fell through a space spanning portal only to be rescued by some handsome alien who’s entire species just so happens to look exactly like mechas? Or that going through that portal permanently damaged something in here?”

The alien pointed at his own head for emphasis, carrying on, “And this is all some end of life {hallucination} my brain came up with where I’m actually fine, dinosaurs are pet-able and robots turn into cars.”

Prowl stopped Tacnet before it could take the prompt. Because it would calculate those odds, it would agree with Jazz, and then Prowl would crash for real this time.

“Well then can you at least pretend this is actually happening?” He was getting angry. He was getting angry again and he needed to stop before he did any more damage.

His doorwings and servos shook from how tightly he was holding them. He would stay calm. He would stay calm.

His field was seeping out again, but Prowl now knew from experience that trying to stop it now would just cause whatever hold he had on it to break loose.

[PROWL]: Jazz is awake. I am handling it]

[ELITA-1]: Keep me appraised]

[ELITA-1]: If Jazz turns out to be a liability he’s gone, and you’re going to scour the outside of the shop for all those “listening devices” Red Alert is now freaking out about]

The cold packs had done wonders earlier and Prowl was about to undo all the good they’d done.

He let the anger stay but cool into something usable. “Listen to me.”

Prowl leaned in just close enough to feel the bare hint of Jazz’s field. It was still incomprehensible but maybe he’d understand Prowl’s.

“My boss is currently demanding to know what you and your intentions are, and if I can’t provide a satisfactory answer we’re both going out of an airlock.” Prowl hissed.

Jazz stilled.

He looked over Prowl again, then back to Green. A melody Prowl hadn’t been aware of juttered to a stop, and that reedy dissonant sting reappeared. The alien looked down wide eyed at Green, slowly raising his hands away from the massive animal.

“Oooooh Fuck me this is actually real.”

The wonderful scritches having suddenly stopped, Green clicked unhappily and shoved her forehead more forcefully against Jazz’s chest.

The alien wheezed as all the air in his body was forced out, eyes bulging and panicked. Jazz began rapidly tapping Greens head, trying to speak without breath, “Help. Help help help help help.”

“Green! To me!”

The flyt thankfully followed the hurried command, only needing to flap once to clear the distance between her nest and Prowls pauldron. The sudden gust of wind had Jazz jerking into a ball at the gale force buffeting.

Lightly keeping one servo on his flyt, Prowl leaned in close as he could to check Jazz over for damages.

No bodily fluids leaking, no screaming, still breathing. Good.

Jazz uncurled slowly, making intense eye contact as he pulled air back into his body.

He coughed, “Uh, hi.”

“Hello.” Prowl unconsciously copied the motion, clearing a vent, “Are you hurt?”

Jazz patted his chest in a few places, “Nothing broken. A little dizzy but I’ve felt worse.”

A little bit of relief went a long way right now, and Prowl pretty much sagged with it. “Good. Right. Now, if you could describe what insane circumstances resulted with you, inside of that, I would greatly appreciate an explanation.”

Prowl waved his free servo over to the mecha still on the floor. He didn’t miss the way Jazz’s eyes lit up seeing it and the following look of concentration as he suddenly realized how high up he was.

“Right, right. Okay, I’ll try.” Jazz swung his legs over the side of the nest, needing his arms to keep himself upright.

Idly, Prowl pet Green to keep her content on his shoulder, as Jazz centered himself to try and bridge the gap of misunderstanding.

———

About a decade and a half ago, my world started to end.

Giant fuck-off aliens descended across the Earth, destroying everything in their paths. They didn’t know the difference between cities and savannas, just plowed on through from one to the other. Maybe they actually did but it just wasn’t a difference that mattered.

That all changed once we fought back.

Conventional weapons worked at first, but then they started sending bigger, faster and meaner motherfuckers. The first wave didn’t care, just dug around in random places.

But the second wave?

We were fucked.

The biggest problem was that the thing’s barely cared what was attacking them. Civilian casualties skyrocketed. Fighter planes couldn’t keep their attention and tanks couldn’t maneuver well enough through the shattered landscape.

There was one thing the fuckers never seemed to ignore though.

Statues. Big ones.

Christ the Redeemer, The Statue of Liberty, if it was huge and human shaped the invaders would B-line for them.

One day some genius pitched the idea of J-Boy and Lady Libs bitch slapping some aliens, and most of the world was at the “Fuck It” stage anyways.

Next thing we know, there’s this, gigantic, fuckin’ robot stumbling around the West Coast.

The first ever mecha.

Built from hopes and dreams and I think a couple decommissioned battle ships, the Vanguard had one real job.

Draw away the invaders, take hits and probably blow up.

Story goes that one of the pilots decided this wasn’t going to be a suicide mission anymore.

They fought, and they won.

San Francisco. The first city to have more living than dead after an attack. My home.

After that day? The mecha program was officially formed. More mechas were made, more pilots were trained, and ten years later we’ve fought the invaders to a standstill.

Someone finally suggests taking the fight to them, and bada bing bada boom ya boy Jazz is getting shot into space.

———

“Then a, what was it, a quintessential showed up.”

“Quintesson.” Prowl corrected through his servos.

“Thank you! I kicked it in the face, we fell through the tear into some kind of command center. Everybody freaked out, somebody reactivated the portal machine thingy and well, you know the rest!” Jazz at last stopped emoting with his hands, letting them come to rest on his lap. His story complete.

Prowl had to get a chair halfway through.

He was not going to crash.

He fragging wasn’t.

The fact that his face was buried in his servos and that Green was anxiously trying to preen his chevron meant nothing.

He listened to Jazz say one insane thing, and put a pin in it. He then heard a second insane thing, and added a second, larger pin.

And so on.

There where quite a lot of pins at this point and Prowl wasn’t entirely sure how to grab just one without poking himself on another.

His fans were on again.

The tactician wiped his servos down his face, “Who- who are your allies? How many planets does your kind control?”

Meeting his gaze, Jazz frowned. “Do you mean alien allies? Cause no, it’s just us. One people, one planet.” He said holding up a solitary finger.

Currently Jazz was sat on the floor, leaning against Greens nest. Earlier, the pilot had tried to stand briefly but nearly collapsed. Waving off Prowl’s concern with an “I’m fine! This is normal.”

One. More. Pin.

“Hell, you’re the first alien I’ve ever met that didn’t want me dead.”

Shaking his helm in disbelief, Prowl started cutting back logic branches that’d surely result in a cascade. “This, this is a lot to process.”

Jazz had the audacity to laugh, “Hey, you’re tellin’ me.”

Eyes roving Prowl’s frame, Jazz sat up a bit straighter as they realized something.

The alien rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, I’d like to also apologize. For what happened earlier.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, the space around Prowl’s optics tightened, “Yes. Well, I did not behave in a manner I will ever be particularly proud of either. I assure you I do not usually loose control like that.”

“I hope you can forgive me.” Staring at the floor between his peds, Prowl’s doorwings fell low in apology. He was so caught up in his own self righteous rage he’d screamed down at a mech who’d needed him. Who trusted him.

Jazz however, just seemed confused. “What? You didn’t do anything wrong, I was the one getting all handsy on the bridge.”

The praxian snapped up straight.

“Right. That. I also, yes. That.”

“In my defense,” Jazz raised his hands and bowed his head, “I thought you were a guy in a suit like me. Didn’t know I was actually grabbing the real you.”

Resetting his vocalizer, he spoke much more quietly. “Yes, well. It was an understandable mistake.”

“Still would though.”

“What?”

“What?”

They stared at each other in silence for several clicks.

For all his expressiveness, Jazz had a way of totally shutting off any visible tells the second he wanted to. The only tell of any kind was a practiced deceptively neutral smile beneath his visor. His mouth twitched.

The silence finally broke when Jazz growled.

Immediately leaning back defensively, Prowl wrinkled his nose when Jazz started laughing like crazy, snorting a bit before finally loosing steam.

Taking deep breaths, Jazz closed his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. My stomach does that when I haven’t eaten in a while.” He rolled his head over to look at Prowl, eyes peeking back open. “Could’ya help me back to my mecha? I’ve got some rations in there.”

Prowl was already moving his servo inside before he could think better of it. From there, Jazz did not so much climb as he did roll over onto Prowls open palm. Sitting crisscrossed.

Something faintly like a pleasant hum touched his field.

Once out of the enclosure, the tactician studied the now conscious creature curiously. Bright eyed and without hiding it, Jazz studied him as well. A melody he didn’t recognize played against the pulse of his wrist.

He found that if he turned Jazz just the right way, the light from the theory board would turn his visor opaque. Every time he turned Jazz back, the visor cleared, and the subtle shock of sudden eye contact had him repeating the motion. Prowl got lost in trying to find the exact angle where Jazz was halfway between hidden and revealed.

Every time he did, Jazz would shift almost imperceptibly. Hidden and revealed again at his own discretion.

They stood there together, longer than either had expected.

Eventually, it was Prowl’s turn to break the silence, “You trust me. Why?”

Finally moving towards the mecha, there must have been some proximity sensor on Jazz’s person that triggered the chest plates to open.

Wings fluttering, Prowl subconsciously averted his gaze as Jazz scooted off his servo and into the cavity. The sound of tiny boots clanking.

Still not looking, he heard Jazz answer, “Breaking it down into three layers, there’s number one: I don’t exactly have any other options.”

A quick doorwing scan revealed the incredibly complex interior of Jazz’s suit, which somehow felt even more inappropriate than openly staring. Prowl pinned his wings together and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“Number two: If you were going to kill me, you would have by now.” The sound of Jazz rustling around in their mecha abruptly stopped as the pilot spoke to Prowl more directly. “Hey, you good?”

Determined not to address this right now, Prowl simply shook his head. “I’m fine. Continue.”

He could almost hear Jazz thinking at this point, “Oooh right, the open chest cavity is probably pretty gross for you huh?”

Prowl squinted harder at the ceiling, “Not. Exactly.”

Jazz made some sort of noise of interest but thankfully choose to leave it for now. Instead, Prowl felt him clamber back onto his servo and heard the chest plates close back up.

Prowl finally looked back down at the human who’d gathered a backpack full of supplies. He carried him back to his desk and sat, releasing the small alien and leaning down low to look him in the face.

Jazz smiled back at him, “Reason number three: I like you.”

Prowl reset his optics and swore that made Jazz smile even harder. “Why?”

“Beats me.” Jazz shrugged, pulling out some ration packages.

“It’s probably a bunch of little things all added together. Super smart, fun to piss off, likes animals, can hold down a job, didn’t freak out and squash me like a bug. Hard to say for certain, but yeah, I like you.”

That was an exceptionally rare opinion to hear.

Gradually, Prowl began to feed all the information Jazz had provided into Tacnet in an effort to focus on more productive things.

There was an alien species capable of monumental destruction currently at war with the quintessons. Jazz liked him. Jazz held a favorable opinion of Prowl and could possibly be convinced to view Cybertronians in general with similar affability. Jazz was a fantastic ally on the field. There were multiple other fighters like Jazz on his home planet. They might also be convinced to “like” cybertronians.

The entire reason Prowl had been in deep space that cycle was because he was on a mission to find potential allies with other alien civilizations.

On the transport back, Prowl had written the mission off as an abject failure. Organics generally either hated Cybertronians, or feared them to the point of uselessness.

And yet.

Prowl crossed his arms on the table, getting more comfortable.

[PROWL]: My original mission has become a tentative success]

[PROWL]: Jazz has been cooperative so far, and if we can verify everything he’s told me, we could potentially form a highly favorable alliance with his people]

[ELITA-1]: He’s not freaked out about being tiny and squish-able any more? How’d you get him to talk?]

