#also engineer!reader is here!!

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✵Under the hood.

✦ Pairing: Modern!Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: A beautiful day quickly turned into a very shitty one when your car broke down in the middle of a mountain road. Thank Goodness, a charming cowboy luckily crosses your way and talks you through fixing your fussy engine. ✦ Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI!! Not properly speaking sexual intercourse, but this contains sexual themes. "Talking you through it". Dirty talk. Mechanical sex metaphors if that's even a thing??? Sexual tension. Arthur is a smooth b*stard. ✦ Words: 2,3k (once again relying on @arthurmorgan-vp for this gorgeous pic of Arthur!)

Sooo! This was initially an ask for my mini prompt sprint from @cloudywithachanceofcrisis (awesome url btw), and it turned into this whole fic because I'm too deep into modern Arthur and I just couldn't stop writing. Basically, the ask was for Reader's car to break down and for Arthur to talk her through fixing it, "Megan Fox Transformers" style. 😏 I had too much fun writing it. Enjoy!

✧.*

A creaking sound of metallic agony rings out as you pull your car's hood up, quickly followed by a horrible smell of burnt pieces of metal and plastic.

Shit.

This really wasn't what you had planned for today. A barbecue party at your best friend's ranch, cold beers, the smell of grass mixing with seasoned steaks and hay. And laughter, and horses, and riding. The sun embracing your face as you and her would gallop through the fields, just like when you were kids. The real start of summer.

That's what you had planned this morning when waking up. Now the sun is roasting your neck, your car is stopped, front pitifully open as a wounded animal you would have just hurt, along one of Wyoming's lonely rocky mountain roads. Needless to say, you were in deep trouble; no network, traffic as low as the school's road on holidays.

Except for other locals, of course.

After long minutes of panic and desperate calls into the void of a connectionless dial tone from your phone, you finally heard your salvation from the other side of the road. A blue Chevrolet pickup truck, some Creedence Clearwater Revival bursting through the windows, sunrays gleaming on the immaculate bodywork.

The truck slows down and stops right next to you. Window down, its owner smiles at you with an unmistakable smirk and blue eyes shining almost as much as the perfectly polished metal of his vehicle.

"You alright there, sugar?"

Arthur Morgan. Another ranch owner from your valley. He's bending to your direction, turning down his music, and you notice the pile of country and rock albums on the countertop. You internally chuckle; it fits his character way too well. You knew him a little; all the breeders know each other in the valley. Most of them, as with your family and his, have beneficial relationships, like symbiosis in nature. Clownfish and anemones. Trees and lichen. Make yourself useful to the other party and you'll never fight again. Instead of destroying yourselves over a piece of land, you've learned to take advantage of each other and to prosper together. The Man is an animal, after all.

You had very good memories of the time you had spent at his ranch, usually for the breeding season. He owned one of the finest horses in the whole county and rode them like no one else could. And you would have lied if you had said you didn't find him handsome, in this typical cowboy rugged charm. Always wearing jeans, sometimes chaps. Tight, simple black or white shirts that were always stretched around his biceps or pectorals. Never without a pack of Marlboros that smelled like fresh nights, talking about life under the porch. A leather hat and jacket for riding, a cap when around his ranch. Today is a baseball cap type of day too, it seems.

"Of course not, Morgan! Do I look peachy?! My car broke down and I can't fix it." You explain, hands on your hips.

"A chance I was passin' by then." He smirks even more, readjusting his position in his seat. "Don't worry darlin', we'll get it in mint condition no time."

With a smooth move of the wheel with one hand, he pulls over just a few meters from you. Your hear the old truck turning down, the door opening; he grabs a toolbox and a bottle of water before joining you in front of the open hood of your poor suffering car.

"Here, first, drink a bit. Don't want ya droppin' dead in the middle o' nowhere."

You chuckle as you take the water he's handing to you, the coldness of it on your palms enough to make you feel at ease. "Would be hard to explain to the cops eh?"

"Sure would." He concedes with a snort, his left hand taking support on the hood as he bends towards the engine. After a few seconds of him probing the wound with an expert gaze in silence, he turns to you. "Ya know what? You're going to learn and fix it yaself. I'll teach ya. That way, you won't have to wait on a... dirty cowboy to save your ass next time you break down."

You smile, amused and somehow grateful for his proposition. You definitely should have known better in cars already, considering how life was demanding in those wild plains.

"Alright then, let's hear what the "grand master" of cars has to say." You joke, and just for the way his crinkles showed more in the corner of his eyes, the smile it brought to his face, it was worth it.

He takes a dirty piece of fabric and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans out of habit, before giving you a pair of gloves from the toolbox, greasy and used, and you put them on without complaint, hard, used cotton surrounding your skin.

Your eyes involuntarily notice how his neck is more tanned, compared to a part of his torso you can catch a glimpse of. His forearms, too. The veins that run through them are like great streams that sublimate his muscles. He really is cut out for the hard life on the ranch, even more than most people you know.

"First, you need t'find your brake cylinder. Check the fluid level in it." He points at the plastic reservoir and waits.

You bend towards the engine too, and touch the cylinder. It is one of the only things you knew about.

"That's right, that' thing. Does it look full?"

"Yes."

"Good. 'Could be leakin', though. Brush your hands under it..." He commands, one hand still on the hood and the other holding his belt. He looks so casual, as if he were giving mechanic lessons every day. "Come on, don't be shy, darlin'."

You do exactly as he tells. You don't know why, but there's something suddenly extremely intimate in this whole situation. The way you're both bent inward, bodies close, way closer than how you would stand next to someone. The way he speaks those orders, his voice even more gravelly, rasping, almost purring in your ears. Deep, so deep, and the way his accent is eating half the words in that southern drawl is doing things to you. Stomach fluttering, you try to keep your head cool and actually focus and fixing your damn car.

"So? S'it wet?"

Jeeeesus, he's not making things easy. Making violence to yourself not to answer yes on instinct, you force out a too casual "Nope."

"Alright, now do the same with the coolin' system. S'right next to it."

You bring your hand to the other plastic cylinder, wrapping your fingers under the round pipe coming out of it. Your muscle memory is stronger than your rational thinking. You can't help but imagine how it would feel to have them wrapped around something else, something just inches away from your own hips right now. Something you knew would be undoubtedly big considering the way that man is carrying himself, the way it shows when he's riding, big and heavy and obvious through his jeans. You close your eyes, unable to keep those unholy ideas away.

"No leaks, sir."

"Perfect. Oh, ya should always check up for leaks first, but never open this damn thing with your engine still runnin', ya hear? Could splash hot chemicals all over ya."

"Copy that."

"Good girl." He drawls in a satisfied praise, his left hand tapping on the hood in a satisfied way. As if he had just finished with you and would pat your ass contently. You shiver, his words and the fucking delicious way he said it igniting and unresistable fire between your thighs. "Now let's check the engine fluid. Pull out the dipstick from it."

You slowly remove the long and thin wand from your car motor, and to your surprise, you feel one of his big and rough palms on top of your glove to help you carry it, as his left one finally leaves its perch and grabs the top of the stick.

"See the fluid? If the thing looks like you have just shoved it in an oil fryer, you're good. But if you notice some other stuff like... somethin' that looks like thick water, or a creamy stuff right here, it ain't good."

Fluid. Shoving. Thick. Creamy. There's no way he isn't aware of what he's doing. The way his gigantic hands handle yours and the stick. The way you can smell his strong perfume, petrolic reek of the damaged engine long gone, replaced by heady notes of sweat from the scorching sun making him pearl, mixing with remnants of his cologne. Or was it woods? Cedar and pines, with hays, and faint traces of this so specific scent that farms and ranches have.

"Darlin'? Ya got it?"

"Y-yeah yeah. Oil good, creamy stuff isn't." Oh my god, you sound so dumb you're almost embarrassing yourself.

"That' right. Now the filter. See that big fan underneath? We have to make sure it's perfectly running and sealed, overwise your engine is pumping stuff from nowhere and ends up damn dirty."

He arcs himself completely, lying his side against your car to slip his hand under the piece of metal, and grabs a pipe you can't see from where you stand. He probably tests the solidity of the thing, but all you see is him wanking a fucking engine. Does he handles his cock like that? Does he jerk it slow and steady like he rides his horse in an elegant walk? Slow but deliberate, meticulous like he is with his own truck? Or is it all the contrary, does he treat it rough and quick? Like an urge he needs to get out, contrasting with his precise and conscientious work? Does his shaft fuck his fist, jerking off so fast he's almost done in a few minutes? Does his-

"Here, I need to show it to ya. Come."

Oh. You're dead on the inside, your pussy isn't even trying anymore, burning without any restriction and you're happy it's a hot day because at least you have an excuse to be sweating that much. He's still leaning his side against the car, arm folded, and he gestures for you to join him in the same position. Throat hoarse, legs mushy as if they were boneless, you get closer and lean on your side too, your back touching his chest. You two are basically spooning on your car right now. He removes his hand from the engine.

"See? S' that one, right there. Go on, grab' it."

Jesus all I want is to fucking grab it you complain in your head. He must realise this is extremely erotic, right? You couldn't be imagining it on your own. You hope not, or else it means that you're completely crazy. Your body is entirely tensed as an arched bow, you bring your own hand to the filter pipe.

"Now... shake it. T'make sure it's sealed."

His breath is almost brushing against your ear. His deep raspy tone, resonating through his chest when he speaks, scratching against his tongue, feels like honey and whiskey both at the same time. Languorous and coarse. It swirls and rolls all against you, coating you as if you were a candy waiting to be eaten whole. You shake the metal piece, trying at all costs to push away the sinful thoughts the gesture is bringing to you.

"Thaaat's it... How does it feel, girl?"

"F-feels good to me." You're blushing, you're sure you're blushing. You know you are, cheeks burning at the double meaning this whole conversation is holding. You hear and feel him humming a positive, deep sound in answer.

"Well, if it ain't mechanical, it's probably your electrical darlin'. Let's look at that battery o' yours."

He finally gets up, pushing on his arm. You're almost sad not to be turned the other way, you could have witnessed the way his biceps had flexed, veins popping for a few seconds, grease and oil now painting his skin and beautifully emphasizing his muscles, a perfectly shaped and shaded Greek statue.

You start to get back up too, and suddenly feel the weight of his gaze and you. You were bent, half folded just a few seconds ago, basically presenting your ass to him. Oh, you congratulate yourself for having chosen to wear these little shorts this morning. There was no way he could have looked at something else. Once fully up, you greet him with a not-so-innocent smile, fixing a strand of your hair behind your ear. A vein on his neck shows as he reciprocates your smirk, and his own body tenses. He's enjoying this whole situation.

"Mmh. I can already tell ya, she's the one causing trouble." He states, pulling his cap back in place with two hands. You're not even sure he's actually talking about the car anymore.

"H-how do you know?" You didn't want your voice to sound that weak. This man had the effect of disconnecting every basic function from your biology; except all the ones related to sex of course. Those, those they were on fire, on the verge of fucking overheating.

"Look, it's loose." He explains slowly, voice drawling, each word slurred in a husky rumble. He's saying it like that on fucking purpose. "Some bolts must have blown out. So, that littl' bitch bounces as you drive, and it ends up disconnected. All... messy, 'n overused..."

You religiously nod at his godly speech. Your eyes are fixated on his hands moving the battery in periodic movements, repetitive sharp snapping noise filling the air, fingers sliding in between the pieces of metal.. He could have well been thrusting his hips into it, it would have had the same effect on you.

"Now... let's get this bad girl to behave." He adds, devilish smirk on his face, a hand leaving the battery to pull a wrench and a few new bolts from his toolbox.

All your life you had prided yourself on being a strong and independent woman. The ranch chores? No problem. Riding? Easier and funnier, even barrel racing. Lassoing, helping a cow give birth? Done and done. Not that it was easy, but you could handle it yourself, and pretty damn well on top of that.

But right here, right now, this ego is crushed under the dirty boots of this Appolon of a cowboy, odd but unforgettable mix between a rough rancher and a mythological God, palming a car battery as if it was your ass. You could have done anything if he had ordered you to, you had never been weaker because of someone. You would have been on your knees, God, you wish he'd let you get on your knees for him.