[PROWL]: I simply listened. He’s a shameless flirt]

[ELITA-1]: What]

[PROWL]: I will elaborate later. I am technically on medical leave still]

[ELITA-1]: Prowl what]

A rare sense of smugness filled Prowls field. He watched as Jazz played keep-away with Green for his limited rations. To give him some peace, he recovered the flyt, and Prowl set his mind to finding this Earth as soon as possible.

———

Jazz folded his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the star map.

“So?” Prowl prompted.

The human looked relaxed, maybe almost disinterested, however that dissonant ringing sting was back in his field. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Fine. Fine. This was fine.

The map probably wasn’t formatted in a way Jazz was used to viewing. Prowl skipped around through a few other maps, landing on some deep space photographs instead. “Okay, well, what’s the farthest your species has traveled into space?”

“Our planets moon.” Jazz smiled in a tight-eyed sort of way with too many teeth.

Prowl stalled out, “I- How?!? How does your species have the technological development to create drivable weapons shaped like people but you lack the technology to reach past your own moon? What method of space travel are you using where the moon is the limit?”

“Big missiles.”

The tactician slowly raised his servos to his face.

“Jazz.”

“Yeah Prowler?” He said with faux casualness.

“When you said that you, and I quote, “got shot into space.” Prowl took a long deep vent. “You were being literal?”

At the very least Jazz had the decency to look sheepish. Risking a glance, he saw Prowl’s irises spinning like crazy again.

The tactician brought his chevron back down to his most used pillow, his desk. He crossed his arms over his helm for good measure, willing his helm to not explode.

What kind of demented species was so overly specialized for combat that projectile explosives were considered a reasonable form of transportation?

. . .The same kind that can hold off a Quintesson invasion by themselves.

He needed Jazz. The whole Decepticon movement needed that alliance with his people. They were spread too thin. Too many enemies. Not enough support.

Megatron barely approved Elita-one’s proposal to attempt to establish trade relations with known organic civilizations. And only under the condition that the trade heavily favored the Decepticons.

But these were fellow combatants. For all the high command’s xenophobia, they at least respected exceptional acts of violence.

It was a solution just out of reach.

Earth was presumably located on the edge of the Quintessons territory. Given the necessity of using rifts to approach the planet, there was likely a dedicated Quintesson Gate Station somewhere within the Human’s solar system. When asked to describe the type of Star his planet orbited, Jazz answered with a less than helpful “Yellow.”

If roughly 18% of the average galaxy had yellow stars, then that would still be around 80 billion stars. Even excluding stars without Earth sized planets, that’s easily still twenty billion different stars in just one galaxy. If they could somehow accurately survey up to 8 planets per breem, it would take a little over 761 Vorns to finishing sweeping one galaxy under Quintesson control.

Assuming the Quintessons didn’t kill them first that is.

He’d need to find another way.

The human blew a raspberry after Prowl didn’t move for a good forty seconds. “Are you calculating our “Odds of Survival” again?”

Peeking through his forearms, the praxian squinted at him, Tacnet whirling away, “No. Just yours.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Jazz, who was feeling much better after eating properly, expertly slipped past Prowls barrier a breath away from his face.

“Is it more than zero?” He said leaning back against Prowls arm.

“It’s a decimal point.” Prowl muttered. “With many, many zeroes before the point.”

And now those damn sounds were back again.

It had to be Jazz’s field, there was no other correlation.

It was always on the edge of perceptibly, like a song playing in another room. Prowl had to constantly check he wasn’t imagining things, because EM fields did not make sounds and yet here was Jazz, breaking everything he knew about what was possible.

Currently, the field brought to mind a steady smooth hand on a bowed instrument. A couple notes plucked in a major key.

“Then I’ll survive.”

Scrunching his brow, Prowl pulled away so he didn’t go cross eyed looking at the little impossibility. “That’s not how this works. Your odds of survival are microscopic, Jazz.”

“Buuut there’s a chance yeah?” Jazz pulled himself up to sit on Prowls forearm. “It’s more than zero, and I’ve worked with zero.”

Prowl tapped his digits, “We’ll have to convince the captain and her crew to keep you aboard.”

“I’m effortlessly charming.” He winked.

“Everything will be dangerous for you here.” Prowl pointed out.

“Everything already was.” Jazz shrugged.

He wiped a servo down his face, not even sure why he was arguing with him, “It’s going to be statistically impossible.”

“Prowl.” Jazz stood, “I am impossible.”

The silence ran to the Earth and back.

Neither broke the eye contact, waiting for the other to break first. Desperately, Prowl needed something to keep Jazz from making him crash. This could not become a pattern.

Quickly, he considered every data point he’d collected on the pilot, and compiled it into an extremely temporary equation.

<< Jazz + [Odds of Survival] = 99% >>

Something in Tacnet wound down finally, and Prowl actually relaxed. It was a lie. But it was a lie that Tacnet didn’t need to know about. For now.

Automatically, Prowl held out a servo and Jazz hopped on.

“Finally believe in me?” He said, lightly grasping his thumb as a hand hold.

“No, but it will literally kill me if I don’t try.”

Prowl turned down the hall, trying to ignore the subtle auditory hallucination of an energetic leitmotif. Picking up a little speed despite himself.

“Before anything else can be done, we need to make our case. Are you ready Jazz?”

“This is something straight out of a TV show Prowler. Hell yeah I’m ready.”

Together they would face the music.

———————————————————————

Coda

———

Humanity’s Finest: “Yeah we don’t know why but for some reason these things just fucking hate giant metal people.”

Jazz, being introduced to Cybertronians: “I have a theory.”

1 Breem = 8 minutes

1 Groon = 320 minutes or 5.3 hours

1 cycle = 16 groons or 3.5 days

1 vorn = 50 years

Well how about that. What was started as a four parter evolved into ten.

This’ll be where I’ll leave Jazz and Prowl off for a time. Other stories wait in line.

Thank you to everyone who’s followed along for this and a special thank you to @keferon for laying the groundwork for the story and for @glitchgh0sty’s absolutely amazing fanart of Odds of Survival.

Still crazy to me how much talent and care random folks can put into things to share with one another.

Also huge shoutout to the people who leave comments! You guys are awesome and hearing about all the stuff that sticks out to you or made you go crazy really does help me as a writer! I learn things! Woo!

Thank you all for reading, and I wish for each of you a very high Odds of Survival.

-SSTP

<- First

[fly2globe]

Best Flight Search Engines for Finding the Cheapest Flights

Planning your next adventure doesn't have to break the bank. Whether you're a seasoned traveler or a first-time flyer, finding the most budget-friendly flights is a priority for everyone. The good news is that you don't have to spend hours searching multiple websites to find the best deals. In this article, we'll unveil the best flight search engines that are guaranteed to help you uncover the cheapest flights, saving you both time and money.

[formulafanfics13]

she's so polite, it hurts - LH44

Masterlist

Summary: when lewis walks into the paddock holding your hand, nobody says anything. but everybody thinks it. 21. bright-eyed. painfully polite. always smiling. the kind of soft that makes engineers stand up straighter and team principals shift awkwardly when you walk past.

Warning: age gap (21/f & 40/m), public paddock setting, hand-holding, paddock gossip, reader is polite and sweet, possessive lewis, power imbalance, lowkey slutshaming from others (subtle), protective behavior, slightly unsettling tension, confrontation

The paddock goes quiet when you arrive. Not silent. Not in the literal sense. The engines still buzz. Cameras still click. Lando’s still yelling something stupid into his phone across the way. But there’s a pause. A shift in attention. A ripple.

Because Lewis Hamilton just walked in with his hand wrapped around the waist of a girl almost half his age. And you’re smiling. Radiant. Like you don’t notice the way people turn. Like you don’t feel the stares sticking to your legs.

You’re wearing one of his old Mercedes shirts - sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, cinched at the waist with a tiny white skirt and soft cream sneakers. There’s a claw clip in your hair. Pink gloss on your lips. You look like you just wandered in from a university library and got swept up in a legend’s orbit.

He’s got his hand on your lower back like he always does. Fingers trailing down to rest just above your ass. Possessive. Protective. Casual enough to deny but obvious enough to be noticed. And you let him. You always let him.

“Morning,” you say, nodding to the FIA coordinator who holds the door. “Thank you so much.”

She blinks. “Uh - you’re welcome.”

You smile like you didn’t just catch her eyeballing the age gap with her jaw halfway down her neck.

Lewis doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t flinch. Just guides you toward the Mercedes motorhome like this is any other weekend. Like you’ve always been here. Like you belong. But you know they’re watching.

George does a double take when you pass. Christian Horner raises both eyebrows before whispering something to Helmut Marko that makes him chuckle. Carlos Sainz stares too long. Yuki bows a little. Toto just exhales like this is exactly the kind of chaos he should’ve seen coming.

You pretend not to notice. But you do. And so does Lewis. You’re not naïve. You know how it looks. 21. Sweet. Polished. Clapping after Lewis’ interviews and handing him his sunglasses and taking his hand in yours when the cameras get too loud. You’re careful not to touch him too much. Careful not to stand too close. But he doesn’t care. He never does.

You try to be polite. You try to be warm. You thank every mechanic who offers you a headset. Compliment Susie’s dress. Tell the engineers you love the new livery. You make yourself small in the most gracious way. Soft. Demure. Unthreatening. But still they look at you like you’re a sugar baby with a PR clause and a hidden agenda.

You’re not. You just like him. You like the way he listens. The way he asks questions. The way he eats strawberries with his fingers and lets you read out loud from your favourite books on long flights. You like that he knows every part of you - every fear, every dream, every late-night confession you barely knew how to say.

You like that he doesn’t make you feel young. Just real.

And he likes that you’re sweet. That you ask before you reach for his hand. That you still get nervous before big weekends. That you call his trainer sir the first time you meet him and say thank you so much for looking after him. That you remember the names of the junior drivers and bring Max’s girlfriend an extra lip gloss you think she’ll like. That you never ask him to prove anything. That you love him for who he is when no one’s watching. That you’re not afraid to be soft in a world where softness gets mocked.

“Are you okay?” he asks once you’re inside. Hand on your hip. Eyes soft. Searching.

You nod. “I’m okay.”

He leans down. Kisses your temple. “You look beautiful.”

You smile. “You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

You sit beside him during the driver briefing. Quiet. Perfect. Legs crossed, eyes wide, listening like it matters. Some of the younger guys whisper. But Lewis sits straighter. Shoulders squared. Expression daring anyone to speak.

And they don’t. Because no matter what they think of the gap, no one can deny the way he looks at you. Like you’re sunlight. Like you’re gold. Like he’s the luckiest bastard in the world just for being the one you chose. And eventually… that’s all anyone can see.

The door is already shut when Lewis gets to the office. Toto stands behind the desk. George leans against the far wall, arms folded. Susie’s seated in the corner, legs crossed, face unreadable. There’s no shouting. No accusations. Just that quiet tension that says we’re all here for a reason and no one’s pretending otherwise.

“Hey,” Lewis says, voice low, carefully casual. “Everything alright?”

“Sit,” Toto says.

It’s not a command. Not really. It’s the same tone he uses before strategy debriefs. When something matters. Lewis sits. No one speaks for a second. The room feels too quiet. Outside the motorhome, the paddock buzzes. But in here, everything stills.

Toto exhales. “We just want to ask you something,” he says, tone even.

Lewis nods. “Go ahead.”

George clears his throat. “It’s about her.”

Of course it is. Lewis nods again. “Okay.”

There’s a beat. Susie’s the one who breaks it. “She’s very sweet,” she says. “So warm. So… soft.”

Lewis smiles, just barely. “Yeah. She is.”

“She’s also very young,” Toto adds. Not accusatory. Just a fact.

“I know.”

“She called me sir,” George says.

“She was raised that way,” Lewis says. “Polite. Careful. She grew up in a house where please and thank you were survival tools, not manners.”

That lands heavier than expected. Susie nods. Quietly.

“We’re not trying to be invasive,” Toto says. “But she’s twenty-one. You’re nearly forty. You’re Lewis Hamilton. It’s a lot.”

Lewis doesn’t flinch. “I know what it looks like.”

George shifts a little. “It’s not about what it looks like. It’s about what it is.”

Lewis meets his eyes. Calm. Steady. “I’d never hurt her.”

“We believe that,” Toto says. “But love isn’t always enough. There’s power there. Structure. She’s young, Lewis. Even if she says yes to everything, she might not always know why.”

Lewis leans forward. “She doesn’t say yes to everything,” he says softly. “She’s not stupid. She’s just… gentle. She thinks before she speaks. She asks instead of demands. That doesn’t mean she’s being controlled.”

Susie tilts her head. “Does she have friends here? People her own age? A space that’s not… yours?”

“She’s close with some of the McLaren girls,” Lewis says. “She texts Oscar’s girlfriend too they met at an event in Monaco. I try not to be her everything. I know that’s not healthy.”

George frowns. “We’ve just seen how quiet she gets. How she shrinks a little when the cameras come near. She looks like she’s bracing for something.”

“She always does,” Lewis says. “Even when it’s not me. That’s how she is.”

“She was like that before?” Susie asks gently.

He nods. “She’s like a glass kept in a cupboard full of hammers. She doesn’t speak unless she’s sure it’s safe. She doesn’t touch unless she’s invited to. And I never make her guess.” The room quiets again. “I know the age gap is intense,” he says finally. “But I’ve never raised my voice at her. Never told her what to do. Never asked her for anything she didn’t offer first. I wait. I listen. I let her set the pace.”

Toto leans forward. “And what if the power imbalance still affects her?” he says. “Even without you meaning to?”

“Then I want to know,” Lewis says. “I want to learn. I want to do better. I didn’t start seeing her thinking it would be this serious. But it is. And I care more than I can explain.”

Susie watches him. “Would you ever walk away? If it was hurting her?”

He hesitates. Only a second. “Yes,” he says. “I’d hate it. But I’d never keep her in something that made her small.”

George exhales. “Alright.”

It’s not a resolution. Not really. But it’s not an attack either. They don’t hate him. They just care. Maybe more than he realized.

“She’s lucky,” Susie says after a pause. “To have you.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Lewis says.

Toto claps a hand on his shoulder. “That’s good.”

Outside, the sun’s slipping lower. Someone knocks on the door. Meeting’s over. As Lewis steps out, he sees you waiting by the wall. Hands behind your back. Head slightly bowed. Like you were worried. Like you felt the shift in the air and didn’t want to intrude. You smile when you see him. Small. Warm. Unshakable. He crosses the distance and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just people who love you. Making sure I do too.”

Your smile falters. Just slightly. But it returns when he wraps an arm around your waist.

“Do you?” you whisper.

Lewis pulls you in tighter. “More than anything.”

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

BEHOLD: the beauty of Turnchetta, which is canon

Les Mis Shipping Showdown: Round of 32

turnchetta art by felicitymildradeworthington (deactivated)

[nasa]

Black Scientists and Engineers Past and Present Enable NASA Space Telescope

The Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope is NASA’s next flagship astrophysics mission, set to launch by May 2027. We’re currently integrating parts of the spacecraft in the NASA Goddard Space Flight Center clean room.

Once Roman launches, it will allow astronomers to observe the universe like never before. In celebration of Black History Month, let’s get to know some Black scientists and engineers, past and present, whose contributions will allow Roman to make history.

Dr. Beth Brown

The late Dr. Beth Brown worked at NASA Goddard as an astrophysicist. in 1998, Dr. Brown became the first Black American woman to earn a Ph.D. in astronomy at the University of Michigan. While at Goddard, Dr. Brown used data from two NASA X-ray missions – ROSAT (the ROentgen SATellite) and the Chandra X-ray Observatory – to study elliptical galaxies that she believed contained supermassive black holes.  

With Roman’s wide field of view and fast survey speeds, astronomers will be able to expand the search for black holes that wander the galaxy without anything nearby to clue us into their presence.

Dr. Harvey Washington Banks 

In 1961, Dr. Harvey Washington Banks was the first Black American to graduate with a doctorate in astronomy. His research was on spectroscopy, the study of how light and matter interact, and his research helped advance our knowledge of the field. Roman will use spectroscopy to explore how dark energy is speeding up the universe's expansion.

NOTE - Sensitive technical details have been digitally obscured in this photograph. 

Sheri Thorn 

Aerospace engineer Sheri Thorn is ensuring Roman’s primary mirror will be protected from the Sun so we can capture the best images of deep space. Thorn works on the Deployable Aperture Cover, a large, soft shade known as a space blanket. It will be mounted to the top of the telescope in the stowed position and then deployed after launch. Thorn helped in the design phase and is now working on building the flight hardware before it goes to environmental testing and is integrated to the spacecraft.

Sanetra Bailey 

Roman will be orbiting a million miles away at the second Lagrange point, or L2. Staying updated on the telescope's status and health will be an integral part of keeping the mission running. Electronics engineer Sanetra Bailey is the person who is making sure that will happen. Bailey works on circuits that will act like the brains of the spacecraft, telling it how and where to move and relaying information about its status back down to Earth.  

 Learn more about Sanetra Bailey and her journey to NASA. 

Dr. Gregory Mosby 

Roman’s field of view will be at least 100 times larger than the Hubble Space Telescope's, even though the primary mirrors are the same size. What gives Roman the larger field of view are its 18 detectors. Dr. Gregory Mosby is one of the detector scientists on the Roman mission who helped select the flight detectors that will be our “eyes” to the universe.

Dr. Beth Brown, Dr. Harvey Washington Banks, Sheri Thorn, Sanetra Bailey, and Dr. Greg Mosby are just some of the many Black scientists and engineers in astrophysics who have and continue to pave the way for others in the field. The Roman Space Telescope team promises to continue to highlight those who came before us and those who are here now to truly appreciate the amazing science to come. 

To stay up to date on the mission, check out our website and follow Roman on X and Facebook.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 12

Kinktober Masterlist vi coactus - "under duress" Simon "Ghost" Riley/TF141 x f!reader Kinks > SHAME, forced orgasms, bimbo/dumbification Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

“Under duress” — A quick exfil means limited seats in the TAC-V. Simon lets you sit on his lap, but it’s a really bumpy road. When you realize that his thigh is the perfect shape, and that it’s pressing against your most sensitive spot, there’s not much you can do to stop yourself. Might as well enjoy the ride.

Warnings: SHAME! EMBARRASSMENT! SHAME!!!!, mean teasing, slut shaming, it's not non-con but no one asks for permission; this truck is not a safe-space.

No one said a word. Once the noise of the petrol explosion and the machine guns faded from your ears, all that you could hear was the rattle and rumble of the engine of the TAC-V. The mission had been successful, but barely. You’d secured the package, but it had cost you the chopper exfil that you’d been desperately counting on. What was a quick twenty minute flight was now an eight hour drive through the bumpiest mountain road known to man, and you were sitting on Ghost’s lap for the entire trip.

The TAC-V sat two in front and three in back, so with Price and Gaz up in the driver and passenger seats, you should have been able to fit in the rear with Ghost and Soap. But, the care package was taking up your spot. As the smallest member of the squad, you were relegated to lap-status, much to your audible dismay. 

“Shut your mouth and get in the truck, Corporal!” Price had shouted, spraying cover fire over the hood of the vehicle. 

So, that’s where you found yourself. Mouth shut. Seat secured. 

There was only one problem. Ghost’s thighs were enormous. He never skipped leg day, and when you tried to sit against his hips to distribute your weight, his gear vest was in the way. So, he’d shifted you over onto his right thigh, forcing you to straddle him, and now you could feel… everything. 

Every time Price hit another bump – which was once or twice every few seconds at this point – Ghost’s rock-solid quad muscle would jerk up into your pussy, shaking your most sensitive bits. It was savage, but it was making your body respond in ways that you did not appreciate. And now, you were in the middle of fighting off the most embarrassing orgasm of your life. 

You could feel how wet you were through the canvas pants you were wearing. Your panties were soaked in the first hundred kilometers, so they were useless against your slick pleasure. Soon, Ghost would be able to feel the warm stain of your cunt imprinting itself on his own trousers, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had tried to shift away in the beginning of this trip, rotating your hips back and forth, trying to search for a less-shameful angle, but he had grumbled, 

“Sit still, love. Tha’s enough squirmin’ around.”

His hand had reached out to secure your hip, pulling you down into a deep seated position, crushing your soft lips against his thigh and spreading them apart unknowingly.

You’d managed to suffer in pure silence so far, but that was becoming more and more challenging as the ride got rougher. The desire to roll your hips against him to take the edge off of the blinding friction you were experiencing was mind-numbing. You were sweaty from battle and now you were sweaty from nerve-racking lust, and there was no escape. You still had hundreds of kilometers to go, and you didn’t know what you were going to do.

Your body knew exactly what it was going to do, though. It was going to come whether you wanted to or not. 

“You alright, lass? Car sick?” Johnny asked, peering over at you as your head rested against the driver’s headrest in front of you. 

“Need a break, babes?” Gaz turned in his seat to check on you. 

“No can do,” Price shook his head and peered at you in the rearview mirror, “Still in the red zone. We can’t stop here and expect to make it out without drawing unwanted attention.” 

“Here,” Gaz reached back and unclipped your vest, “At least take this off so you can catch a breath.”

You let him slip the vest off your shoulders and stuff it in the footwell on the floor in front of him. He passed you his canteen, and you tried to open it with trembling hands. 

“She’s not fuckin’ sick,” Ghost hissed, grabbing the canteen and opening it for you before lifting it to your lips so you could drink.

The rest of the truck-full of men waited to hear the rest of Ghost’s explanation. You felt heat rush to your cheeks in painful humiliation as you waited for him to reveal your predicament. You knew, now, that he could feel you. You had thought you’d gotten away with it so far, but it was too obvious. He could feel the wet, sticky patch on his quad growing with every tremulous shake of the truck, and he knew what was happening to you. You could almost hear the jeering smile on his lips when he told them, 

“She needs a quick wank, innit that right, Corporal?”

You tried to keep your eyes trained on the floor, but you had to see what their faces looked like. You lifted your gaze to meet Price’s bright blue eyes in the mirror, the evidence of Ghost’s truth written all over your expression. 

The silence was broken up only by the road noise. No one spoke and no one breathed. You looked to Gaz and saw his mouth open in shock, curling at the edge of his lip with a boyish glee. Soap’s brow was furrowed in disbelief,

“S’that true, bonnie?”

Ghost didn’t even give you a chance to answer him. He shoved his gloved hand under your crotch as if to feel the evidence on his hand that he was sensing on his thigh, chuckling at your sorry predicament,

“Bumpy road, been wet and warm for almost an hour. Gonna have myself a pretty little pussy stain by the time we get to base. And if I give her somethin’ to work against…”

Your lieutenant curled his fingers that he had shoved underneath you, finding your swollen clit with a surprising ease. As if he’d pushed a button, you let out an obvious moan. You cut it short, unable to hold it back from crawling out of your throat, but the damage was done. 

Silence again, and then Gaz’s low voice,

“Holy fuck.”

Ghost removed his hand and settled back in his seat, keeping his grip on your hips with a steadfast strength. He was looking at you in the mirror along with Price who kept glancing up from the road. The message in Ghost’s eyes was a clear challenge; he wasn’t going to give you any more relief, and if you wanted to come on him, you’d need to figure it out yourself. 

The urge to hump his solid thigh was overwhelming, and now that the cat was out of the bag, you thought it wouldn’t be possible for you to be any more ashamed, so you started to hump your pussy against him, ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly… but, Ghost couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“See? Needy thing’s grindin’ on me. Can’t help yourself, huh, love?”