With just a few turns of the wrench, the temperamental car is repaired. He tests the engine from the conductor seat, and it works perfectly fine. It's almost humiliating how easy it was. He gets out, pulls the hood down for you, and stands tall, satisfied with his little intervention.

"You're good t'go, darlin'."

"Thank you so much, Arthur." You don't know if you should be thanking him for the battery or for the litteral porn show he delivered you for free. It had been years since your hormones had gotten that wild.

And they weren't about to stop, considering how he had taken back his water bottle and drank straight from it, some of it beautifully streaming down his scarred chin, then his throat before getting soaked up by his already sweat-drenched shirt. He takes some of it in his right hand and wets his neck, and you have to contain a sigh. The base of his hair, all wet like this, makes you want to run your fingers through it more than ever.

"T'was nothin'. Am happy t'help a pretty girl in need."

There are a few seconds, just a few, hanging in the thick air between the two of you, where you both look at his other, his abyssal marine blue eyes sinking so deep into yours you're almost surprised he's not falling right into your soul. Maybe he is. But his gaze doesn't waver for a single second, not even by an inch, and you realize that only he maintains such intimate contact for so long without showing the slightest sign of nervousness. No one else does. For him, it doesn't have to be a source of discomfort like most people, and it becomes so intimate that you feel your legs weaken once again under the weight of that gaze. Just the two of you. Fucking with your eyes.

He gets closer to you, and you move back against the front of your car. You don't say a word. Neither is he. There's just his deep breaths and the deafening beating of your heart. He raises his arms around your waist, as if wanting to lean on the hood, trapping you. Your thighs and your aching core between them are just a few torturous inches from his jeans-covered crotch. You want to take a quick peek, burning to know if he's indeed painfully hard, if the blue pants are as tight as his shirt is on his bicep. But you can't, unable to break his eye contact, sucked into those blue seas. There's a small grease stain on his cheek you'd like to cover with your lipstick. You hold your breath. Your whole body freezes, which made no sense at all to you, considering how hot you were feeling, how ardent the atmosphere was with him almost bent on you. It's like those mind-numbing summer days, when the air is so hot and heavy and full of electricity that all you want is for the storm to finally break, never mind if the lightning strikes your whole body.

All the better if it does.

He grabs his wrench he had forgotten behind you, and pulls back. In an instant, it's winter. You don't want it to be. He looks at you with this knowing smirk, this hard jawline almost cheeky, this goddamn ballcap like a crown.

"H-hey uh -" You cough, unable to let things end like this. Searching for the thunderstorm. "I was... I was going to the Miller's Ranch for a barbecue. D'you wanna come?" You bite your lip at yet another double entendre. Shit. "I could... Offer you a beer, for all of that?"

Gently pulling the working gloves off your hands, he answers, taking his sweet time, his face holding this repressed mischievousness and desire, well hidden behind his smug expression.

"Well... I'd very much like to come. Thank you, sugar."

✧.*

Well, thank you for this amazing request that sparked this obsession in my brain I guess, Rhae! Also I won't lie to you guys, I was clearly inspired too by these amazing art pieces from @/altergoat02. Check out their blog, all of their art is prodigious.

And if Modern Arthur is your kind of boah just like me, I highly recommend you to check out Evie's Takin' care of business!! And yes I've completely looked for a tutorial on youtube about car motors. I'm just that ignorant.

tagging the sweeties who had shown interest in this/my work: @stottlemorgan, @moons-honies, @arthurmorganist, @redwritr, @cloudywithachanceofcrisis, @a-court-of-valkyries

[orcelito]

Tip tapping at that ITNL doc. No I haven't finished my reread. I need to. I will. I also need to be up in 6 hours to give yet another presentation. But for now, at this 1:30 am in the morning, the ITNL Active doc is 48 words longer

[withuitservice]

Why Dubai Businesses Need To Partner With a Professional Website Development Company

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Dubai companies service diverse audiences, both locally and in other parts of the globe. A professional website development service will therefore understand the characteristics of the Dubai market-place, including cultural sensitiveness, consumer preferences, among others. They can always come up with customized websites responding to your target audience effectively, ensuring a seamless flow of user experience that causes engagement and conversion.

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Conclusion

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[pucksandpower]

Since Forever

Max Verstappen x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too

Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays

The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.

And then you walk in.

“Is that-”

“No way.”

“Schumacher?”

You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.

Christian sees you first.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.

You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”

“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”

“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”

Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”

“Flattering.”

You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.

And then-

“Y/N?”

His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.

He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.

“Max, we’re still-”

“Later.”

He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.

You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.

“Hey yourself,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.

And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.

“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”

He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.

“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”

“Debatable.”

He grins. “Liar.”

And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.

You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”

That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.

“She called him Uncle Jos.”

“Did she just-”

“Holy shit.”

He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.

“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.

“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.

“You’re your father’s daughter.”

You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”

Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.

“Good to have you back.”

Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.

“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.

“You were already soft,” you reply.

He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.

Because you do.

“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”

“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”

“Close enough,” Max says.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.

You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”

“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”

“Max.”

“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”

You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”

“We were always the main act, anyway.”

It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.

And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.

A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”

“Perfect,” you say.

Max doesn’t move.

“Max,” Christian warns.

“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.

You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”

“Try and stop me.”

And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.

And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.

Phones are out. Whispers spiral.

Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.

Max Verstappen is in love.

You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.

“You used to like that about me.”

You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”

And Max?

He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.

***

When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”

He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.

“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”

“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.

“You sound like my dad.”

Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”

You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”

“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”

You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“I’ll fix that.”

“You’re not a sleep aid.”

He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”

You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.

“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.

Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”

“In your apartment.”

He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”

You tilt your head. “Do I?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”

You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t argue.”

“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”

He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”

You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.

“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.

“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”

Oh.

The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.

***

You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.

Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.

Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.

“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

“I’m not crying,” you snap.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”

Then he takes your hand.

And doesn’t let go.

He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.

“She’s fine,” Jos said.

But Michael just smiled.

“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”

***

Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.

“That’s why you left the box?”

He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”

You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.

“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”

“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”

“Next to your helmets?”

He nods. “Next to your letters.”

Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”

Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”

“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”

“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”

You do. God, you do.

***

Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.

You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.

Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.

You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not serious.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”

Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.

“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”

***

Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”

“What?”

“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”

You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.

“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”

You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You were twelve.”

“Still could’ve scared you off.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

***

Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.

Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”

You glance at him. “Who?”

“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”

You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”

“Because I let them see it.”

You frown. “Do you regret that?”

Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”

Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”

You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.

“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”

He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”

“Let them.”

“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”

You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”

“I want to.”

“You do.”

He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”

You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”

***

You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.

“You’ve always been mine.”

And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.

***

Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.

But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.

Not to Lando, at least.

He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.

“Wait, no fucking way.”

Oscar glances at him. “What?”

Lando squints.

“No way.”

At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.

But then he sees you.

You’re laughing.

Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.

And Max-

Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.

“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”

Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”

Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.

Lando keeps staring.

“Are they-”

“Looks like.”

“When did-”

Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”

He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.

Max, being gentle.

“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.

Oscar blinks. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”

And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.

***

You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.

“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.

Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”

You look up, grinning. “Hey.”

Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!

“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.

Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And you’re touching her. In public.”

“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”

Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”

“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.

“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”

Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.

Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”

“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.

“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.

“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.

Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”

Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.

“When did this happen?”

You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”

Lando blinks. “Letters?”

“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.

“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”

“Every week,” you say.

“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.

“And you kept them?”

Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”

Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”

“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”

Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”

A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.

Then-

“Wait. Does Jos know?”

“Of course he knows,” Max says.

Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”

You sip your wine.

“Jos adores her,” Max says.

And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.

Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.

“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

Lando drops his fork.

“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.

“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”

“Perfectly,” Max replies.

Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.

Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.

Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”

***

After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.

“You okay?” He asks.

You glance up. “More than.”

“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”

You smile. “It was kind of funny.”

He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”

His voice is low. Serious.

“Especially that part.”

You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”

“Always have been.”

The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.

And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.

***

It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.

One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.

Jos Verstappen.

Yuki stills.

“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.

But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”

Yuki blinks. A bet?

“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”

Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”

There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”

Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.

“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.

Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.

“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”

There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”

Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.

Ten.

Ten years old.

***

It’s impossible to unhear.

That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.

Except … not.

Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.

And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.

“Give me five.”

The room stills.

The engineer frowns. “You want-”

“Five minutes.”

“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”

Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.

Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.

He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.

“Hey. Did you eat?”

There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.

“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”

“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.

“I’m working.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”

“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”

Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.

Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”

“You are such a-”

“Did. You. Drink.”

You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”

There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”

Yuki practically blacks out.

***

When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.

Except Yuki.

He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.

Then, “So … ring pop?”

Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.

“Where did you hear that?”

Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”

Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.

“She still has it,” he mutters.

“No way.”

“In a box.”

“Oh my God, Max.”

Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”

Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”

Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”

***

Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.

He always does.

“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.

You give him a look. “You checked?”

“I check everything.”

He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.

“I had coffee,” you offer.

“Not food.”

“Coffee is made of beans.”

“Y/N.”

You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”

Max smirks. “About that …”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. He just overheard something.”

“Max.”

He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”

“Define fine.”

“He found out about the ring pop.”

Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”

“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”

“Oh my God.”

Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”

You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.

You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.

“You have kept it.”

He nods, solemn. “Every day.”

***

Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Yuki sidles up next to him.

“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.

Jos glances at him.

“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.

Then he smiles.

Again.

Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”

***

The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.

Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.

He’s not moving.

“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”

GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.

“Talk to me, Max.”

Nothing.

Then-

“I’m fine.”

The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.

“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”

You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.

***

The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.

He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.

And he’s angry.

“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”

“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”

“I said I’m fine-”

“Max.”

Your voice.

Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.

He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.

“Schatje.”

You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.

You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.

“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.

“I don’t want-”

“It’s not about what you want right now.”

He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”

“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”

He opens his eyes again, searching yours.

“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”

You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”

The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.

Max doesn’t argue again.

GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.

“That was witchcraft.”

You shrug. “It’s just Max.”

“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”

You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”

***

Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.

You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.

He stops just behind you.

“Is he hurt?” He asks.

“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”

Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.

“You got him to agree to scans?”

You nod. “He was being Max.”

“That sounds right.”

GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.

Jos Verstappen. Smiling.

Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You rise. “All clear?”

“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”

Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”

Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”

Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow.”

Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”

Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”

Everyone in the room hears it.

GP actually drops his cup.

**

Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.

“It’s not tight, is it?”

“No.”

“You’ll tell me if it is?”

“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”

You smile. “True.”

Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”

You nod. “Let them.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”

“You were being impossible.”

“You love it.”

You grin. “I do.”

***

Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.

Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.

And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.

***

Max is late.

Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.

The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.

The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.

You weren’t expecting the letter.

It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.

Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.

But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.

When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.

Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.

And read.

March 5th, 2014

Y/N,

I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.

You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.

You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.

I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.

Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.

Your Max

***

By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.

The kind that were never just about the letter.

***

Max finds you like that.

The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.

When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.

And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.

“Hey-”

He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.

“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”

You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.

He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.

His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.

You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.

Then he looks back at you.

“You found this?”

You nod. “It was in the book.”

He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“You kept it,” you whisper.

“Of course I did.”

“I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”

You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.

“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”

Your breath hitches.

“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”

You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”

He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”

A pause. Then-

“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”

You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”

He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.

“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”

Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.

“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”

He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”

You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”

“The letter?”

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze, unwavering.

“I still mean it.”

You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”

“And I drive like I used to.”

“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”

He grins. “Because you’re here.”

“Because I’m home.”

***

Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.

“I want it close,” he says.

You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”

Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:

“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”

You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”

He smiles.

“Deal.”

***

You don’t notice it right away.

The photo.

You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then nonstop.

Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”

You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.

It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:

So … it’s out.

Your stomach twists.

“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.

You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.

A photo.

Of you.

And Max.

It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.

He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.

It’s not yours anymore.

The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?

Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

You murmur, “Max …“

He doesn’t speak.

You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.

Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.

That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.

His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.

Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?

Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”

Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.

“Max …“

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”

You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”

He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”

***

You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.

But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.

By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”

Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.

You reply. I’m sorry.

His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

You almost cry again.

***

But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.

You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”

“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.

Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.

Max raises a brow. “What about him?”

“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”

You frown, inching closer to see.

The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:

@josverstappen7 About time.

There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.

Then-

Max snorts. Actually snorts.

You blink. “He what?”

“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”

Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.

“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.

You blink. “He’s always liked me.”

“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”

***

The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.

Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.

But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.

***

You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.

The moment.

The question.

The quote that breaks the internet again.

Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.

And then-

A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.

“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”

There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.

Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.

He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.

“She’s not new.”

A pause.

“She’s always been there.”

***

When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.

You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.

The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.

He just tells the truth.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

***

You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.

He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.

“You saw it?”

You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”

“I meant it.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.

“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.

“Let them.”

You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”

“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”

You press your forehead to his.

“They’re going to write stories.”

“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.

***

On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.

Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.

You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.

“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “Then be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you every morning.”

You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”

“That’s foreplay.”

You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.

And this time, you don’t care who hears it.

***

The drive is quiet.

Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.

Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.

He probably has.

You definitely have.

You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.

Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.

But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.

You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”

“I remember everything.”

You glance over at him. “Do you?”

Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”

A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.

He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”

You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”

“He knows.”

“Max-”

“He always knew.”

***

The estate hasn’t changed much.

The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.

You hesitate before getting out.

He doesn’t rush you.

Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.

***

Your mother meets you at the door.

She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.

Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.

He hugs back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.

Max only nods.

She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”

***

You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)

The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.

And then, you see him.

He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.

His eyes are open. Alert.

Your breath catches.

Max is silent beside you.

You step forward first.

“Hi, Papa.”

His eyes flick to yours.

Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”

Max takes a slow step closer.

Michael’s gaze moves to him.

There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.

Just … calm recognition.

As if he knew you were coming all along.

“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.

You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”

He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.

But his hands are warm.

You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.

“I missed you.”

Max kneels beside you.

He doesn’t say much at first.

Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.

Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”

There’s a pause.

“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”

You let out a breath that trembles.

Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”

Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.

Still no words.

But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.

You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.

“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”

You choke on a sob.

Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You don’t resist.

You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”

He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”

“He doesn’t even …“

“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”

You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.

And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:

“I love you.”

Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”

Michael’s hand twitches.

You freeze.

Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.

Max sees it too.

His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”

***

You stay in the garden for hours.

Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.

Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.

You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.

You don’t ask what he said.

Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.

You press a final kiss to his cheek.

Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.

The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.

“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad we came.”

“I am too.”

You pause.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.

“You were all I ever imagined.”

***

Victoria doesn’t knock.

She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”

But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.

It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.

And then stops dead in the hallway.

Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.

She recognizes you instantly.

As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.

The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.

You.

Y/N Schumacher.

And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.

Victoria blinks.

Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.

Because it looks like he’s home.

She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.

“Hey, Vic.”

You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.

“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”

“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”

“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.

Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.

“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.

“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.

You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”

He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”

Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.

Max is … soft.

Not weak. Never that.

But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.

She pulls out a stool at the counter.

“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”

Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”

You blink. “You what?”

Victoria smirks. “You what?”

Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”

“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”

He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”

You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.

Victoria watches with something like awe.

“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”

“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.

“You did. Like the noise stopped.”

He doesn’t argue.

You glance at him, puzzled.

Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”

“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”

You go quiet.

He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.

Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”

Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”

“I built you a desk,” Max adds.

Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”

“I made GP help.”

You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”

“They were wrong,” Max mutters.

Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.

“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”

You glance at him.

Max is already looking at you.

“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”

You press your lips together.

He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.

Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”

Max smiles. “I know.”

But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.

You’ve been through everything.

Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.

But this?

This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.

Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.

You hand her a plate.

“Tell me if it’s too sweet,” you say.

Max nudges your hip. “It’s perfect.”

You look up at him.

So is he.

So is this.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

“If buying isn’t owning, piracy isn’t stealing”

20 years ago, I got in a (friendly) public spat with Chris Anderson, who was then the editor in chief of Wired. I'd publicly noted my disappointment with glowing Wired reviews of DRM-encumbered digital devices, prompting Anderson to call me unrealistic for expecting the magazine to condemn gadgets for their DRM:

https://longtail.typepad.com/the_long_tail/2004/12/is_drm_evil.html

I replied in public, telling him that he'd misunderstood. This wasn't an issue of ideological purity – it was about good reviewing practice. Wired was telling readers to buy a product because it had features x, y and z, but at any time in the future, without warning, without recourse, the vendor could switch off any of those features:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/12/29/cory-responds-to-wired-editor-on-drm/

I proposed that all Wired endorsements for DRM-encumbered products should come with this disclaimer:

WARNING: THIS DEVICE’S FEATURES ARE SUBJECT TO REVOCATION WITHOUT NOTICE, ACCORDING TO TERMS SET OUT IN SECRET NEGOTIATIONS. YOUR INVESTMENT IS CONTINGENT ON THE GOODWILL OF THE WORLD’S MOST PARANOID, TECHNOPHOBIC ENTERTAINMENT EXECS. THIS DEVICE AND DEVICES LIKE IT ARE TYPICALLY USED TO CHARGE YOU FOR THINGS YOU USED TO GET FOR FREE — BE SURE TO FACTOR IN THE PRICE OF BUYING ALL YOUR MEDIA OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AT NO TIME IN HISTORY HAS ANY ENTERTAINMENT COMPANY GOTTEN A SWEET DEAL LIKE THIS FROM THE ELECTRONICS PEOPLE, BUT THIS TIME THEY’RE GETTING A TOTAL WALK. HERE, PUT THIS IN YOUR MOUTH, IT’LL MUFFLE YOUR WHIMPERS.

Wired didn't take me up on this suggestion.

But I was right. The ability to change features, prices, and availability of things you've already paid for is a powerful temptation to corporations. Inkjet printers were always a sleazy business, but once these printers got directly connected to the internet, companies like HP started pushing out "security updates" that modified your printer to make it reject the third-party ink you'd paid for:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Now, this scam wouldn't work if you could just put things back the way they were before the "update," which is where the DRM comes in. A thicket of IP laws make reverse-engineering DRM-encumbered products into a felony. Combine always-on network access with indiscriminate criminalization of user modification, and the enshittification will follow, as surely as night follows day.

This is the root of all the right to repair shenanigans. Sure, companies withhold access to diagnostic codes and parts, but codes can be extracted and parts can be cloned. The real teeth in blocking repair comes from the law, not the tech. The company that makes McDonald's wildly unreliable McFlurry machines makes a fortune charging franchisees to fix these eternally broken appliances. When a third party threatened this racket by reverse-engineering the DRM that blocked independent repair, they got buried in legal threats:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Everybody loves this racket. In Poland, a team of security researchers at the OhMyHack conference just presented their teardown of the anti-repair features in NEWAG Impuls locomotives. NEWAG boobytrapped their trains to try and detect if they've been independently serviced, and to respond to any unauthorized repairs by bricking themselves:

https://mamot.fr/@q3k@hackerspace.pl/111528162905209453

Poland is part of the EU, meaning that they are required to uphold the provisions of the 2001 EU Copyright Directive, including Article 6, which bans this kind of reverse-engineering. The researchers are planning to present their work again at the Chaos Communications Congress in Hamburg this month – Germany is also a party to the EUCD. The threat to researchers from presenting this work is real – but so is the threat to conferences that host them:

https://www.cnet.com/tech/services-and-software/researchers-face-legal-threats-over-sdmi-hack/

20 years ago, Chris Anderson told me that it was unrealistic to expect tech companies to refuse demands for DRM from the entertainment companies whose media they hoped to play. My argument – then and now – was that any tech company that sells you a gadget that can have its features revoked is defrauding you. You're paying for x, y and z – and if they are contractually required to remove x and y on demand, they are selling you something that you can't rely on, without making that clear to you.

But it's worse than that. When a tech company designs a device for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades, they invite both external and internal parties to demand those downgrades. Like Pavel Chekov says, a phaser on the bridge in Act I is going to go off by Act III. Selling a product that can be remotely, irreversibly, nonconsensually downgraded inevitably results in the worst person at the product-planning meeting proposing to do so. The fact that there are no penalties for doing so makes it impossible for the better people in that meeting to win the ensuing argument, leading to the moral injury of seeing a product you care about reduced to a pile of shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

But even if everyone at that table is a swell egg who wouldn't dream of enshittifying the product, the existence of a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature makes the product vulnerable to external actors who will demand that it be used. Back in 2022, Adobe informed its customers that it had lost its deal to include Pantone colors in Photoshop, Illustrator and other "software as a service" packages. As a result, users would now have to start paying a monthly fee to see their own, completed images. Fail to pay the fee and all the Pantone-coded pixels in your artwork would just show up as black:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

Adobe blamed this on Pantone, and there was lots of speculation about what had happened. Had Pantone jacked up its price to Adobe, so Adobe passed the price on to its users in the hopes of embarrassing Pantone? Who knows? Who can know? That's the point: you invested in Photoshop, you spent money and time creating images with it, but you have no way to know whether or how you'll be able to access those images in the future. Those terms can change at any time, and if you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself.

These companies are all run by CEOs who got their MBAs at Darth Vader University, where the first lesson is "I have altered the deal, pray I don't alter it further." Adobe chose to design its software so it would be vulnerable to this kind of demand, and then its customers paid for that choice. Sure, Pantone are dicks, but this is Adobe's fault. They stuck a KICK ME sign to your back, and Pantone obliged.

This keeps happening and it's gonna keep happening. Last week, Playstation owners who'd bought (or "bought") Warner TV shows got messages telling them that Warner had walked away from its deal to sell videos through the Playstation store, and so all the videos they'd paid for were going to be deleted forever. They wouldn't even get refunds (to be clear, refunds would also be bullshit – when I was a bookseller, I didn't get to break into your house and steal the books I'd sold you, not even if I left some cash on your kitchen table).

Sure, Warner is an unbelievably shitty company run by the single most guillotineable executive in all of Southern California, the loathsome David Zaslav, who oversaw the merger of Warner with Discovery. Zaslav is the creep who figured out that he could make more money cancelling completed movies and TV shows and taking a tax writeoff than he stood to make by releasing them:

https://aftermath.site/there-is-no-piracy-without-ownership

Imagine putting years of your life into making a program – showing up on set at 5AM and leaving your kids to get their own breakfast, performing stunts that could maim or kill you, working 16-hour days during the acute phase of the covid pandemic and driving home in the night, only to have this absolute turd of a man delete the program before anyone could see it, forever, to get a minor tax advantage. Talk about moral injury!

But without Sony's complicity in designing a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature into the Playstation, Zaslav's war on art and creative workers would be limited to material that hadn't been released yet. Thanks to Sony's awful choices, David Zaslav can break into your house, steal your movies – and he doesn't even have to leave a twenty on your kitchen table.

The point here – the point I made 20 years ago to Chris Anderson – is that this is the foreseeable, inevitable result of designing devices for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades. Anyone who was paying attention should have figured that out in the GW Bush administration. Anyone who does this today? Absolute flaming garbage.

Sure, Zaslav deserves to be staked out over an anthill and slathered in high-fructose corn syrup. But save the next anthill for the Sony exec who shipped a product that would let Zaslav come into your home and rob you. That piece of shit knew what they were doing and they did it anyway. Fuck them. Sideways. With a brick.

Meanwhile, the studios keep making the case for stealing movies rather than paying for them. As Tyler James Hill wrote: "If buying isn't owning, piracy isn't stealing":

https://bsky.app/profile/tylerjameshill.bsky.social/post/3kflw2lvam42n

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/08/playstationed/#tyler-james-hill

Image: Alan Levine (modified) https://pxhere.com/en/photo/218986

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[honeyandruin]

Torque and Tension - Mechanic!Joel Miller x Reader

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

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

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

Word count: 6.7k

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You really did have a reason this time.

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

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

And that’s the problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t know it was a big deal.”

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

You bite your tongue.