You shook your head, looking to Price for some sort of rescue, but what could he do? Your captain was driving as fast as he could out of enemy territory, and you were stuck in place, tumbling into an orgasm and suffering the pain of embarrassment in front of your whole squad. 

You moaned, trying to hold your breath, but your whole body shook as you came. Your hole was so wet and burning hot, and you could feel yourself gush as you clenched your muscles around nothing, wishing you had something… someone… inside of you. 

“There she is… good girl,” Ghost teased you, rubbing your back as you shuddered above him, rolling in your high. 

“Did she just…” Soap gaped.

You looked up at him, and even though your eyes begged for pity, you received none from him. He met you with a filthy grin,

“Come over here with me, lass. I’ll give you somethin’ to fuckin’ sit on.”

He reached for your arm, attempting to drag you over the care package, but Ghost jerked his hand away and wrapped his arm around your belly, forcing you to lean back against him, the tools in his vest digging into your flesh,

“She’s fine where she is, Sergeant. Aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

You felt hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes, and you squeezed them shut, whispering,

“I’m s-sorry…”

“Shh, love. Nothin’ to be sorry for. Can’t be fuckin’ helped. C’mon,” he snarled in your ear, his mask smelling like his menthols and sweat, “Beg me to help you. Beg for my fingers, princess.”

“Simon,” Price warned, watching your degradation unfold behind him. 

“Eyes on the bloody road, Cap,” Ghost chuckled, “Bumpy enough back here as it is.”

Gaz hadn’t stopped staring, and you watched in horror as he palmed his hard length over the rough denim of his jeans. 

You felt yourself building to another crescendo, the waves of your first orgasm swelling to threaten a second, easier now that you’d let down so much silky come, allowing your pussy to slip that much faster over Simon’s huge thigh. 

“Beg me, baby,” Ghost growled in your ear, “Beg me to fuckin’ touch you right here where they can all watch me make you come.”

“No…” You gasped, “I can’t… I’m not…”

“Not what? Not a dumb little slut? Oh, sweetheart. Yes, you are. You’re so fuckin’ wet it looks like you pissed yourself. I bet those pretty knickers are fuckin’ ruined, aren’t they?”

He grabbed you by the chin roughly, startling you, making your core clench tight, turned on by his cruel aggression as he almost shouted in your ear, 

“Aren’t they? Tell the fuckin’ truth. Tell it to him,” Ghost’s eyes turned toward the rear view mirror and you looked up at Price, pleading with him for forgiveness in your tone. You mumbled, 

“My panties… are…”

“He can’t hear you, baby.” Ghost held your face, forcing you to look at his captain in the eyes through the reflective glass.

“My panties are ruined, sir.”

“Is that so, Corporal?” Price asked in a low droll, and you saw him readjust himself in his pants before putting both fists back on the steering wheel, gripping it so tight that his knuckles turned as white as bone. 

“Better see for myself, yeah?” Ghost chuckled, unbuttoning your trousers and yanking down the fly. 

He reached inside and grabbed the fabric roughly in his hand and, with a strength that shocked you, he tore them right off of your body with a loud rip, breaking the elastic at the seam and slipping the scrap from under your lips and ass. He held it up for the entire truck to see, showing them how the gray cotton was stained dark from your wetness, how they gleamed in the light of the setting desert sun. 

Soap reached out and snatched them from his hand, and Ghost laughed out loud, watching Johnny shove them to his nose and moan out a breath of satisfaction. 

“Go on, then,” Ghost turned his attention back on you, “Beg me for it. I wanna hear you say please, sir. You got that, Corporal?”

He snaked his hand back down the front of your belly, barely touching your furry mons, resting his gloved finger just above the hood of your clit, touching you with a light, teasing pressure. 

You could feel the rough canvas against your soft pussy now, and the seam was giving you something to grind against, but it was nothing like the feel of a strong finger. You chased another orgasm, but it was just out of reach. You were humping him lewdly, at this point, rocking your hips back and forth with abandon, unable to stop yourself from chasing your second, hard burst of pleasure. 

You bit your lip, struggling with all your might, but you were failing to surge over that exaltant peak. You needed his help, but you didn’t want to beg for it. You couldn’t. You were too dismayed at your fallen state.

You looked at Gaz, hoping he could talk some sense into your lieutenant, but he was jerking himself off with a hand down his pants, watching you through hooded eyes. You turned your gaze to Soap who had your ripped panties in his hand and was using them to wet his own heavy cock, smearing your juices all over his ruddy head. 

Ghost’s grip tightened on your jaw, and he turned your head toward his passenger window, stopping you from looking at the other men, 

“They can’t help you, love. Just me. Now, use your fuckin’ words.”

“Please… touch me,” your voice was barely a whisper.

“Please, what?” He bit back.

“Please touch me, sir,” you whined, sick to your stomach at your own weakness.

“Tha’s a good girl,” he smiled.

He moved his fingers lower, shoving two of them between your lips, applying firm pressure to your clit. He didn’t even need to rub you. Your pussy started to come the moment it had his relief, and you cried out like a paid whore, keening into the hollow cab, rolling your hips against him, chasing your crashing orgasm. 

Then, he started to move his hand frantically, rubbing you back and forth, dragging out your bursting come even further than you thought was possible, turning one orgasm into two, back to back, a painful overstimulation, enough to make your body convulse from his effort.

“No, no… oh, fuck!” You screamed, trying to close your legs but his thigh was in the way, and all you could do was ride him. 

“Yeah, tha’s it, love. Give it to me. Come on me, you filthy fuckin’ slag. Let ‘em hear what I’m doin’ to this needy cunt.”

“Mmngh! Please… Ghost, please, oh, fuck…” 

“Listen to that sound, lads,” he grunted, commenting on the wet, milking noises your cunt was making under his hand, “Runnin’ like a hot tap.”

“Hurry up, LT,” Soap barked, pulling on his cock with your panties wrapped around the hard shaft like he was furious with it, “I’ll only be so patient.”

Ghost shook his head,

“Tsch, tsch, alright, Johnny. If you insist. C’mon, baby. Keep those legs spread f’me like a good girl, yeah?”

You felt him ruck down the back of your pants and shove them onto your legs, exposing your ass to the whole truck. Then, you felt the tell-tale drag of his cockhead over your folds, and before you could even think to protest, he was shoving himself inside of you, slipping through your slick without much resistance, your wet come helping guide his length all the way up to your womb. 

Once he had whet his prick down to its root in you, he used both hands to lift your hips and slam them back down, using you like a cocksleeve. He was so thick, but your body was primed and ready to take him, and you found yourself without words, only able to moan and whine as he filled you up. 

Gaz reached over, leaning out of his seat to grab your face, turning you towards him so that he could kiss you. You couldn’t even kiss him back, you were so mindless, and he spent most of his time licking your lips and sucking on your tongue as you whimpered for Ghost’s heavy dick, your body jerking up and down as he slammed you onto his steel-hard length repeatedly. 

“Does he feel good, babes?” Gaz asked you, sticking two of his fingers into your mouth and down your throat, making you choke on him until you started to instinctively suck and swallow against him, “Tha’s it. Pretty thing just needed somethin’ in her mouth, didn’t she?”

Every time you choked from Gaz’s hand in your throat, you clenched around Ghost’s cock, and he begged his sergeant for more,

“Choke her again, Garrick. Makes her so fuckin’ tight.”

Gaz laughed, full of mischief, and reached up with his other hand to pinch your nose. Then, inside of your mouth, he pressed his fingers in a downward motion over and over and over, making it feel like he was fucking your face with a throbbing dick, too big for you to breathe. You gagged, and then, when you tried to take a breath, you gagged again, your whole body spasming, fighting for air. You could only suck in short breaths when you opened your mouth wider, and Gaz held the relief of those moments from you for as long as he could. 

Finally, Ghost wrapped both of his hands around your torso and ripped you away from Gaz’s cruel hand, laying you against his chest and fucking his cock up into you from below, creating loud, pornographic slapping sounds that filled the truck. 

“Fuck!” Ghost groaned, “Gonna make me come, love. Say please, baby. C’mon. You can do it. Say it.”

“Dinnae think she’s still with us, LT. Fucked her brains right out of her head,” Soap chuckled. 

“She can do it,” Ghost insisted, “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re not gettin’ my come until I hear you beg for it.”

 You looked at his eyes in the mirror again, not recognizing yourself in such a mindless state of indulgence, drowning in pleasure and losing yourself to it. He was looking at you with such an intensity, you wanted to please him. You wanted to follow his orders. You wanted to show him that you could be such a good girl. 

“P-please…. Please! Ungh, please, sir… Give me your come. Please, sir… I need it. I need it. I need… mmnff-fuck!”

You felt his cock swelling, throbbing, and bursting with hot, sticky ropes of his cream, buried deep inside of your walls, coating the head of your womb as your pussy squeezed out another orgasm, milking him like a hungry mouth. He pulled out a bit only to ram himself back in, deeper this time, stretching to touch the end of your sheath, aching to plant his seed. 

“Fuck, finally,” Soap grunted, reaching over the crate with both hands this time to drag you from Ghost’s lap, “Couldnae wait much longer, LT.”

You felt Ghost’s cock slip from you, spilling his come down your leg, your pants sliding down to your boots as Soap dragged you into his lap.

“There she is,” Gaz smiled, returning to his efforts and shoving his fingers back down your throat, this time shifting them back and forth, massaging your tongue as he fucked you on his hand, “Suck them for me, baby. It’ll be my turn, soon.”

“Better enjoy the easy ride while you can, Corporal,” Price sneered, “You’ve got PT in my quarters as soon as we get back to base. Might take all night.”

As Johnny’s fat dick squeezed into your come-soaked pussy, you wanted to protest. You wanted to make some snide comment back, but your usual biting retorts were unavailable at the moment. You really were blissed out of your mind, and the only thing you could do was fuck and suck like the dumb little slut that you were.

If anyone comments on this OBVIOUSLY TAGGED shame kink fic that it was "too embarrassing to read!! huehueuhe"/"i tried but i couldnt do it. too cringe!", I'm gonna come to your house and shit in your shoes, you coward. Get the fuck off my page.

[jaystardust]

KISS, KISS, KISS LOVE ME NOW - J A Y

Genre : neighbor!jay, nurse!reader, jay is in a fightclub, strangers to lovers

Warnings : blood, angst, suggestive

Summary : when your new neighbor with strange behavior and a cold attitude is lying all bloody on the staircase, you have no other choice but to help him. And fortunately for him, you know how to do stitches…

wc : 7k

——

Night shifts were far from your favorite, but there was no avoiding them—they came with the territory. Tonight had been particularly grueling, and as you made your way to your locker to gather your belongings, all you could think about was the hot bubble bath waiting for you at home. The thought of sinking into warm, soothing water, letting it ease the tension from your muscles, was the only thing keeping you upright. You could already imagine the soft embrace of your fluffy pajamas and the cool, crisp sheets of your bed cocooning you in much-needed rest. The late hour no longer mattered; all you wanted was to unwind.

Most nights at the hospital followed the usual rhythm—routine patient checks, occasional emergencies, and long, quiet hours of paperwork. But tonight had been different. Chaos had erupted when a massive street fight sent a wave of injured people flooding into the emergency room. Blood, shouting, the frantic pace of doctors and nurses scrambling to stabilize patients—it had been relentless. The hours dragged, exhaustion gnawed at your bones, and by the time your shift ended, you felt like a shadow of yourself.

Your city was usually quiet, only punctuated by brief moments of excitement. But lately, something had changed. A darker undercurrent ran beneath the surface, seeping into everyday life. Just last week, in the hospital’s changing room, you overheard whispers among your colleagues. Rumors of a secret fight club were spreading—an underground ring where people brawled for money, pride, or simply the thrill of it. These fights, they said, had been escalating, leaving competitors battered and broken, some requiring serious medical attention.

You weren’t one for gossip, though. Whether the fight club was real or just an exaggerated rumor, it wasn’t your concern. People made their choices, and you had enough on your plate without worrying about reckless strangers throwing punches for sport.

The drive home was quiet, the deserted streets bathed in the amber glow of streetlights. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the soft melody of your car radio provided a comforting contrast to the night’s earlier chaos. Slowly, the tension in your shoulders began to ease. By the time you pulled into your usual parking spot, the hospital felt like a distant memory.

Stepping into the lobby of your apartment building, you sighed as the old neon light above flickered erratically. The buzzing was almost rhythmic, a constant reminder that the building had seen better days. Your gaze drifted to the staircase—three flights between you and your apartment. Normally, the lack of an elevator was just a minor inconvenience, but tonight, with exhaustion weighing on you like lead, it felt like a cruel joke.

Halfway up the first flight, you heard it—a faint sound that made you stop mid-step. A muffled groan, low and pained. Your pulse quickened as you turned your head, searching for the source.

Then you saw him.

A man lay slumped against the wall on the landing, his jet-black hair tousled and damp with sweat. He was breathing heavily, his body tense as if every movement caused him pain. In the dim glow of the stairwell, you recognized him instantly—your neighbor.

You’d never spoken to him before. He was a mystery, always distant, his presence more like a shadow that drifted through the building without a word. On the rare occasions your paths crossed, he never acknowledged you beyond a curt nod—if even that.

But now, all that cold detachment was gone. Now, he was vulnerable.

For a brief moment, you hesitated. He wasn’t your responsibility. He had never shown the slightest interest in your existence, and yet, something about seeing him like this stirred unease in your chest.

Was he drunk? The thought crossed your mind as you took another step closer, subtly sniffing the air for any trace of alcohol. But before you could form a conclusion, his voice cut through the silence.

"I'm not drunk," he muttered, his tone low but sharp enough to catch you off guard.

You froze, startled, as though you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. His dark eyes met yours under the flickering white neon, and for a brief second, you felt oddly flustered.

"Uh… well, are you okay?" you stammered, regaining your composure. "You don’t look like you’re in great shape."

He shifted slightly, trying to straighten himself against the wall, and that’s when you saw it—the deep crimson stain blooming across the fabric of his light-colored shirt.

Your breath hitched.

"Oh my God, you’re bleeding!" The words rushed out before you could stop them.

Instinct took over, and before he could protest, you were on your knees beside him, eyes scanning for the source of the wound. The sight of so much blood made your heart race.

His abdomen—that’s where the stain was darkest. The sheer amount of blood loss made you hiss in concern. You reached out, fingers hovering just above the fabric. In the hospital, you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d lift his shirt, assess the damage, and get to work. But here, in the dim stairwell of your apartment building, with a man you barely knew, you faltered.

“Can I move this?” you asked, voice softer now. “I need to see how bad it is.”

He let out a humorless chuckle, though it quickly turned into a grimace.

“Why do you even care?” he murmured, his voice laced with something unreadable. "Are you a doctor or something? You don’t even know me. Why would you help me?"

His words stung, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe because, despite his attempt at indifference, there was something raw beneath them—something that hinted at a man who wasn’t used to kindness.

You met his gaze, steady and unwavering.

"Because you need it," you said simply. "Now, let me help you."

He stared at you for a long moment, and then, with a tired sigh, he let his head rest back against the wall.

"Fine," he muttered. "Do whatever you want."

And with that, you carefully lifted the fabric, bracing yourself for what you might find beneath.

Beneath the fabric, you saw a horizontal wound—deep, but not deep enough to cause internal damage. Judging by the clean slice, it looked like a knife wound. Experience told you that this would need stitches. The amount of blood loss was severe; it was a wonder he was still conscious. Adrenaline, you realized, must be keeping him awake.

The weather wasn’t too cold, so you hadn’t worn a jacket, but you had a silk scarf in your bag—just in case. After a brief moment of hesitation, you pulled it out and pressed it firmly against the wound to slow the bleeding.

“You’re going to need stitches,” you murmured. “It’s not safe to do this here. These stairs are filthy—I don’t even want to think about when they were last cleaned. I have supplies in my apartment. Can you move?”

He let out a slow breath, his face contorting in pain as he tried to shift. For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t make it, but then he gritted his teeth and nodded.

“I’ll manage,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

You slipped an arm under his to help him up, his weight pressing heavily against you. It was going to be a long night.

As you struggled to maintain his weight, you couldn't help but notice the firm muscles beneath your fingers. His toned arm rested against you, and despite the situation, you briefly wondered if he spent time at the gym. He had always seemed distant and unapproachable, but now, pressed against you like this, he felt undeniably human. Vulnerable, even.

You suddenly realized you didn’t even know his first name.

“What’s your name, by the way?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual despite the tension in the air.

A beat of silence followed, his breathing slightly labored as he adjusted his stance. Then, with a weak but unmistakably sarcastic tone, he responded.

“I didn’t know we were doing a chit-chat session… If only I knew, I would’ve brought some tea and cookies.”

Despite yourself, you huffed out a short, amused breath. Even injured, he had the energy to be difficult.

You preferred to ignore his remark, exhaling a short sigh as you fumbled with your keys. Still, from the corner of your eye, you caught the faintest hint of satisfaction on his face, as if he was pleased with himself for the snarky comment. Rolling your eyes, you finally unlocked the door and guided him inside, steering him toward the sofa.

Helping him down, you underestimated his weight. He was heavier than he looked, and as he leaned into you, you lost your balance for a split second. Your body tilted forward, nearly collapsing onto him. At the last moment, you managed to steady yourself, gripping the back of the couch for support.

He didn’t miss the opportunity to tease you.

“Wow,” he rasped, amusement lacing his tired voice. “First, you drag me into your place, and now you’re trying to top me? You’re burning through a lot of steps here… and you still don’t even know my name.”

Your face heated instantly, and you straightened up, scoffing. “You’re delirious,” you muttered, ignoring the way your pulse quickened at his words. Turning on your heel, you hurried toward the bathroom, determined to collect your medical supplies before he could make another comment.

Just as you rummaged through the cabinet, his voice—softer this time—drifted through the apartment.

“It’s Jay,” he murmured. “My name is Jay, by the way.”

The sarcasm was gone now, replaced by something quieter, something almost... sincere.

As you stitched him up in the dim glow of your living room, Jay barely flinched. His eyes remained trained on you, unreadable, though his breathing had evened out somewhat. The tension in the air was thick, weighted by unspoken words.

"You're good at this," he finally said, breaking the silence.

"I should be," you murmured. "It's my job."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Nurse, huh?"

You nodded, securing the last stitch. "And you? Let me guess... underground fighter?"

His smirk deepened, though there was something almost resigned in it. "Something like that."

Your hands lingered on his skin for a moment before you finally sat back, exhaling slowly. "You should rest. You'll need it."

Jay watched you carefully, his expression unreadable. "And what if I don’t?"

You met his gaze, unwavering. "Then I guess you'll just end up back here again."

A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Guess I could do worse."

You tried to ignore his remark and walked to your open kitchen.

“Do you want anything to eat? Or drink? You should get some sleep too. You can sleep on the sofa; it's comfortable enough, I swear. I don't want the stitches to split, you know…”

“Fine, I'll sleep here then. I'm fine with food, but I'll gladly accept a glass of water, please.”

You could hear the tiredness in his voice. He must have been through a lot, even if you still didn't know what happened to him. You didn’t want to be too nosy for your own good. And you were kind of surprised to see him agree so easily, so you nodded and prepared a glass of water for him.

“Here you are.”

As you handed him the water, you realized that he was still shirtless because of the stitches and the bloody shirt he had been wearing before.

“Would you like a shirt to wear for the night? I have some oversized ones if you want. I can wash the one you were wearing before.”

“Oh, you don't need to wash it. It's okay. I’d feel indebted, and I hate that. You already did enough for me,” he muttered. “Besides, I'm used to sleeping shirtless anyway, so it's fine.”

You hesitated for a moment, watching him as he took a sip of water. The way he held the glass—like it was taking every ounce of his strength just to keep it steady—made your stomach twist with unease. He was clearly exhausted, his body pushed to its limits, and yet he still tried to maintain a sense of control, a sense of dignity.

"Suit yourself," you murmured, watching as he leaned back against the couch, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue. The faint glow of the city lights outside painted his face in soft shadows, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline, the subtle tension in his brow. He looked like someone who had seen too much, someone carrying a weight too heavy for one person alone.

After a moment of silence, Jay spoke, his voice quieter than before. "What's your name?"

You blinked, slightly caught off guard. "Y/N."

He nodded slowly, as if committing it to memory. "Thanks for… everything, Y/N."

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, then closed his eyes for a moment. You thought he might be drifting off, but then he spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

"You should be careful."

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

Jay's eyes flickered open just enough to meet yours, his gaze unreadable. "You're better off not knowing, Y/N. Some things are safer in the dark."

A chill ran down your spine. The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, heavy and unsettling. You had noticed the shift in the city—the strange unease that lingered in the air like an oncoming storm. The hospital had seen more violent cases lately, unexplained injuries, people unwilling to talk. And now, Jay—bleeding, cryptic, sitting in your apartment like some unfinished story.

"What are you involved in?" you asked quietly.

Jay exhaled, a tired, humorless sound. "I told you—you're better off not knowing. Just… be careful."

His voice was softer this time, almost reluctant. You could tell he was holding something back, something that could change everything. But instead of pressing him, you just watched as his eyes slipped shut again, exhaustion finally pulling him under.

You could tell he was holding back details, but you didn't press. Instead, you sat down across from him, studying his face. There was something about him—something that made you want to understand, to help, even though logic screamed at you to stay out of it.

"You should sleep," you said finally.

He gave a slow nod, his body already surrendering to exhaustion. As you stood and made your way to your bedroom, you couldn't shake the feeling that this night had changed something. That Jay had pulled you into something much bigger than either of you realized.

The next morning, the sound of silence greeted you. You stretched, groggy from sleep, and padded out of your bedroom, expecting to see Jay still asleep on the couch.

But he was gone.

The blankets you had given him were neatly folded on the armrest, the glass of water empty and placed carefully on the kitchen counter. It was as if he had never been there at all.

You stood still for a moment, staring at the quiet remnants of his presence. A faint trace of something lingered in the air—his scent, a mix of soap and something vaguely metallic, like the echo of last night's blood. You exhaled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, trying to ignore the strange emptiness settling in your chest.

You should have known he wouldn't stay. A man like Jay never stayed in one place for too long. He was a shadow, slipping between the cracks, existing only on the periphery. And yet, part of you had expected—or maybe hoped—that he'd still be here when you woke up.

Your gaze drifted to the small piece of paper on the kitchen counter. A napkin, folded over, with something scrawled in dark ink.

"Stay out of trouble."

You ran your fingers over the words, as if they might reveal more than what was written. No name, no explanation. Just a warning. A part of you wanted to crumple the napkin and throw it away. Another part wanted to hold onto it.

With a quiet sigh, you placed it back on the counter. You told yourself you wouldn't get involved. That last night was a fluke, a coincidence. But deep down, you had the sinking feeling that this wasn't over.

And somehow, you knew Jay would be back.

Days passed, then weeks, and Jay remained a ghost in your life. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him, that his absence didn’t gnaw at the back of your mind late at night. But sometimes, when exhaustion from long hospital shifts blurred the edges of your thoughts, you found yourself wondering where he was, if he was alright. If he had gotten himself into more trouble.

Work kept you busy enough to push those thoughts aside. One of your colleagues had taken leave, and you were drowning in extra shifts, barely having time to breathe. The days blurred together—long nights at the hospital, short-lived sleep, and an endless cycle of patients, beeping monitors, and hurried footsteps.

Then, one afternoon, as you were slipping on your shoes, ready to head out and finally catch a breath of fresh air with a friend, a knock echoed through your apartment. It was sharp, deliberate.