Not because he’s wrong.

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

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

You hear him grunt.

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

The first thing you see is his stomach.

Exposed skin.

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

You look up fast. Too fast.

But he notices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t look at you.

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

You hesitate, then take the bench near the wall.

He drops back under the car without another word.

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

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

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

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

Your stomach turned.

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

“Found something else.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

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

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

“I didn’t hear anything,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not givin’ one.”

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

“I’m offerin’ to teach you,” he says.

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

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

Joel nods once.

“Then come here.”

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t step back.

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

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t lean.

He just breathes.

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t move away.

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

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

And you do, but not from the belt.

From him.

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

He clears his throat and wipes his hands again.

“Good,” he says.

The word hangs there. Unfinished. Weighted.

You stand still for a long time.

Neither of you speaks.

—

You don’t hear the bell at first.

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

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

Until the bell above the front door rings.

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

It’s Joel.

Your hand stills.

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

You don’t say anything. Not at first.

Neither does he.

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

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

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

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

Your hand doesn’t slow. “I saw.”

“You didn’t answer.”

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

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

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

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

“Just checkin’ in on the car.”

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

“It’s running fine,” you say simply.

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

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

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

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

You reach for it.

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

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

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

He doesn’t move away.

Not even when your fingers brush his.

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

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

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

He doesn’t need to.

The weight of his gaze says enough. Too much.

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

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

But Joel doesn’t move.

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

Then, slowly, his hand lifts.

You don’t flinch.

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

Doesn’t look at you, either.

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

“Hold still,” he mutters.

You do.

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

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

But close enough.

Too close.

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

Then Joel blinks.

And the moment shatters.

He steps back like he’s burned.

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

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

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

You don’t say anything.

You couldn’t if you tried.

He turns and walks out without another word.

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

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

—

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

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

Your heart is already pounding.

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

He didn’t answer.

But the door was unlocked.

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

He doesn’t turn right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel tilts his head slightly.

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

Your stomach flips.

“I thought I left my—”

“I know what you said.”

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

You don’t move.

The silence stretches.

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

“Find it?” He asks.

“What?”

“Your wallet.”

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

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

Just one.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

“Stop what?”

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

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

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

It’s worse.

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

You force a step forward.

Maybe two.

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

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

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

That lands hard.

You stop walking. Swallow.

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

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

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

Joel moves first.

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

Like this was always going to happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then stop,” you whisper.

He growls.

“Too late.”

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

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

“You want this?” He asks.

You nod.

He shakes his head.

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

The rest comes undone fast.

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

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

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

All you can feel is him.

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head slowly. “Say it.”

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

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

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

And then he drops to his knees.

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

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

You flush, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I didn’t plan on—”

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

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Open. Devastating.

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

Everything goes hot.

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

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

His tongue flicks your clit and your legs jerk.

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

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

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

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

He groans and pushes a thick finger inside you.

You nearly scream.

“Jesus—Joel—”

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

His mouth finds your clit again and you shatter.

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

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

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

And he looks completely fucked.

“You okay?” He asks, voice hoarse.

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

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

“You want me to fuck you now, baby?”

You nod again.

“Tell me,” he breathes.

“I want you inside me.”

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

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

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

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

Your mouth drops open. Your head falls back.

You’ve never felt so full.

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

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

Then he starts to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel,” you whimper.

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

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

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

You cry out.

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

That wrecks you.

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

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

His rhythm breaks, thrusts getting sloppy, desperate.

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

Not even close.

—

The silence after is loud.

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

Then he moves.

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

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

“C’mon.”

Just that.

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

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

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

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t have to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, you turn to face him.

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

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

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

It’s not like before.

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

When he pulls back, your fingers find his face.

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

He leans into your touch.

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

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

It’s only him. Only you.

And the silence in between.

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

You don’t reply.

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

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

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

You catch it.

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

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

“Bed’s this way.”

He nods toward the back room.

You follow.

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

But he stays close.

So close you can feel his breath on your neck.

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

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

You don’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

[nerdycheol]

Track Record || C.S.C

🏎️pairing: f1 racer!choi seungcheol x motorsport journalist! reader

🏎️genre: enemies-to-lovers, fluff, smut (protected sex, too much kissing) MDNI

🏎️wc: 12k

(a/n): glad to be part of @bella-feed 's and @sanaxo-o 's 100 follower event thankyouuu calli ( @hhaechansmoless), daisy (@flowerwonu ) and cel (@mylovesstuffs ) for beta-ing <33. im really sorry for delay in posting this:( this fic was inspired by anyone mv and and way to many carlos edits on my feed. even though this was beta read by 3 wonderful people, i still apologize if there are any mistakes in here:(( ive just started getting into f1 thanks to calli ;) so im just getting used to everything haha so people familiar with f1, overlook any inaccuracies <33 also quite poorly written smut jskjdsks

Let me know what you think—comments and reblogs mean the world! 💗

IF YOU AREN'T TAGGED IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S NO AGE INDICATOR IN YOUR PROFILE OR ARE UNDERAGE ____

The engines roared like a war cry, low and guttural and impossible to ignore.

You stood just beyond the garage’s shadow, notebook in hand, watching the blur of red and black cut through the curve of the track like a blade. The pit crew moved around you in practiced choreography—headsets, tools, nerves strung tight like violin strings. The summer heat pressed into your skin, clinging, relentless, and the scent of hot rubber and fuel settled in your lungs like memory.

You hadn’t been trackside in nearly a year.

Not since that article.

Your fingers tapped the edge of your notebook as you watched the car scream down the straightaway and finally slow into the pit lane. The tires hissed as they met concrete. Seungcheol’s car rolled to a stop just in front of the garage, perfectly aligned. Within seconds, the crew rushed in. The car was wheeled back smoothly, swallowed into the organized chaos of the team’s station.

Then the driver stepped out.

You didn’t need to see his face to know it was Choi Seungcheol.

He moved like someone who was always one second away from sprinting, every motion lean and charged with purpose. His helmet came off slowly, and he ran a gloved hand through his hair, the kind of move that would look cocky on anyone else—but on him, it seemed natural. Like arrogance was something he’d been born with. Worn into his skin.

He didn’t see you yet. Thank God.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax.

“Journalist from Velocity Weekly, right?” a voice beside you asked.

You turned. A crew assistant, barely older than a rookie, offered you a bottle of water and a tight-lipped smile. You nodded.

“Yeah. Just here to observe.”

“For now,” he muttered. “They didn’t tell him.”

You blinked. “Tell him what?”

“That you’re embedding for the season. He thinks he’s just getting a fluff piece.”

Your stomach dipped slightly. Of course they hadn’t told him. Of course the team thought it was better to deal with the fallout after.

Your article had shaken half the circuit and nearly ended his season. It hadn’t been personal—it was rather brutal. Honest. 

You could still remember the headline: Golden Boy or Time Bomb? The Truth Behind Choi Seungcheol’s Fall From Grace.

You hadn’t seen him since.

Not in person.

But now, here you were—assigned to shadow his team for the next three months. For better. Or for much, much worse.

A nearby cheer pulled your eyes back to the pit, just in time to see Seungcheol peel off his gloves and hand them to a technician. He was laughing, relaxed. A flash of that famous smile.

Until his gaze swept the garage.

And stopped. On you.

His smile faded.

The air between you crackled—not explosive, not yet. But heavy. Dense with unsaid things.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then, as if it meant nothing at all, Seungcheol turned away.

But his jaw was clenched and his hands balled up into fists.

You stood still, your pulse thrumming in your neck as Seungcheol walked away, not sparing you another glance. The weight of his dismissal pressed against your chest like an invisible hand, but you forced yourself to breathe through it.

The pit crew had gone quiet, some of them catching the tension between the two of you. You heard a quiet murmur—probably a few people betting on when he’d finally explode at you.

Your eyes didn't follow him, but you couldn't help the way your gaze flickered in his direction every few seconds. His broad shoulders moved through the crowd with an ease that only someone used to commanding attention could possess. There was no denying the kind of presence he had—one that filled up a room, even when he wasn't not speaking.

He disappeared into the building, heading for the changing rooms, and your stomach tightened.

The silence that followed in the garage felt too loud. You busied yourself by scribbling something that wasn't really a note just to have something to do with your hands. Something that made you feel in control, even if you weren't. Not here.

Not with him.

You didn't follow. You didn't need to.

Because five minutes later, you were being ushered down a narrow hallway by Seungkwan, the PR manager, who had been buzzing with nervous energy since you arrived.

He kept glancing at his phone and muttering about timing and contracts,” God! he's going to kill me.”

You assumed he meant Seungcheol. You were right.

You rounded the corner near the back exit just as Choi Seungcheol pushed open the locker room door. He was freshly changed— black joggers, white team tee, towel slung around his neck, water bottle in hand. His hair was still damp.

He stops when he sees the two of you.

Stops like his day just got infinitely worse.

And when his eyes flick to you, there it is again–barely restrained irritation. His lips press into a flat line. His jaw tightens. You almost felt bad for whoever’s about to speak to him.

Almost.

“Cheol!” Seungkwan chirps, voice way too bright for the tension coiling in the air. “Hey, I was just coming to find you.”

He nods toward you like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not standing between two people who share history sharp enough to draw blood.

“I figured it’d be better to rip the Band-Aid off.”

“You remember Y/N, right?” Seungkwan continues, gesturing to you like this is a reunion instead of a landmine. “She’s going to be shadowing the team for the next three months. Full-access feature for the Velocity Weekly docuseries.”

“Part of our image rehab strategy, you know—Transparency. Redemption arc. All that jazz.” Seungkwan kept flailing his arms even though both of his hands are full—one holds a notepad, the other holding his usual iced americano

There’s a beat of silence. Then Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow.

“Right,” he says, voice flat. “A redemption arc.”

He finally turns to you fully, eyes cold, calculating.

You give him a polite smile. Not out of kindness. Out of pride. Control. Survival.

“I’m not here to stir up old drama,” you say quietly.

“Good,” he replies. “Because there’s nothing left to stir.”

He looks at Seungkwan. “Is that all?”

The manager stammers something about schedule sync-ups, but Seungcheol’s already walking past. Not a glance back. Just the soft crunch of his sneakers against the tile floor as he disappears around the corner.

You don’t breathe again until he’s gone.

“Great,” the poor guy mutters beside you. “That could’ve gone worse.”

You don’t correct him.

Because you know—it will.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The room is too bright.

One of those generic media rooms with foldable chairs, beige walls, and nothing on the table but a bottle of water and a stack of branded cue cards you won’t use.

You sit with your back straight, microphone clipped to your collar, and your notes in your lap— clean, annotated, rehearsed. A thin layer of sweat beads at the nape of your neck, but you don’t lift a hand to wipe it. You can’t. The camera’s already rolling—they wanted to film Seungcheol's ‘candid entry’.

Seungkwan stands just off to the side, behind the lights. His arms are crossed over his clipboard, eyebrows furrowed like he’s praying for divine intervention.

You don’t blame him.

Because Choi Seungcheol is late.

By twenty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

He finally walks in on the thirtieth.

No apology. No hurry.

He moves like he’s strolling into a locker room, not a filmed, pre-scheduled interview. Freshly showered, in a black team tee and dark joggers, with a silver chain around his neck that flashes under the lights. Hair damp and pushed back. Jaw tight.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t have to.

The tension snaps into place the second he enters, taut and quiet like a wire stretched between you.

He drops into the chair across from you and spreads his legs slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the seat. A casual posture, but there's nothing relaxed about him. He leans back like this is a waste of his time. Like you are.

A staff member leans in to clip the mic to his collar. There’s no need for instructions—he lifts his chin just slightly, giving them easy access, his posture relaxed but deliberate.

“Rolling,” the cam op calls.

The little red light on the camera starts blinking. You shift your expression to something neutral, polite. Not fake — just professional. Safe. It’s the one you wear when you’re working. When you’re speaking to men who want to dismiss you before you say your first word.

“We’re here with Choi Seungcheol, lead driver for Team SVT,” you say clearly. “Thanks for joining us today.”

His eyes cut to you, finally. Slow, sharp.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” he says smoothly.

You don’t let your smile falter. “Still, we’re glad you’re here.”

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, but it’s low enough that the mic doesn’t catch it..

You glance down at your notes, fingers clenching slightly around them.

“I’m told you’ve had an impressive off-season.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking toward the camera. “Trained. Drove. Same as every year.”

You make a soft, acknowledging hum and tap your pen against the margin of your page. “Do you feel like you’re coming into this season with something to prove?”

That does it.

His head tilts just slightly. The corner of his mouth lifts— not into a smile. Into something cooler. Controlled. “To who?”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “The media. The fans. Yourself.”

The air in the room shifts. It tightens.

For a second, he doesn’t respond. Just sits there, staring at you like he’s trying to read a headline written behind your eyes.

Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, voice low. “If I was driving to prove something, I’d be the wrong guy for this team.”

You blink. “Some would say last season proved that anyway.”

The silence that follows is immediate. And thick.

Seungkwan makes a small sound from behind the camera— a tiny gasp, smothered by the clipboard.

You don’t backpedal. You don’t soften.

It’s not a jab. It’s a fact. One he’s heard before. Seungcheol lets the moment breathe. Lets it sit between you.

Then he laughs–short, sharp. No humor in it. 

“I forgot how fun you are to talk to.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not personal.”

“Isn’t it?” he says, and his voice is so quiet, it lands like a threat.

You inhale through your nose and glance at your page. Redirect.

“What’s the first thing you think of when you’re on the starting grid?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He smirks. “That’s the point. Thinking gets you killed.”

You write that down, even though you don’t need to. It’s getting recorded anyways.

He leans back again, eyes still locked on yours. Not angry. Not smug. Just… watching. When the camera cuts, the silence remains. You unclip your mic slowly. He’s already standing.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

He leaves before you can decide whether you want him to.

What the hell is his deal?

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The sun is brutal at this hour— high, relentless, glinting off the tarmac like it’s daring anyone to blink first. You don’t. Not yet.

You’re standing just behind the safety rail, far enough to be invisible to the engineers but close enough to see everything that matters. Helmeted figures blur past in streaks of color, but your eyes are locked on only one: car number seventeen—the one that belongs to Choi Seungcheol.

Your notebook is open, balanced on your forearm, pages flapping faintly in the breeze that smells like burnt rubber and hot fuel. The top line reads in neat block letters: “Voiceover Segment – Driver Profiles: Racecraft.”

Underneath, bullet points:

Brake timing: early on corners 6 and 9.

Lap 2: oversteer correction, razor-sharp.

Turn-in commitment : aggressive, clean.

Line discipline: tight, zero margin wasted.

Unsettled entry into Turn 13: intentional???

You scribble as he exits the far chicane, eyes narrowing slightly at the way he recovers with that barely-there flick of the wrist. It’s art, in a way most people will never understand. Not just velocity— it’s violence in control.

You look over to the small screen placed near the railings, then you notice something. Not technical. Not really. You glance down and, without meaning to, write:

Turn-in is sharp. Overcorrects slightly on exits. Quick hands. Always. Habit?

Still as stone under braking—almost eerie.

You stare at the words.

Your pen hovers. Pauses. Then moves again.

Drives like he’s punishing something. Himself?

“You planning to psychoanalyze his split times next?”

You startle.

Seungkwan is behind you, half in shadow, holding an iced coffee that’s already starting to drip down his fingers. His eyebrows are raised and his smile is dry.

You slam the notebook shut. The pages snap together like a secret being hidden.

“It’s for the voiceover,” you say, a little too quickly. “Atmosphere.”

“Mm. Sure.” He sips. “Very... moody atmosphere. Like a tragic Greek chorus monologue. I can practically hear the cello in the background.”

You glare. He grins wider.

Then he steps beside you, following your gaze to the track. Seungcheol passes again, fast and clean, leaving a scream of engine noise in his wake. He doesn’t look toward the wall. Doesn’t acknowledge anyone.

Especially not you.

Seungkwan exhales, quieter now, “He hasn’t said a word to me since your name came up this morning.”

You look away. “He doesn’t have to.”

“No. But it’s weird. Even for him.”

The notebook feels heavy in your hands now, the weight of your own words still pressed between the pages.

Seungkwan gives you a long, considering look.

“Just... be careful with him,” he says finally. “He doesn’t forget much. Or forgive easily.”

The memory creeps in before you can stop it.

It was supposed to be just another race-day wrap-up.

The kind you could write in your sleep: thirty-second soundbites, recycled talking points, a handful of overused metaphors about speed and pressure. Seungcheol hadn’t finished the race— DNF, something about engine failure or a pit stop gone wrong— and when he finally stepped into the press pen, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

You didn’t take it personally. Drivers got like that sometimes. Adrenaline was cruel like that— hot and fast and feral.

“Walk us through what happened out there today?” you asked, calm, polite, voice barely rising above the whir of cameras and clicking shutters.

He scoffed. Actually scoffed. “There’s nothing to walk through. We didn’t finish.” Short. Clipped. Dismissive.

You tried again. “Some people think the restart might’ve been too aggressive–”

His visor lifted just enough to meet your eyes. Dark. Unreadable.

“Some people should actually watch the footage before asking dumb questions.”

And then he turned. Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t look back. Just walked off, gloves still crumpled in one fist, jaw locked like stone.

You hadn’t planned to write anything critical.

But when you sat down in your hotel room later that night, fingers still cold from holding the mic, you couldn’t shake the look on his face—or the sharp twist in your gut that hadn’t been there before.

So you wrote what you saw.

“It’s easy to admire Choi Seungcheol when he’s winning. But when the race isn’t in his favor, his temper shows through the cracks in his professionalism. Today’s interview proved that even the most polished racers have fragile egos.”

Clean. Factual. Not personal.

But it lit a fuse.

Overnight, your inbox flooded–some praise, some hate. Your piece got quoted on TV. Spliced into fan compilations. Sponsors asked questions. PR scrambled. Someone from the team issued a soft rebuttal saying, “There may have been a misunderstanding during the post-race media exchange. Choi’s focus was still on the technical debrief, and emotions were running high. He holds great respect for journalists and values the work they do in bringing the sport to its global audience.” 

It wasn’t an apology per se. Seungcheol never said a word.

But from that point on, he never gave you another quote. Never met your gaze in the press room. Never lingered for post-race comments if your mic was anywhere in sight.

And now?

Now, he looks at you like you’re the one who ruined everything.

Seungkwan murmurs, “He’s overdriving.”

You don’t reply.

You are familiar with this version of him. The one that drives too hard when he’s trying to shake something off. You’ve seen it before— in stats, in footage, in post-race silences.

Finally, the radio crackles. His engineer says something about cooling the engine down. And just like that, the car pulls in, growling to a stop. The door lifts.

He steps out—undershirt clinging to him, face shiny with sweat, curls plastered to his forehead. His jaw is locked, like the session didn’t clear his head the way he wanted it to.

You glance at the water bottle on the nearby table. Someone had left it behind. It’s not even cold anymore, but still—it’s something. 

You pick it up without thinking and cross the short distance toward him.

He doesn’t notice you at first, towel already half-draped over his shoulder, bent slightly as a tech says something about brake temps. But then he looks up. Sees you.

You don’t say a word. Just extend the bottle in your hand.

He stares at it. Then at you. Long enough that it becomes a choice. Long enough that it means something.

Then he says, flat and easy, “I’m good.”

And walks past.

You nod, even though he’s not looking anymore.

No one says anything. But your hand stays closed around the bottle until the plastic crumples slightly in your grip. And then you walk back toward the trailers before anyone can see the look on your face.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The edit bay is quiet.

Too quiet, almost. The kind of hush only machines make — low humming from drives, the soft crackle of the audio monitor when it switches between clips. The rest of the crew’s long gone, lights out in the pit lane, doors locked on the media center.

You should be gone too. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re here, headphones on, fingers pausing and dragging the timeline back five seconds. Again. Again. Again.

Seungcheol’s onboard camera footage is pulled up. A clean lap. Camera mounted on his halo bar—his hands, the wheel, the track flying toward him in perfect resolution. You’ve been trying to write the segment opener for over an hour, and all you have is: Choi Seungcheol is a driver of precision. Control. Ruthless rhythm

You hate it. It sounds like something anyone could say. Something he’d hate hearing.

You rewind again.

Pause.

There’s a freeze-frame of his hands— gloved, sure, absolutely still as he flies down a straight. No micro-adjustments. No nerves. He drives like the car isn’t moving at all.

But then— frame by frame, you notice his left thumb tap twice against the wheel. Barely a movement. Like a tick. Like a habit. You rewind again. Slower.

The tap happens before the DRS opens. Before the straight clears. Like he knows he’ll need the calm, the open stretch–and the tap is permission.

Or reassurance.

You lean in.

“He always taps before the straight,” you murmur to yourself, writing it in the margin of your notes. “Ritual. Or— something else.”

You scroll back to earlier footage from a different practice day. Different circuit. Different weather.

The tap is there again.

Tap tap. Just before full throttle.

It’s nothing. Probably nothing. But it’s there. And now you can’t unsee it.

You rub at your temples, trying to steer your thoughts back to the script. To objectivity. To professionalism. You’re here to document him, not… understand him. Not unravel him.

Still, you click to the footage from earlier— trackside cameras. Wider shot. Less clinical. He’s walking back toward the garage, helmet off, hair sweat-damp, and jaw clenched.

He doesn’t look at the camera.

But just before he steps out of frame, his eyes flick sideways.

For half a second less, he looks at the lens.

No. Not the lens.

You.

Your pulse thuds unexpectedly, stupidly. You sit back in the chair. The note page is still open on your screen. Your last bullet point reads: Drives like he’s punishing something. Himself?

You highlight it.

Then delete it.

You shut the laptop before you can change your mind.

But the weight of it stays, humming behind your ribs—like something alive and unspoken.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You’re seated at the long conference table inside the paddock media suite, flanked by the production crew, comms specialists, a documentary director, and three too-many cups of bad coffee. The air-conditioning hums above, just loud enough to compete with the voices droning through the day’s agenda. The room smells faintly of rubber, sweat, and those branded granola bars the crew keeps handing out.

Seungcheol hasn’t spoken once.

He’s in his racing suit still, half-zipped and tied at the waist, black compression tee clinging to his chest. He leans back in his chair, arms folded, cap pulled low. Watching. Listening. Disconnected in that deliberate way he always is—like none of this is worth his time but he’s here because he has to be.

Across from you, Seungkwan flips to the next slide of the media presentation. “Okay, so – docuseries production. We’ve finished with most of the behind-the-scenes material for the pit crew and team engineers, but the big gap right now is still driver profiles.”

You nod along. This part is yours. You’ve spent the last two nights combing through the racers old race tapes, trying to piece together something coherent. Something that looks like a person, not a machine.

“We’ve been thinking,” you say, voice calm, measured, “to balance out the high-speed footage, we could shoot some off-track material. Nothing invasive. Just quieter stuff—daily routines, maybe their time at the simulator, or a few minutes of downtime. To show contrast.”

There are a few hums in approval.

And then– “No.”

His voice isn’t raised, but it’s firm. Final.

You glance at him.

Seungcheol hasn’t moved, but his eyes are locked on yours now— dark, unreadable, flint-sharp under the brim of his cap.

Someone at the end of the table clears their throat awkwardly. You wait for him to explain, or for Seungkwan to interject.

But Seungcheol does not budge.

“You want ‘real’?” he says, tone quiet but cutting. “Maybe start with getting your facts right the first time.”

Your pulse spikes. You stare.

A few heads swivel your way. You force your face to stay still, neutral. The worst thing you could do is show how hard that hit.

“I didn’t–” you start, but he cuts in again.

“You don’t get to decide what parts of me are useful just because your cameras are running.” His jaw clenches. “You’ve already taken enough.”

No one speaks.

Not Seungkwan. Not the director. Not the wide-eyed intern with the color-coded clipboard. Just this stretched-out, sticky silence where you’re suddenly aware of every inch of your body and how very visible you feel inside it.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You look down at your notes— like they might offer some way out of this. But it’s already happened.