Frowning, you glanced at the door. You weren’t expecting anyone.

When you opened it, your breath hitched slightly.

Jay stood there.

It had been weeks, but he looked nearly the same—just as unreadable, just as distant. But there was something else, something in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his gaze flickered over you as if making sure you were still in one piece.

"It's been a while," you said, unable to hide the hint of surprise in your voice.

Jay’s lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something—but then he hesitated. Instead, he exhaled slowly and met your eyes. "Can I come in?"

You were supposed to leave, but you just couldn't say no to him, and you didn't know why. There was something about Jay—something in the way he stood there, his presence filling the space like a quiet storm. His hair had grown a little longer since the last time you'd seen him, and the way his fringe fell against his eyelashes made him look almost boyish, despite the sharp edge of his demeanor. You forced yourself to focus on anything else, anything but his face—or worse, his body.

"Uhm, yeah. Sure, come in." You stepped aside, giving him enough space to enter as you closed the door behind him, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle around you.

He moved with a casual ease, making his way to the bar of your open kitchen. It was only then that you noticed what he was holding—your silk scarf. The same one that had been stained with his blood. You had completely forgotten about it, about the mess of that night, but he hadn’t.

"I washed it for you," he said, holding it out. "It was all stained. I tried to stop by a few times, but you were never home… so I couldn't give it back to you."

You took the scarf, running your fingers over the smooth fabric, now spotless, as if that night had never happened.

"Oh… thank you. You could've just left it at my door, you know."

"No," Jay said, shaking his head slightly. "I didn’t want to. I wanted to thank you.

And…" He hesitated for just a moment before adding, "I wanted to see you."

You were caught completely off guard by his words. Your mouth opened slightly, as if to respond, but no words came out. Instead, you shut it quickly, your mind scrambling to process what he had just said. He wanted to see you? That was unexpected—unsettling, even.

Trying to regain some sense of normalcy, you turned away and made your way to the kitchen. You busied yourself with pouring him a glass of water, just like the last time. It was something to focus on, something simple. But the entire time, you were hyper-aware of his presence, of the way he seemed so at ease in your space. He leaned against the counter with a kind of lazy confidence, as if he belonged here, as if he had always been part of your life.

But that wasn’t the case.

The first time you met him, he was bleeding out in the stairwell. That was the reality. Not this strange sense of familiarity that had somehow settled between you two. Not this bizarre comfort in his presence. You barely knew him. And yet, here he was, lingering in your kitchen like a ghost that refused to be forgotten.

And that’s what made you uneasy.

Because the more you thought about it, the more you realized—you didn’t really know who Jay was at all. You didn’t know where he went when he disappeared for days, or why he had been covered in blood the night you found him. You didn’t know if he was bad news or worse—dangerous.

And the worst part?

You should have been thinking about that before letting him have a damn sleepover in your living room.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice what he was doing at first. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught the slow movement of his fingers playing with something—a small, crumpled piece of paper. Or rather, a paper towel.

It took you a second to realize what it was.

The note.

The one he left for you that morning.

“Oh? You kept my note?” His voice was laced with amusement, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “How cute.”

That smirk—it was becoming a habit. Maybe it was his signature look, that teasing half-smile that made it impossible to tell whether he was being serious or just messing with you.

Your stomach twisted slightly as you realized you had, in fact, kept it. Not intentionally. You had been so busy with work, drowning in shifts and exhaustion, that you completely forgot to throw it away. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, reaching out and snatching the paper towel from his hands before he could say anything else. “I just forgot it was there.”

“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t look convinced.

His eyes flickered over you, studying your reaction with that unreadable expression of his. And for a brief moment, you had the strangest feeling—that he could see right through you. That he knew you weren’t being entirely honest.

That maybe, just maybe, you had kept the note on purpose.

But before you could dwell on it any longer, Jay leaned back against the counter, stretching his arms over his head like he had all the time in the world.

“So,” he said, voice casual, “how long are you gonna keep pretending you’re not curious about me?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Because the truth was—you were curious. You had been from the very beginning.

And Jay knew it.

You tried to look disinterested by his words, forcing yourself to maintain a neutral expression.

"I'm not. Do you think you're a psychic or something?"

He frowned slightly, caught off guard by your sudden change in attitude. His gaze lingered on you, studying your face like he was trying to decipher a puzzle.

"What's with the change of mood right now? Last time I saw you, you were so nosy about me."

You crossed your arms, not breaking eye contact. "It's called being worried. And last time I checked, it's been days since then. So why do you care to tell me now, huh?"

The atmosphere shifted, heavy with unspoken words. The silence between you stretched, thick and unbearable. Jay exhaled slowly, placing the towel back on the counter. He opened his mouth, as if about to respond, but before he could, the sudden shrill ring of your phone cut through the tension.

"Oh my God—Giselle!" you muttered, your stomach twisting as you glanced at the caller ID. You had completely forgotten about her. Swiping to answer, you turned slightly away from Jay. "Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up, and that’s why I’m running late. I’ll explain later."

After ending the call, you hesitated before turning back to Jay. His expression was unreadable, his posture tense, like he was weighing whether to say something or let it go. The way he stood there, quiet and brooding, sent a strange ripple through your chest.

"I won't take much more of your time," he said finally, his voice quieter than before. "You have somewhere to be."

Something about the way he said it—flat, detached—made your stomach tighten. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something, but the words stuck in your throat. He gave you one last unreadable glance before stepping back, his presence already slipping away like a shadow.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Reunited with your friend, you were barely enjoying your evening. You had gone out to clear your mind after all the stress from work, but no matter how much you tried to distract yourself, your thoughts kept circling back to Jay.

Giselle was animatedly recounting how she met her new crush, her excitement evident in the way her hands gestured wildly as she spoke. But you weren’t even listening. Her words faded into the background, blending with the ambient noise of the café, drowned out by the thoughts racing in your head.

You felt guilty—guilty for zoning out on your friend, but even more so for how you had treated Jay earlier. The way you had brushed him off, the sharpness in your tone—it all replayed in your mind, making your stomach twist uncomfortably. He had come to see you for a reason, and instead of hearing him out, you had shut him down.

Giselle suddenly paused mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes at you. "Okay, what’s going on with you? You’ve been weirdly quiet all night."

You blinked, realizing you had been staring into your drink for who knows how long.

"Huh?" you said, attempting to feign innocence.

She gave you a knowing look, crossing her arms. "Don’t ‘huh’ me. Spill."

You hesitated, debating whether to brush it off or tell her the truth. But the weight in your chest was growing heavier by the second. With a sigh, you finally admitted, "It’s... Jay."

Giselle arched an eyebrow. "The mysterious neighbor? What about him?"

You hesitated again, running a hand through your hair. "I don’t know. He showed up earlier, and I just— I don’t think I handled it well."

She leaned forward, intrigued. "Wait, wait. Start from the beginning. What happened?"

You took a deep breath, trying to piece together your jumbled emotions. "He just seemed... off. Like, there was something he wanted to say, but I kind of pushed him away before he could. And now I can’t stop thinking about it."

Giselle smirked, sipping her drink. "Sounds like you care about him more than you’re willing to admit."

You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you knew she wasn’t entirely wrong. And that realization unsettled you

more than anything else.

You hadn’t planned on seeing Jay again.

Not tonight. Not this soon. And definitely not like this.

It was just past midnight when you stepped into the quiet of your apartment, shoes in hand, coat barely hanging off your shoulders. Giselle had insisted on walking you halfway home before giving you a final, pointed look that said: Figure it out. And you had nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

You didn’t know what you were hoping for when you turned your key in the lock. Certainly not Jay, waiting for you in the hallway, seated on the floor with his back against the wall, head tilted up like he’d been dozing off.

Your breath caught.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice hushed in disbelief.

Jay looked up slowly, his eyes finding yours in the dim light. “You left your door unlocked.”

“That… doesn’t answer my question.”

He stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. “I figured I’d wait. In case you wanted to talk.”

You blinked. “You could’ve texted.”

“You could’ve answered.”

Touché.

You swallowed thickly, the air around you shifting—dense, electric. There was a beat of silence between you, longer than it should’ve been, until you stepped past him into the apartment. You didn’t invite him in this time. You didn’t need to.

He followed you anyway.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound was deafening in the stillness of the space.

“I was out with a friend,” you said, dropping your coat over the back of a chair, your tone deliberately neutral.

“I figured,” he replied, watching you closely.

You turned toward him, arms folded tightly across your chest. “What are we doing, Jay?”

His expression shifted, something unreadable passing through his gaze. “You tell me.”

“You show up bleeding one night, sleep on my couch, vanish without a word, and then come back acting like this is normal. Like we’re normal. We’re not.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “Doesn’t feel normal to you?”

Your back hit the kitchen counter before you realized you’d even moved. Jay was in front of you now, close enough that you could see the faint scar near his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders as he leaned down—just enough to be in your space, without touching you.

“No,” you whispered. “It doesn’t.”

His hand lifted slowly, giving you a chance to stop him. You didn’t.

Fingers brushed your jaw, warm and steady, as he tilted your face up to meet his.

“You’ve been in my head,” he murmured, his voice low, roughened at the edges. “Since that night. And I don’t know what this is either, but I’m not going to pretend I don’t want it.”

You could barely breathe.

Your hands found his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric—not pulling him closer, not pushing him away. Just holding. Like that alone might steady you.

“What if this is a bad idea?” you managed.

He leaned in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. Not kissing. Not yet. Just close enough to tempt.

“Then let’s make it the kind of bad we don’t regret.”

That was all it took.

Your mouth met his in a rush, like you’d been holding back for too long. The kiss was messy, heated—his hands finding your waist, your hips, anchoring you against the counter as if he couldn’t stand the space between you. Your fingers slid under his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and he let it fall without a second thought.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t soft.

Jay kissed like he meant it—like he had something to prove. His tongue slid against yours, his hand slipping under your shirt, splaying wide across your lower back, drawing you closer until there was no room left between your bodies. You could feel the tension in him, the way he was holding back, barely.

“Bedroom?” he asked between kisses, voice thick with restraint.

You nodded, breathless.

He didn’t wait. He scooped you up with startling ease, and your arms looped around his neck instinctively. You were in your room within seconds, the door kicked shut behind him.

Clothes came off in pieces—your shirt over your head, his hands tugging at your waistband, his own shirt discarded on the floor. You barely noticed the mess. You were too focused on the way he looked in the faint light of your bedside lamp: sculpted, lean, every movement controlled like he knew exactly what he was doing—and exactly what he wanted.

His mouth trailed along your collarbone, down your chest, until you gasped his name, fingers threading through his hair.

And when he finally sank into you, it wasn’t rushed anymore. It was slow. Purposeful. His mouth found yours again, softer this time, as if to make sure you felt every second of it. Every inch.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered against his skin, dazed and breathless.

Jay only smiled, low and wicked, as his pace deepened.

“You let me in anyway.”

You lay there in silence for a while, his body warm beside yours, his fingers tracing lazy circles along your arm. The calm was deceptive—too still, too quiet—like the eye of a storm.

But you couldn’t let it go. You had to know.

“Jay,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the hush. “That night. When I found you. Why were you bleeding?”

He stiffened slightly, the motion subtle but noticeable. His hand stopped moving, and for a moment, you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, he sat up, running a hand through his hair.

“You really want to know?” he asked, not looking at you.

“Yes,” you said, sitting up as well, wrapping the sheet around you. “I do.”

Jay exhaled hard, like the truth cost him something just to say out loud. “I’m part of a fight club.”

You blinked. “A what?”

“A fight club,” he repeated, slower this time. “Underground. No rules. No names. Just blood and money.”

You stared at him, heart sinking. “God, Jay.”

“It’s not what you think,” he muttered quickly, sensing your reaction. “I don’t do it for fun. It’s not about the violence. I needed the cash—at first. And then it became something else. Something I couldn’t walk away from.”

“You make it sound like an addiction,” you said, trying to keep your voice level.

He looked at you finally, his gaze unreadable. “Maybe it is.”

The weight of his confession settled over you like a cold fog. You swallowed hard.

“Jay, you can’t keep living like this. It’s dangerous. You could get seriously hurt—worse.”

He pulled away slightly, a flash of something dark crossing his face. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.”

He stood abruptly, pacing the room. “You don’t know what it’s like. The kind of pressure I’m under. The things I’ve had to do just to stay afloat. This—” he gestured between you two, “—this isn’t part of that world. And maybe it shouldn’t be.”

You flinched, feeling the sting behind his words. “So what are you saying? That this was a mistake?”

He hesitated. Just long enough.

And you filled the silence yourself.

“Maybe it was,” you said, wrapping the sheet tighter around your chest. “Maybe it shouldn’t have happened.”

Jay’s eyes darkened. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like this meant nothing to you.”

“Then stop pushing me away!” you snapped. “I let you in, Jay. I gave a damn when no one else did. And you can’t even let me care without treating it like a threat.”

Silence fell again, heavy and final. Jay looked at you like he wanted to say something more—needed to—but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he turned, grabbing his clothes off the floor.

You watched, arms folded tightly, your throat burning.

He dressed without speaking, and when he reached the door, he paused.

“Thanks for the scarf,” he said quietly, almost bitterly. “And for the couch. I’ll let myself out.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t stop him.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence he left in his wake was deafening.

Three days.

That’s how long it had been since Jay walked out of your apartment—out of your bed, out of your life—with nothing more than a quiet goodbye.

And despite everything, despite what you’d told him (and told yourself), your thoughts kept drifting back to that night. His hands, his mouth, his eyes when he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did. And now you couldn’t un-feel it.

You told yourself you were done. You told Giselle you were over it.

But when your phone rang, a number you didn’t recognize lighting up the screen, your gut twisted.

You hesitated before answering. “Hello?”

“Hi—uh, is this Y/N?”

Your brows furrowed. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to call you like this. I’m a friend of Jay’s. My name’s Jake. He… he’s at the hospital.”

Your blood ran cold.

“What? What happened?”

“There was a fight. One of the guys went too far. Jay tried to stop it, but he got dragged into it. He’s okay now, but… he asked for you.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. “What hospital?”

The fluorescent lights of the emergency wing buzzed softly overhead as you hurried through the halls, pulse racing. The moment you reached the room number Jake had given you, you saw him—Jay, sitting on the hospital bed, stitches along his eyebrow, a bruise darkening his jaw, IV hooked to his arm.

He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.

“I told you not to come,” he muttered.

You ignored that. “You look like hell.”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You always know what to say.”

You approached slowly, not sure if you were angry or relieved or both. “Why did you ask for me?”

He looked away, his jaw clenched. “Because… I didn’t know who else to call.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You sat down in the chair beside his bed, letting the silence stretch between you before you finally asked, “Are you done?”

He frowned. “With what?”

“With all this. The fighting. The club. Putting yourself in danger like it’s a game.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“It is,” you cut in, voice shaking. “You’re going to die if you keep doing this. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but it’s going to happen. And what then? Another anonymous body in a back alley? Another name scratched off a list?”

Jay’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t argue.

“Do you even care what that would do to the people who care about you?” you added.

He flinched. “People like you?”

You stared at him. “Yeah. People like me.”

There it was again—that look. The one that made your stomach flip and your heart ache. Like he was seeing you for the first time and didn’t know what to do with the weight of it.

“I don’t want to lose you, Jay,” you whispered.

He looked at you then, fully. “I don’t want to lose myself.”

You didn’t speak again for a long moment. Instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand.

“Then let me help you,” you said. “But only if you want out.”

He looked down at your hand—small, steady, warm over his—and something in his expression shifted. Slowly, cautiously, he nodded.

“Okay.”

Five days later.

Jay had been discharged that morning. You knew because Jake had texted you—short and to the point. He’s home. Still looks like shit, but he’s fine. You hadn’t answered.

You’d told Jay you wanted to help him. That much was true. But part of you was scared. Scared of what helping him might mean. Of what being close to him again would do to your heart, to your sanity. Still, when you found yourself walking down the familiar hallway to his apartment later that evening, you didn’t stop yourself.

You knocked once. The door opened a few seconds later.

Jay stood there in a plain black hoodie and joggers, his hair tousled, dark eyes shadowed but alert. The bruises were fading, but the stitches still held a stark contrast against his skin. He didn’t say anything—just stepped aside to let you in.

“You should lock your door,” you muttered, brushing past him.

“I was expecting you.”

You glanced back at him. “That so?”

He shrugged one shoulder, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t think you’d stay away forever.”

You turned to face him fully. “You scared me, Jay.”

His gaze dropped for a beat. “I know.”

“I thought I was going to lose you.”

Something about the way you said it made him still. Slowly, he moved toward you—tentative, like approaching something fragile.

“But you didn’t,” he said, voice low. “You didn’t lose me.”

“Yet.”

You hated how small your voice sounded. Vulnerable. But Jay didn’t flinch. Instead, he took one more step, closing the space between you. His hand lifted, hesitating for a breath before it came to rest lightly on your waist.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I want out. For real this time. No more clubs. No more fights. No more running.”

You searched his face, looking for cracks in the promise, but what you saw was something steadier. Something honest.

“You’re serious?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. But I’m gonna need you to believe in me. Because I don’t really know how to do this… the right way.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped closer, until his chest was nearly brushing yours, your hands sliding slowly up the front of his hoodie.

“Then maybe we start over,” you whispered.

Jay tilted his head, his lips ghosting over yours. “How?”

Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt. “Ask me out, properly. Not just showing up in my apartment bleeding, or waiting for me in the hallway.”

That earned a soft, crooked smile from him.

“Okay,” he said. “Y/N… would you go out with me? On a real date. Just us. No blood, no drama. Just… you and me.”

You smiled, warmth blooming slowly in your chest. “I thought you’d never ask.”

And then he kissed you—not like the other night, not wild and rushed and desperate. This kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. Like a beginning instead of a breaking point.

He pulled you closer, his hands moving with reverent ease, like he was memorizing the shape of your back, the curve of your spine. His mouth moved against yours, soft but sure, his lips parting just enough to invite yours to follow. You melted into him, sighing quietly as your body pressed flush against his.

When he finally pulled back, breath slightly uneven, his voice was rough.

“You stayin’ tonight?”

You looked up at him, heart thudding.

“Only if we actually get to sleep this time,” you teased.

He chuckled, eyes gleaming with something dangerous and sweet.

“No promises.”

——

TAGLIST -> @kyunlov @jungwoncatboy @fancypeacepersona @citylightsdoll @rayofsunshineeee @jaylajakey @haechsworld @sukisvr

[scuderiahoney]

After All

Charles Leclerc x bestfriend!reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, tooth rotting fluff

Charles is a lot of things. He’s determined, hardworking, a bit of a self sacrificing dumbass. He’s kind, talented, humble, confident, soft. He’s your best friend, your closest confidant, the person you would trust with your life.

And, according to everyone who’s ever seen the two of you together, he’s madly in love with you.

…..

Pierre’s the first one to say it. He’s known both of you the longest, he’s one of Charles’ best friends. He sidles up next to you on a warm afternoon. You’re both on Charles’ yacht, leaning against the railing and watching as he does a backflip off the deck and into the water.

“He’s going to hurt himself,” you point out, “and Ferrari will not be happy.”

Pierre snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “He is showing off.”

You give him a look of disbelief. “For who?”

Before he can answer, you’re drawn to look at Charles again when he calls your name. You watch and wave at him, and then he lines himself up for another stupid trick dive that makes your stomach lurch. He makes a splash when he lands, sinking deeper and deeper till you can’t see him through the bubbles. Just when you start to worry, just when you feel like he’s been under too long, he resurfaces. He kicks himself to the surface, hair plastered to his forehead, laughing raucously. He’s suddenly the boy you met at 13, big dreams and big plans and a big personality to get him there.

“You,” Pierre says, jarring you out of your staring. “He is showing off for you.”

You roll your eyes and elbow your friend. “What? He is not. Why would he be trying to impress me?”

“Because he is in love with you,” Pierre states, so matter of fact you almost don’t realize what he’s saying. “Come on, it’s obvious.”

“He is not!” You laugh, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “Jesus, Pierre, the fumes from those engines must really be getting to you.”

Pierre opens his mouth to speak, probably to rebut with some insane theory he’ll present as fact. He’s interrupted by Charles calling your name again. This time he’s waving you down to the back deck, eyes sparkling. He’s going to want you to jump in. You have a fear of heights, a fear of falling, a fear of deep, open water. Despite it all, you head down to meet him anyways. Charles could talk you into anything, could make even the scariest things seem easy.

“You have to hold my hand, though,” you say, when he urges you to jump in with him. “The whole way, no letting go.”

“The whole way,” he promises, knitting your fingers together.

…..

It’s a bit of fate that you end up in Suzuka for the race. You hadn’t been planning on going, but there’d been cheap flights available when you looked the week before, and suddenly you’re off to Japan. Charles is thrilled about it, always happy to have you there, even when he’s busy and barely gets to see you. He says there’s something comforting about knowing you’re in the garage or the stands.

He takes you with him to as many things as he can, including the pre race media days. The second you meet up with him after you get to Japan, he’s talking non stop about Sebastian’s Buzzin Corner project, and your heart melts at the excitement in his eyes. He’s been missing Seb lately, having a tough go of things and searching for guidance.

You watch from behind the scenes, behind the cameras, as the entire grid arrives to make pollinator hotels and decorate canvases. You smile when Sebastian spots Charles and runs over to give him a hug, and you smile even bigger when Charles follows Sebastian around like a lost puppy. Sebastian seems just as happy to be near Charles again, stopping by to check on Ferrari’s progress frequently.

Charles turns during a lull in the event, when the cameras are on another team and Sebastian is distracted, too. He waves you over, eyes bright, smile wide. You can’t help but be drawn towards him. Any time he wants you nearby, you go willingly, eagerly.

He has paint on his fingers, speckles of it on his shirt. Charles is creative, too. He doesn’t get nearly enough chances to show it, in your opinion. He’s stifled by brand deals and the public eye and overbearing management. You stand next to him, eyeing his and Carlos’ artwork with a soft smile. The pollinator hotel is filled with supplies, the roof is decorated, and Charles tells you excitedly that they’ve already had their first “guest”. He hands you a paintbrush when nobody is paying attention.

“You should add something, chéri,” he says, nudging you lightly.

You look up at him, twist your face into an unsure smile. “Am I allowed to?”

“Of course,” Sebastian says, having made his way back around to the Ferrari team. You smile at Charles’ old teammate as he pays your shoulder lightly. “It’s not exclusive, you know.”

You laugh, reaching out with the paintbrush and adding a small heart next to the stripes and stamps the guys have painted on. “A little love for the the pollinators and bugs.”

“You weren’t saying that about that spider last week,” Charles teases.

“It was in my hair,” you say through gritted teeth, looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t slander me in front of Seb.”

Carlos is giggling, watching the two of you. Sebastian is doing the same, his eyes lit up reminding you of years ago when he and Charles had been teammates. He’d joked about the two of you exhausting him, with your boundless energy and constant flip flopping between bickering and affection. You’d insisted you were the ones keeping Sebastian young.

Someone calls Charles and Carlos over for a photo op. You peruse the bee hotel while you stand next to Sebastian. There’s a lot of people’s artwork on there, but somehow you think you know which brushstrokes belong to Charles.

“I see not much has changed,” Sebastian says, nodding his head towards Charles. “He calls you darling and then teases you in the same minute.”