Then he moves.

Not abruptly, not with dramatics. But the chair legs scrape the floor, deliberate and loud, as he pushes up to his feet.

Seungcheol shrugs on his jacket, grabs the nearest bottle of water from the table, and without another word, walks straight out of the meeting room. No one breathes for a second.

Then Seungkwan, like clockwork, lets out a weak laugh. “He’s just… not really a media guy.”

No one tries to correct him. And you?

You press your pen against the paper until the tip snaps clean off. Not because he humiliated you.But because for the first time, you think you understand why.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You arrive at the paddock earlier than needed.

Your meeting with the docuseries team isn’t until later in the afternoon, but you came two hours early and now you’re standing awkwardly in a place you’re technically allowed to be, but feel like you shouldn’t.

From the corner, you watch him finish his final practice lap. Seungcheol’s car rolls into the garage, engine ticking hot, his visor still down. Someone opens the cockpit. He climbs out like a machine disengaging—fluid, precise, all quiet intensity.

Then he sees you.

Or maybe just registers your presence. His head turns, eyes landing on you for a fraction of a second. His expression doesn’t shift. No surprise, no annoyance. Nothing.

He doesn’t ask why you’re here.

He just pulls off his gloves, helmet tucked under his arm, and walks straight past you toward the changing room at the back of the garage. Like you’re furniture. Background. Static.

You exhale deeply. Fair enough.

You wait.

It takes several minutes. You hear the sound of a locker door slamming shut, muffled movement, the faint hiss of a water bottle being opened.

Then— footsteps. He emerges.

Fresh shirt, hair damp and curling at his temple, towel slung around his neck as he rakes it over the back of his head. He doesn’t see you at first— his focus is on drying off, his stride already pulling him toward the far side of the hallway.

Then he spots you.

Leaning against the wall opposite the changing room, arms crossed, posture casual but heart pounding a little too loud for your own liking.

His steps falter. Briefly. Just for a beat.

Then resumes, unfazed, like he’s made a silent decision to walk past you entirely.

You let him.

Until he’s two steps ahead of you.

“Seungcheol.”

Your voice isn’t loud, but it stops him.

He turns, slowly. That same unreadable look in his eyes, sharp and distant like he’s looking through you instead of at you.

You step forward.

No grand gestures. No long speeches. Just a small can of cherry soda in your hand— cool, slightly dewed from sitting in the media fridge.

You extend it toward him. “You did well today.”

He blinks once. Then again, slower.

His gaze drops to the can, then lifts to your face.

“…Have you poisoned this?”

You let out a sigh. You deserve that.

“No,” you murmur. “Though I probably deserve that kind of suspicion.”

His brow lifts a little at that–surprised by your honesty, maybe. But still guarded.

“I just–” you start, voice low, unsure. You shift the can in your hands like it’s something fragile. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For the article. For…everything it cost you.”

His expression doesn’t change.

You push forward anyway.

“I didn’t know it would spiral like that. I didn’t know you at all, and that’s the worst part, right?” You glance away, swallow. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not now. Maybe not ever. But… I hope someday you’ll hate me a little less.”

It hangs there for a moment.

Not silence exactly— there’s still the hum of equipment in the background, distant voices from the other end of the paddock— but it feels like silence.

You take one careful step forward and press the cherry soda into his hand. You don’t wait to see if he accepts it fully.

Just a small, tired smile. Tight-lipped. Not hopeful. Just… human.

And then you leave. You don’t look back. But if you did, you’d see him standing in place, eyes on the can in his hand like it’s a message he hasn’t quite decided how to read yet.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You almost skip dinner.

You tell yourself it’s because you have notes to revise, footage to sort through, emails to send. Some twelve-year-old-girl excuse.

But really, it’s the risk of being in the same room as him — the same cramped circle of laughter and clinking glasses and easy camaraderie you still feel slightly removed from.

Seungkwan doesn’t let you off the hook. “They won’t bite,” he says, tugging you toward the restaurant entrance. “Well. Maybe Seungcheol will. But I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave teeth marks.”

You shoot him a look. He grins. It helps. A little.

Inside, the team is already gathered around a long, narrow table. A place is cleared for you just as you arrive. By some twist of fate— or more likely, Seungkwan's passive-aggressive seating plan— your spot is right beside him.

Choi Seungcheol. Black hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Gaze locked on the menu like it’s about to pick a fight.

He doesn’t look at you when you sit. Doesn’t greet you either. His attention stays locked on his plate, one elbow propped on the table, his fingers absentmindedly circling the neck of his water bottle.

Conversation flows around him — light, messy, animated. Someone makes a joke about the docuseries. Something about how dramatic it's going to make all of them look. A few heads turn toward you.

You brace yourself, already reaching for your glass.

But before anyone can say more, Seungcheol cuts in. Voice flat, but not cold, “At least they’re doing their job.”

You glance over, startled. His gaze isn’t on you— it’s fixed somewhere across the table. He doesn’t say anything else.

You don’t either.

After a while, the laughter gets too loud, and the room too warm. You slip away, excusing yourself quietly, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

The breeze is immediate, tugging strands of hair from your face. You breathe in slowly, eyes closing for a beat. Just one. Long enough to gather your thoughts. Or let them go.

Until you hear footsteps behind you. Soft but deliberate.

You don’t have to turn. Your posture straightens instinctively, some part of you already aware of the heat that trails after him like a second skin.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just comes to a stop a pace behind you. Then, after a beat, “You always disappear like this?”

His voice is quieter than usual. Not teasing. Just… curious.

You glance over your shoulder. “Only when I need air.”

He nods. Looks up at the sky like it’s given him something to think about before he stares down at the ground. Then, without a word, pulls his hoodie over his head.

You blink.

“What are you–?”

Before you can finish, he’s stepping closer— not touching, but near enough that you can feel it — and draping the soft fabric over your shoulders.

“It gets cold at night,” he says simply, scratching the side of his nose like it’ll make him less embarrassed. “Didn’t want you freezing out here and getting blamed for holding up filming tomorrow.”

You’re too stunned to answer right away.

The hoodie is warm. It smells like wind and gasoline and whatever aftershave he uses.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods again. Turns without fanfare and slips back inside, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

You stand there for another minute, fingers tightening around the fabric, heart doing something stupid against your ribs.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You don’t know when it starts, exactly.

Maybe it’s the day Seungcheol doesn’t just ignore your greeting, but gives a faint nod in return. Or when he asks, without looking up from his gloves, whether the docuseries will be covering the wet tire strategy segment— like your opinion holds weight. He still keeps his distance, still rarely meets your eyes, but his silence has lost its bite. It doesn’t bristle anymore. It lingers.

He doesn’t bolt from shared rooms. Doesn’t brush past you like you’re invisible. One time, he even moves aside to let you through the garage door first— a small thing, but enough that Seungkwan later texts you 10 eyes emojis. 

And then there’s the cherry soda. You keep seeing it— half-empty cans in the recycling bin, one tucked beside his gear bag. He never says anything, but he doesn’t not accept them when you leave one near his seat after a long day.

You haven’t earned a smile. Not yet. But you believe the hatred’s softening into something else. Something almost watchful. Like he’s trying to decide if you’re still a threat— or something far more dangerous

It had been pouring for hours.

You were supposed to get off work at five, but the storm had other plans. Rain tapped hard against the windows, a steady, relentless sheet that turned the world outside into a blur of grey. You figured you’d stay back—might as well get some editing done while waiting it out.

But the sky never cleared.

Eventually, you packed your things, tugged your jacket tighter around you, and stepped under the building’s glass overhang, eyes on the road as you waited for your taxi. 

You thought almost everyone had left, so you clearly didn’t expect to hear footsteps behind you.

“You’re still here?” a voice said, low and familiar.

You turned, surprised. “You hadn’t left?”

Seungcheol slung a backpack over one shoulder, hair slightly damp, a faint sheen on his skin like he’d been working in the garage. He looked relaxed in a way you rarely saw outside the race track.

“Had a few things to wrap up,” he said. Then he glanced at you. “Why haven’t you left yet?”

You nodded toward the rain. “Thought I’d wait it out. Get some work done while it calmed down. But… I think I misjudged.”

He followed your gaze to the storm. Then, casually “I’ll drop you off at home.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh no, that’s okay. I already booked a taxi.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cancel it. No point wasting your money when I’m offering it myself.”

You stared. “But–”

“No buts,” he said, grinning now, the kind that made his dimple flash. “I’ll be in the parking garage.” And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you stunned under the glass awning.

And, that's how you ended up in the front seat of his BMW, waiting for the signal to turn green. The hum of the engine barely audible over the drumming rain. The windshield wipers moved in steady rhythm, clearing arcs through the downpour. The A/C was on low, keeping the windows from fogging up.  But what catches your eye is the small picture tucked neatly beside the central console.

“Is that you?” you ask, pointing to the picture of a small boy in a red toy car. Seungcheol let out a short laugh. “Yeah. My first ride.”

You smiled. “You’ve been driving your whole life.”

He leaned back slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the steering wheel. His voice dropped, softer now. “My dad used to race. Nothing big. Amateur circuits. But he talked about it like it was sacred. Even after he gave it up.”

You stay quiet, letting him go on.

“He had this old kart. Kept it in the shed behind our house. I think I was…four? When he let me drive it. Couldn’t even reach the pedals properly.”

You smile a little. “Did you crash it?”

He huffs. “Into a fence. And a bush. And almost my mom.”

You both laugh— soft, genuine.

He shakes his head, lips twitching. “But I didn’t stop. Every weekend after that, I was out there. Practicing. Pushing. Getting yelled at for tearing up the yard.”

You note how relaxed his posture’s become, the way his voice has settled into something low and fond.

“Got serious around fifteen. Left school early. Trained wherever I could, worked side jobs, picked up sponsors. Didn’t care about anything else. Just… getting fast enough. Good enough.”

There’s a pause.

And then, quieter “Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t make it.”

You glance up from your notepad.

He’s not looking at you— his gaze is somewhere else, far away. But you can feel the weight of that question hanging between you.

“You did make it,” you say softly.

That brings his eyes back to you.

And for the first time, you see it — the person beneath the helmet, beneath the legacy and the wins and the walls. A boy who raced because he loved it. A man who never stopped.

He doesn’t say anything. The signal turns green.

But he holds your gaze a little longer than usual, before looking straight and driving.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

Your room looked like a tornado had hit it. Clothes were scattered everywhere, your suitcase bulging so much it would take brute force to zip it shut.

“Yah! What’s all this mess?” Mina, your roommate slash bestie appeared in the doorway, a glass of lemonade in hand. She eyed the chaos, stepping over a pair of jeans to place the glass on your cluttered dresser. “Are you going away for ten days or ten years?”

She bent down, scooping up a shirt from the floor. “Is this all for your prince charming?” she teased, raising an eyebrow at you.

“He is not my prince charming,” you shot back, holding up another dress from your wardrobe and checking your reflection to see if it flattered you.

F1 was hosting a race in France, and naturally, Seungcheol and the team were going. So when your boss called you into her office with a mischievous smile and said something like, “We need raw, behind-the-scenes action. The lead-up, the aftermath. You already know them—you’re the only one who can pull this off,” you didn’t really have a choice.

“Well, it didn’t look that professional last week when he dropped you off,” Mina said, her voice lilting. “You two seemed pretty cozy. Didn’t take you to be the PDA type. Hugging and all, huh?”

She folded another shirt before her eyes widened. “Wait—isn’t this my top?”

“Yeah, it looks good on me,” you said with zero guilt. “Also, since you’ve found it, can you please put it in the suitcase? Thanks.”

“I’ll forgive you this time. After all, you’ve got to impress your prince charming.”

“He is not my—ugh! Whatever. Also, I’m going there to work, not to date.”

“I never said anything about dating,” she said, grinning as she walked out.

You flopped onto the bed with a sigh.

Yes. Yes you were nervous. But not because of him— well partially. This trip was a big deal for your career. A chance to show what you could do outside the controlled setting of HQ interviews and edited footage. You were going to capture the team raw— tense, driven, exhausted, and elated. You were excited… and also maybe, spiraling, just a little.

Of course Seungcheol would be there. Lately, the two of you had been… closer. After that conversation in his car, things had shifted. Now you both ate together in the canteen. You’d catch him waiting outside your office so you could walk together. Sometimes, he even dropped you off at home, no explanation needed. Seungkwan, ever the agent of chaos, was definitely having fun being a witness to all this. He texts you in the middle of lunch “OMG!! I give it 2 more lunches before he starts feeding you from his spoon” or “CHIVALRY OR WHAT!?” when Seungcheol opens the soda can for you.

It’s not like you were in love or anything… Obviously not. But you liked having him around. You liked the ease that had started blooming between you. The way he made you laugh without trying. The way you felt seen, in rooms where no one usually looked twice. And this trip… maybe it would change something between you. You weren’t sure what. But you hoped— that it would be something good.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The hotel in Le Castellet looked like something out of a period film. Ivy-covered walls, tall wooden shutters, cobblestone paths damp from morning drizzle. You pause in the lobby, suitcase handle in one hand, the other clutching your phone with the itinerary pulled up. The air smells faintly of citrus and fresh flowers.

Seungcheol walked a few steps behind you, dragging his duffel bag along the polished floor. His hoodie’s still bunched around his elbows, and his hair is tousled from the flight.

He stopped beside you, glancing around at the old-world chandeliers and exposed stone walls. “Fancy,” he mutters, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

You nod, letting out a breath. “Feels too nice to be covered in race fuel by the end of the week.”

That earns you a small laugh from him. It’s easy. Unforced.

As everyone begins collecting their room keys, you hang back to avoid the crowd. Seungkwan’s already texting you: don’t take too long u two… they’re gonna run out of good rooms ;)

You roll your eyes. Just then, Seungcheol appears beside you again, a key card already in his hand. He leans slightly toward you, voice quiet.

“Hey. What room did you get?”

You show him the slip from the front desk. He glances at it, then tilts his head. “Next to mine.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “I asked the guy if he could put the team close. Just in case, y’know, media stuff or whatever.”

You don’t question it. But there’s a pause. A moment where neither of you move, the buzz of the lobby fading a little.

He eyes your suitcase for a second, then reaches out without a word and takes the handle from your grip.

You blink. “I could’ve managed, you know.”

He shrugs, already steering it toward the elevator. “I know. But I was right there.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it lingers. You trail a few steps behind, watching the way his hand rests casually on the luggage, like he’s done this before. Like he’s just... quietly decided he’ll look out for you now. When the elevator dings open, he holds the door for you without looking, but when you step inside, you catch the faintest smile on his face.

__

You sit cross-legged in your robe, unpacking your suitcase. Toiletries to the left, clothes (mostly folded, some not) to the right, and an increasing pile of “why did I even bring this?” building at your feet. You're halfway through deciding if you packed too many dresses when a knock sounds at your door.

You frown, glancing at the clock— almost midnight.

Padding over, you open it slowly.

“Seungcheol?” you blink, surprised to see him standing there in a grey hoodie and joggers, hair a little tousled like he’d been rolling around on the bed for the past hour.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I couldn’t sleep. Was wondering if you’d be up for a walk.” he says meekly “I would have asked Seungkwan but umm.. He seems to be sleeping, you know, maybe all that jet lag caught up to him. He lets out a little laugh. “I just hoped you wouldn’t be sleeping. Didn’t mean to bother you, though.”

“You’re not,” you say, amused. “Just give me a second to change.”

—

“You walk like you own the place,” you tease, taking a spoonful of the butterscotch gelato he insisted on getting for you from “the best place in town.”

“I kind of do,” he says, mock serious. “This is my fourth year racing here. I know every late-night gelato stand within a three-mile radius.”

“Oh, so you’re a connoisseur,” you grin.

The cobbled street underfoot winds gently along a row of quiet shops. Most are closed at this hour, but some still glow faintly with warm light. A bakery with pastel tiles. A souvenir shop with tiny Eiffel Towers on the window. The breeze is cool, enough to make you hug your arms lightly.

“You ever come here just for fun?” you ask.

“Never had time. Always training. Or recovering.” He shrugs. “It’s weird, though. Walking around with someone. Like this.”

You glance at him. “Good weird or weird weird?”

He smirks. “Still deciding.” You laugh, and in retaliation, give him a light shove on the arm. He stumbles dramatically, clutching his gelato like a wounded soldier.

“You almost killed it,” he gasps, holding it high.

“Oh no, the tragedy,” you mock.

Just then, a gust of wind picks up, catching strands of your hair and blowing them into your face. You brush them away with a frown– and then feel his hand, unexpectedly gentle, brushing the rest back. His fingers pause briefly, tucked behind your ear.

The street noise fades a little. It’s quiet. Just the two of you standing there, his hand still resting lightly against your hair, his eyes on yours. He’s close enough that you can see the tiny mole on the left side of his forehead— just below the hairline, the way his expression softens when he’s not trying to look unreadable. His thumb shifts slightly, like he might say something— but doesn’t.

Then, slowly, he lets his hand fall away. “We should head back,” he says, voice low.

You nod, heart thumping a little faster.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You are supposed to be filming the pit crew rotation this morning.

Nothing fancy— just clean b-roll for the docuseries team. Angles of tire changes, gloved hands passing tools, that low, satisfying whir of drills and radio chatter. The kind of footage that’ll get sliced up and paired with voice-overs later. But your camera drifts.

Just a little. Not enough for anyone to notice, maybe.

You were framing the rear wing of Seungcheol’s car— looking for reflections in the carbon fiber— but your lens catches something else. A flash of motion just outside the frame.

You pan left instinctively. And freeze.

He’s near the edge of the garage, talking to one of the engineers. Laughing at something. Really laughing— head tilted, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes all crinkled at the corners. The sun sneaks in through the open garage door behind him, casting a soft halo along his jaw, catching in his lashes, warming the brown in his eyes.

And for a second, you forget what you’re doing. You just watch.

The way his nose scrunches a little when he smiles too hard. How his hands move when he talks— animated, open. The little dimple that appears even when he’s not doing anything particular.

God. He’s pretty.

He’s beautiful, actually. Not just in the way he looks. In the way he carries himself. In the way he makes people laugh. In the way he made space for you— even when he didn’t have to.

Your chest feels tight. Your grip on the camera slackens.

He glances up, mid-conversation. Catches your gaze across the garage. And smiles. Like he sees you. Just like that.

You inhale softly. Your heart is doing something weird–fluttery and slow all at once.

Oh.

Oh no.

You love him.

It settles in your bones quietly— without panic, without denial. Just this quiet, solid truth. You love him.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

Today was the cocktail event organized by the F1 committee — a chance for teams and media to mingle, but not really work. You were invited, so you decided to treat it like a night off. Get a little buzz from champagne or maybe flirt with some cute French waiters. You were totally not thinking about Seungcheol.

You decide on a black sleeveless dress with subtle ruching along the waist, featuring an asymmetrical hemline trimmed with sheer ruffled fabric— which you also ‘borrowed’ from Mina.

As you walked into the softly lit room, the low murmur of conversations and clinking glasses wrapped around you. The moment you approached Seungkwan and the group of boys, you could see the surprises on their faces. “Whoa… you look amazing,” Seungkwan said, barely able to hide the surprise on his face. 

Seungcheol was standing a little further, his mouth slightly open as if caught off guard. He didn’t say anything at first— just stared at you, a quiet awe in his gaze. Then, clearing his throat, he finally spoke, his voice low but sincere.

“You look beautiful.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You turned to meet his eyes, and the warmth in his expression made your cheeks flush. “Thank you,” you whispered, feeling suddenly shy under his quiet attention

You and Seungcheol found your seats at a round table near the center of the ballroom, surrounded by teammates, media personnel, and a few sponsors. The table was decorated simply— white linens, small floral arrangements, and glasses filled with champagne and sparkling water. Despite the elegance, the atmosphere felt a bit stiff and rehearsed.

The announcer’s voice came over the speakers, crisp and polished, welcoming everyone to the event and thanking sponsors and teams. The speeches went on— a few heartfelt words about sportsmanship, the future of the sport, and the importance of media coverage. But you and Seungcheol exchanged glances, both fighting the urge to tune out. The words felt like white noise beneath the clinking glasses and polite laughter.

Around you, conversations buzzed— some lively, some forced. People in sharp suits laughed a little too loudly, posed for photos, or whispered in corners. The cocktail party was starting to feel crowded, the space shrinking as more guests arrived and the music swelled.

You shifted in your seat, glancing around for a breath of fresh air. Seungcheol’s brow furrowed slightly, and before the moment could become overwhelming, he leaned over to you.

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

Curious, you followed him out through the double doors and onto the balcony. The cool night air was a relief, calm and quiet except for the distant murmur of the party behind you.

He pulled two flutes of champagne from a waiter’s tray as they passed by, handing one to you with a small smirk. “For emergencies,” he joked, the tension in his shoulders easing.

You clinked glasses softly and took a sip, the bubbles tickling your throat. Seungcheol swirled the champagne in his glass, eyes fixed on the bubbles rising. “You know,” he said, voice low, “it’s kind of nice to get away from all that noise. Sometimes I forget how exhausting it all is.”

You smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, the speeches and formalities are... not exactly the highlight of my day.”

He glanced up, a teasing spark in his eyes. “I bet you’d rather be somewhere else.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But here we are. And honestly, I’m glad you dragged me out here. This feels... different. Calmer.”

He shifted a little closer, the warmth from his body suddenly very noticeable. “Different can be good,” he said. “Sometimes the best things happen when you least expect them.”

You looked up at him, heart skipping. “Like what?”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Like finding yourself standing on a balcony, sharing champagne with someone who’s been in your head more than you’d like to admit.”

Your breath hitched. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Maybe,” he whispered, voice thick. “Or maybe it’s just me.”

You laughed softly, but the tension in the air tightened. Your eyes lingered on his lips, and suddenly the space between you felt charged, electric.

Your conversation slowed without you really noticing, and the space between you got smaller. His eyes flicked to your lips, and yours moved to his. His hand rested on your hip, steady and warm. You could feel the heat between you. Everything else seemed to fade away.

Just as you leaned in, about to close the gap, a sharp clink broke the moment. One of the champagne glasses slipped from the railing and smashed on the ground below.

“Shit! I’m sorry” Then after a moment he removes his hands from your waist. “I– I think we should head back.”

You give a small nod, hard enough to mask your disappointment.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You’d been avoiding Seungcheol like the plague.

Ever since what happened three nights ago— the almost-kiss, the silence that followed— you hadn’t found the courage to face him. Not properly. Not without your heart skipping a beat and your words getting stuck somewhere in your throat.

And Seungcheol? He tried. You could tell. Like the time you were in the garage with the engineers, taking notes on wing configurations. He’d walk over, hands shoved in his pockets, hovering like he wanted to say something. But you didn’t even give him the chance— you mumbled something about needing to check a file and slipped away before he got a word out.

Then there was lunch the next day. You saw him enter the cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning the room. You ducked behind a vending machine until he sat somewhere else.

And earlier this morning— when he held the elevator door open for you— you pretended to be on a call, turning away so fast you nearly bumped into a potted plant.

It wasn’t that you were mad. Or even embarrassed, really. It was worse than that. You were unsure. And that feeling scared you more than anything.

Unfortunately for you, the team is having their free practice session and lap formation today, and you just happen to have to be present to record them.

The paddock was buzzing, the distant roar of engines reverberating through the asphalt. Team members bustled around, heads down, radios crackling. You stayed behind the camera rig, half-hidden behind one of the monitors, using the equipment as a shield — both from the sun, and from Seungcheol.

You could see him in your periphery, suited up in his practice gear, leaning against a stack of tires, talking to one of the mechanics. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was slightly damp– from sweat or water, you couldn’t tell. Every once in a while, he laughed at something someone said, teeth flashing, head thrown back.

And you hated it– how your stomach flipped, how your skin warmed, how your fingers twitched on the camera button. You needed to focus. This was work. Just footage. Just documentation– and it will all go back to normal once you get back to korea and finish the documentary. 