You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks grow hot. “He is my best friend, both of those things are his job.”

“Ah, to be young and oblivious,” Sebastian says in a lilting tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He laughs, tilts his head at you. “Just that my wife was my best friend, once.”

You narrow your eyes at him. The glare has no effect if the grin on his face says anything. Sebastian is older, wiser, and Charles trusts his judgement on nearly everything, but you know he’s wrong about this. There’s no way Charles sees you as anything more than a friend. You’ve come to terms with that. You can live with that. You have to live with that.

Charles makes his way back over to the two of you, hands in his pockets. You plaster a sunny smile back on your face and try to ignore the way Sebastian is watching the two of you. Charles is telling you to paint something else, pointing out the empty space left on the canvas and the bee hotel.

He takes your hand, still wrapped around the paintbrush, in his own. He dips it in the black paint, leads you over to the wooden structure, and adds another heart.

“More love,” he says, singsongy, squeezing your hand. Behind you, Sebastian barely muffles an affectionate laugh. “More love for the bugs.”

…..

“This is my favorite song!” You yell over the booming bass.

You have a drink in your hand, your… 6th? of the night? You’re not sure, you’ve lost count. Charles keeps handing them to you every time your gets low. It’s always tequila and soda, always with two limes.

Charles laughs, shaking his head. “You have said that about every song in the past hour.”

“I mean it this time,” you say, eyes wide. You’re standing up from the table, pulling on his arm. “C’mon, we should dance, Charlie!”

He groans lightheartedly. Really, all of this should be your sign to cut yourself off. You don’t like dancing, and you rarely call him Charlie. Everyone calls him Charles, so you’d let the nickname go years ago. You’d worried it made you sound childish, made you sound like you were holding onto years past. He doesn’t budge from his spot in the booth, watching you warily.

“Amour, I don’t like this song as much as you apparently do,” he says, shaking his head. “And I like dancing even less.”

“Fine,” you say with a pout. “I will find someone else, then.”

You melt into the crowd before he can pull you back into the booth and down to earth. You’re at that pleasant stage of drunk where everything is funny and fuzzy and floaty. You spot Lily, Alex’s girlfriend, at the bar, and she needs much less convincing to join you on the dance floor. She abandons Alex with George and follows you eagerly. It’s Las Vegas, you’re here to have fun. This is fun. The two of you squeeze through the swirling mass of people till you find a good spot.

You don’t know how long it’s been when Charles finds you there- you just know you’re sweaty, a few drinks deeper, and past the point of no return. The song that’s playing now is your actual favorite song, a fact that you tell Charles when he steps in front of you, his hands on your waist to steady you.

“I know,” he says, because of course he knows. Nobody knows you better than him. “I also know you are drunk.”

“M’having a good time,” you tell him, wrapping an arm around his neck. It’s just to keep you steady, you tell yourself. “Vegas, baby!”

Charles laughs, shaking his head, but he starts to sway to the music with you. One hand stays on your hip, but the other comes around to your back and pulls you closer. You like being pressed against him, like being able to feel the warmth of him even through the fabric of your clothing. You don’t think before you spin in his grip, press your back to his front, keep your arm around his neck behind your head. Tomorrow morning, or rather, later today, you can blame it on the alcohol.

Charles wraps his arm around your waist in response, and you swear you feel his lips on the back of your neck as he pulls you in again. You’ll blame that on the alcohol too.

It’s like you blink, and then you’re standing out on the sidewalk, surrounded by the lights of the Las Vegas strip. The night air is cold, and you laugh to yourself, thinking about all the talk of a night race in the desert and the temperature.

“What’s so funny?” Max asks.

You’re surprised to find him standing next to you, and you blink at him.

“S’cold,” you say, unable to explain the rest of it. You just giggle again. “Where’s Charlie?”

Max raises his brows. “He went inside to get your jacket. You left it in the booth. Remember, five minutes ago, when you said it was cold?”

Huh. You don’t remember, but Max is probably telling the truth. He and Charles are more of friendly rivals than enemies now, despite their formative years. Max is definitely not trying to kidnap you as revenge. He has nothing to get revenge for- he won the race. Maybe he’s bitter that a Grand Prix he talked about so negatively had ended up being one of the best of the season, you suppose. Though you’re not sure that would give him a reason to kidnap you-

“I called him that once,” Max says, and you tilt your head at him. “Charlie. He didn’t like it.”

You remember. It was in Brazil, when they’d all been gathered in a garage. You’d seen it in a video. You can’t admit that, though, without admitting you watch tiktoks of your best friend, so you stay quiet on that subject.

“He thinks it’s childish,” you say with a shrug, scuffing the toe of your shoe on the ground. “I… forget, sometimes.”

You forget that Charles isn’t just your thirteen year old friend, the guy you’d never expected to even tolerate you. You can’t remember how it even happened, how you went from barely saying hi in the halls at school to dinners with his family, homework at their kitchen table. You’re not sure it matters now. What matters is keeping him a part of your life.

You’ve adapted. You’ve let pieces of him go, like childhood nicknames and any hope he’ll ever look at you the same way you look at him. Charles is larger than life, now. You’re still small. You’re still thirteen sometimes, still sitting at the table, begging Charlie to help you with your math problems.

“That’s the thing,” Max says, nudging your side lightly. “He doesn’t seem to mind when it’s you that says it.”

You frown. “Oh, he definitely minds.”

Max shrugs. “He doesn’t show it, then. Probably because he loves you.”

You nod solemnly. “I am his best friend.”

“Right,” Max laughs. “Sure. Friend.”

Charles reappears shortly after that, your jacket in hand. It turns out Max isn’t even leaving- he’d just been tasked with keeping an eye on you while Charles went back inside. He says goodbye and goes back into the club, while Charles is checking his phone, telling you the car should be there any minute. The night has gone from fuzzy to blurry, and you lean heavily on Charles’ shoulder, blinking repeatedly and trying to stay awake. He pours you into the backseat of the car, drags you out of it ten minutes later when you get to the hotel.

“You are so drunk,” he says, standing in the elevator, your head against his chest.

“I know you are but whatamI?” You slur, tugging on his jacket.

Charles just laughs. Even if he could understand you, he wouldn’t get the reference. His hand is resting on your shoulder, fingers squeezing your bare skin softly. You’d taken your jacket off as soon as you got inside, complaining about being hot. Charles had just taken it from your hands with an exasperated smile.

“I think you should sleep in my room,” he suggests when the elevator dings and the doors begin to open. “So I can keep an eye on you.”

You’re not that drunk, but you’re not going to argue. “Yeah, okay.”

When you wake up in his bed in the morning, Charles is asleep on the couch. He’s stretched out, one arm hanging off the edge, one foot on the armrest. His blanket is tangled in his limbs, and you feel guilty, suddenly. It was his night to celebrate, and he’d ended up taking care of you, ended up sacrificing his hotel bed and sleeping on the sofa. You sit up, feeling sick to your stomach, and not from the hangover.

“Lay down,” Charles says, not even opening his eyes. “S’too early. You need more sleep.”

“I should go to my room,” you whisper, and he opens one eye and looks at you warily. “That couch cannot be comfortable.”

“It’s not,” he admits, and the guilt lurches in your gut again. He’s smiling, though. “You tried to insist on sharing the bed, but you were very drunk.”

That’s not surprising. Drunk you always wants Charles close. You direct your eyes to the comforter and muster up all the courage you have left.

“I’m sober now,” you tell him. “So either we share the bed, or I go to my room. You look so uncomfortable.”

Charles hesitates for only a second. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, if you’ve crossed the line. But then he’d shifting, untangling himself from the blankets and tumbling off the couch. He crawls into the bed next to you, sighing happily as he sinks into the mattress. Seemingly almost without thinking, he reaches out, slips his arm around your waist, and hauls you against his chest. You let it happen.

There’s something sacred about the time between morning and night. The sky is a purple hue outside the hotel room window. The halls are quiet. Charles’ heart thuds in your ear, steady and beating out a soothing rhythm, and nothing about this feels out of place. It’s like this is where you’re meant to be, tucked against him, slotted together like puzzle pieces. You wrap your arm around his upper arm, and he pulls the blankets over the two of you.

“G’night, Charlie,” you mumble.

He laughs, and it’s a sweet sound. There’s no hostility behind it. “Goodnight, amour.”

…..

There’s something to be said about your inability to see something as it is until it’s staring you in the face. You’re stubborn as a mule, and maybe blind as a bat, too. It’s not till the holiday break that it all clicks into place.

Charles is sitting next to you at your kitchen counter, decorating cookies. You’ve been baking all weekend. It’s your grandmother’s recipe, now your responsibility to keep up the tradition. There are batches set aside for your family to decorate later, another set for the cookie party you’re holding with some of your friends from university. But Charles had whined and begged about wanting to decorate cookies, about wanting to be a part of the tradition, and you’d given in oh so easily.

He has a heart shaped one in his hand, a knife with red frosting in the other hand. He’s being so delicate, so particular, like it means so much to him. It’s just a cookie, you want to say to him. You hold my actual heart in your hands every day without a care, but you’re so delicate with a cookie?

Except, then, you’re thinking about it, and maybe that’s not true. Charles is brash and bold and confident, but he’s never anything other than gentle with you. He cares deeply, throws himself headfirst into things, he’s all or nothing. But when he’s around you he lets his guard down, takes the time to think. He’s cautious, heartfelt, kind. He takes his time.

“Max asked me to play padel today,” he says casually. “To make up for him missing our match.”

You laugh, though it feels a bit forced. You’re watching his hands, watching as he takes the white icing and writes something on the cookie. “Oh? You didn’t go?”

Charles shakes his head. “He wasn’t free till 11:00. I told you I’d be here at 10:30.”

You frown, blinking at him. He’s so focused on the cookie he doesn’t even notice you staring. He hasn’t spent this much time on a single cookie since he got to your apartment that morning.

“You could have come over later,” you say.

He shakes his head. “This was more important. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

It shouldn’t be the moment, is the thing. Nothing spectacular happens. It’s not like he’s made some big confession, not like anything drastic has changed. Somehow, you just know. He looks up at you, a soft smile on his face, and it’s so, so obvious. You wonder if this is what he sees when you look at him. You wonder if this is what everyone else has seen and told you about. There’s so much love in his gaze that it makes your heart skip a beat, makes your skin feel hot, makes your fingertips go numb. You set your cookie down on the table.

He holds his in his own hand, peering down at it as if he’s judging it in a competition. He turns it between his fingers, leaving a red thumbprint on the underside of it. He has icing on his fingers, all the colors of the rainbow. It’ll probably stain his skin.

“You are always more important,” he breathes, and you can’t breathe at all. “The most important.”

He turns the cookie towards you, but you already know what it’ll say. His initials and yours, in white icing on a red backdrop. He’s been saying it all along, really. The whole way. More love. I know. Somehow it has still caught you off guard, stolen the air from your lungs and the words from your lips. All this time pining after him and you had never actually considered he might be feeling it, too. But it’s there, written on the cookie, and it’s written on his face, too.

You lean in to kiss him. He tastes like frosting and feels like love, and you wonder how you didn’t see it sooner.

…..

A week later, Pierre spots the matching hickeys on yours and Charles’ necks and laughs his ass off.

“I told you,” he says, through peals of laughter, shaking his head. “You are both so blind.”

Charles wraps his arm around your waist, and you shrug. You stare up at your boyfriend, happier than you’ve ever been, the weight of his hand on your hip grounding you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, dismissing Pierre even as he continues to laugh. “We figured it out. That’s all that matters.”

Charles leans close, presses his lips to your forehead. You feel it all. The years of waiting, wondering, wishing. Pierre is congratulating the two of you and saying something about calling Carlos about a bet they’d apparently had. You can’t bring yourself to care. In the end, you suppose, Pierre deserves to gloat. All your friends do.

They were right, after all.

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