“Y/N!” someone called. The assistant director waved you over. “Can you help me get a few close-up shots of the drivers before they head out? Starting with car seventeen.”

You swallowed hard. Car seventeen was Seungcheol’s.

You hesitated. He was already walking toward the car, helmet tucked under one arm, gloves dangling from his fingers. And just your luck— he looked up right then.

This time, you didn’t look away fast enough.

Your eyes locked. Just for a second. But something shifted. His brows pulled together slightly, gaze steady. Like he was done pretending not to notice the space you kept putting between you.

You took a deep breath and walked toward him, camera clutched like a shield. Before you could raise it, he spoke.

“Are you gonna keep doing this?”

You blinked. “Doing what?”

“This,” he said, voice low. “Avoiding me. Ducking out of elevators. Hiding behind vending machines like we’re in high school.”

You winced. “I wasn’t hiding–”

“You skipped lunch three days in a row,” he continued, stepping closer, the words gentle but firm. “You left the garage the second I walked in. And this morning? You couldn’t even meet my eyes.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deflect—but nothing came out.

So he tried again, softer this time. “Y/N… why?”

You were quiet for a beat too long.

And then it just tumbled out.

“Because I love you,” you said. The words hung in the space between you, raw and sharp. “I avoided you because I love you.” you repeat, your voice softer now.

He froze.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper now. “And I’m scared. Because maybe you don’t feel the same. And if I keep being around you, if you keep being this version of yourself with me—kind, thoughtful, close— I’ll start hoping. I’ll start thinking maybe there’s something real here. And I can’t afford that. Not when I’m the only one who feels it.”

Silence. Just the faint whir of drills and the distant chatter from the paddock.

Then—his hand reached out. Found your wrist. His touch was warm and grounding.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” he said, eyes locked onto yours. “Y/N, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the day you walked into HQ. And after that night on the balcony, do you really think I haven’t been going just as crazy as you?”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped even closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “Don’t run. Not from this.”

For a moment, everything slowed— the noise of the pit fading into the background, the tension between you easing into something softer, something real. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes warm and steady.

The PA crackled over the loudspeakers, announcing the start of the race lineup. Reality tugged you both back, but neither moved away.

“See you after the race?” he asked, his voice low, hopeful.

You nodded, already knowing you’d be counting down the minutes.

___

The sun was brutal.

The stands were packed, a blur of flags and roars and camera flashes. The smell of rubber, asphalt, and heat hung thick in the air as the teams scrambled for final checks. Mechanics swarmed like ants, tightening bolts, checking tire pressure, calibrating sensors. Overhead, a helicopter circled the track, catching aerial shots for the broadcast.

You were posted near the pit wall, camera hanging from your neck, a comm in your ear buzzing with static and updates.

But your eyes— they were on Car Seventeen.

Seungcheol sat behind the wheel, helmet on, visor down. From this distance, you couldn’t see his eyes, but you didn’t need to. You knew his routine by now— the way he leaned back and rotated his shoulders before a race, the way he tapped the steering wheel twice before the formation lap, how his fingers curled like he was anchoring himself.

The lights went out and Seungcheol launched off the grid like a bullet, tires spinning for half a breath before catching grip. Ahead, three cars jostled for position— he was P6, boxed in, the track narrowing into the first corner like the eye of a needle.

He stayed wide. Braked late. Too late, almost.

The car twitched as he dove into the corner, threading between two rivals. A puff of smoke, a lock-up— someone behind miscalculated— but he was clean through, emerging in P4.

By Lap 7, the front runners were bunched tight. Every straight was a drag race, every corner a standoff. The car ahead swerved left— blocking. Seungcheol feinted right, then cut back with precision, catching the slipstream on the long straight.

He pulled out at the last second. Side by side. Gear shifts slammed. Wheels inches apart. At 310 km/h, he edged forward, took the inside line— and held it.

P3.

The car behind didn’t let up. On Lap 10, it was payback. Seungcheol saw it coming too late–brakes flashing, the other driver dove from the outside. They nearly touched through the apex, Seungcheol forced wide, dust kicking up under his tires.

He dropped to fourth, but not for long.

Next lap, he studied the braking points— waited for the tiniest mistake. It came at Turn 9: a late apex. Seungcheol threw his car down the inside like a blade, tires skimming the curb, just enough grip to stick it.  Sweat clung to his neck. His gloves were soaked, hands still steady on the wheel. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Eyes locked on the two cars ahead.

Lap 17. The second-place driver ran deep into the hairpin— barely a car length ahead.

Seungcheol didn’t hesitate.

He switched the diff, went full attack. The rear twitched under him as he accelerated early. The grip held. His nose was inside by the next turn. The two cars touched wheels lightly, metal brushing metal— but he didn’t lift.

By the time they hit the main straight, Seungcheol was in second.

Now it was just one left. And he wasn’t giving it up easy.

The last five laps were hell. DRS opened. They swapped places twice. Once, they went three corners side by side— wheels locked, tires screeching. Seungcheol braked into the final chicane from too far back, but he held it— just barely. The rear of the car squirmed, traction dancing on the edge of disaster.

Final lap. Final sector.

He was ahead. Just a few tenths.

The last turn came up fast — he didn't brake early, didn’t lift. He trusted the car.

The tires screamed, the G-forces crushed his ribs — and then, he was out of the turn, full throttle, crossing the finish line.

First.

His hands shook as he unclipped the wheel. The car slowed, the crowd a blur, but none of it landed. All he could think about was one thing—

He’d won, and you were there.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The room is buzzing— reporters crammed into every row, microphones armed, flashes going off like fireworks. Seungcheol has just won the race. He sits at the center of the table, sweat still glistening at his temples, race suit half-unzipped and collar tugged loose.

He should be talking about tires. About strategy. About the last-minute overtake that made the crowd lose their minds.

But his eyes flicker to you every other second.

You’re standing off to the side of the room, barely visible to the press, heart pounding from more than just the win.

A reporter asks him about the final lap.

Seungcheol answers smoothly. “It was tight, but I knew what I had to do. I’ve never wanted something more in a race.”

Another reporter chimes in, “You seemed... different out there today. Sharper. More emotional. Was something motivating you?”

He pauses.

And then, right there, with a thousand eyes watching him and the world on record—

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, voice steady. “There was.”

A small smile pulls at his lips as he glances toward you.

“There’s someone,” he continues. “Someone who’s been behind the scenes since the start of the season. You might not see her in front of the cameras, but she’s there. Always. Working, filming, noticing things no one else does.”

You freeze.

“She’s smart. Sharp. And the most annoying person when she wants to be.” His grin grows, softer now. “She’s also the reason I’ve been driving like I’ve got something to prove.”

A ripple goes through the crowd.

“I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what this feeling was. But I know now. And I don’t care if this is the right place or the wrong one—I just know I want her to hear it.”

He looks directly at you now.

“I love you.”

The room goes still.

You feel your pulse in your ears, the words still ringing "I love her. That’s all."

Seungcheol exhales slowly, nods once, and pushes back his chair. The screech of it against the floor cuts through the stunned quiet.

He rises.

And then—chaos.

“Seungcheol! Are you saying you’re in a relationship?”

“When did this start?”

“Was it before the season began?”

“Is she part of your team? Are you worried about the backlash?”

A dozen voices rise at once, microphones shoved forward, cameras flashing like lightning.

But he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t stop.

He just gives a tired half-smile, dimples ghosting his cheeks, and lifts a hand in a calm, deliberate gesture. “No further comments.”

That’s all he says.

And then he walks off the stage—unbothered, sure-footed, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of a press room. Like the whole world hadn't just tilted.

And somehow, with your heart still thudding and your throat closing up, all you can think is: he said it. Out loud. To everyone.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You were waiting for him outside his hotel room, heart pounding a little more than you expected. You’d slipped away from the paddock, too eager not to be the first to congratulate the winner.

The elevator door clicked open, and there he was— still flushed from the race, a slow smile tugging at his lips when he saw you.

“That was some race, sir,” you teased, stepping closer, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “You really kept us all on edge.”

“Finally decided to stop playing hide and seek, ma’am?” Seungcheol leans his hand on the wall beside your head.

Your breath caught, heart thudding harder at how close he was. You matched his smirk, teasing, “Had to make sure you didn’t escape after all that you pulled today.”

His eyes darkened, that familiar heat flickering between you both. “Good. Because I’m not done yet.”

Before you could answer, his hand slid from the wall to your waist, pulling you closer. 

He reached for the door handle, his fingers brushing yours ever so lightly. The quiet click of the door felt loud in the charged silence between you. Inside, the dim light softened everything— the subtle scent of leather and cologne wrapping around you. Seungcheol didn’t move away. Instead, he closed the door slowly, turning to lean against it, eyes locked on yours.

His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until the heat of his body pressed gently against yours. His hand slid from your waist up along your ribs, tracing slow, deliberate circles that sent shivers down your spine.

He didn’t break eye contact as he leaned in, pressing his lips softly to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer without hesitation. When you parted slightly, the kiss deepened. 

His hands slid down to your lower back, gripping you firmly. Your fingers found the bottom of his shirt, trembling as you tugged it up and over his head. His bare skin pressed against your palms, warm and solid.

A low groan rumbled from his throat as you kissed down his jaw, then you moved your hands to the buttons of your blouse, undoing them quickly. The fabric slipped off your shoulders, leaving you exposed to his hungry gaze.

You backed toward the bed, dragging him with you by the waistband of his jeans. He followed, lips never leaving yours, his hands roaming everywhere — your waist, your hips, your thighs like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first.

You gasped as the back of your knees hit the bed. He took the cue, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you just enough to lay you back, following you down with a low groan. You reached between you, undoing the button of his jeans as he kissed your collarbone, the scrape of his teeth making your back arch

“God, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered against your skin, voice rough and low. His hand slid between your legs, cupping you over your underwear. You whimpered, hips rolling into his palm.

Your clothes came off in a tangle— your skirt pushed up, your bra unclasped, his jeans kicked away. It wasn’t graceful. 

You could’ve guessed his size from the way it outlined his briefs. You tugged him closer by the waistband of his briefs, but he paused, forehead resting against yours, chest rising and falling fast.

“Wait,” he murmured, reaching into the nightstand. You watched, heart pounding, as he grabbed a small silver packet and tore it open with practiced ease, all while his eyes stayed on yours.

When he finally eased into you, you gasped— fingers tightening on his back as your body adjusted to the stretch.

“God…” you breathed, head falling back against the pillow.

He groaned against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Fuck— you feel like heaven.”

He gave you a moment, just holding still, his hands framing your waist before he began to move— slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs.

Seungcheol had been relentless, his focus locked on the way your back arched beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him in with every thrust.

“Cheol, faster,” you gasped, the plea tumbling out between moans, your nails digging into his shoulders. He responded with a deep, guttural groan, snapping his hips harder, deliberate, forceful—sending shocks through your entire body.

“Fuck baby,” his sharp eyes flicked down to meet yours, a glint of hunger. “you’re making it hard to hold back.”

“Then don’t,” you shot back, breathless but defiant, your hips rising to meet his with purpose. His lips twitched—not quite a smirk.

His mouth found your neck with a hungry urgency, lips dragging over your pulse point before he began kissing down the column of your throat— open-mouthed, hot, and slow. You gasped when he bit down gently, just enough to make you jolt, and then soothed the sting with a languid, wet kiss that left your skin slick and tingling.

you moaned, hands threading into his hair as he sucked at the sensitive spot just below your jaw, drawing another sound from deep in your throat.

Seungcheol grunted, his grip tightened on the headboard. The force of his movements intensified— each thrust deliberate. His arms wrap around your waist and pulls you in— if it's possible anymore.

He moved lower, his tongue tracing the curve of your shoulder before returning to your neck, switching between soft kisses and firm sucks that left heat blooming across your skin. Each kiss was deliberate, each bite a mark of possession. Your hips rolled up instinctively, chasing friction, needing more.

“Cheol! I– I think I'm—” you moan out barely able to form words.

Seungcheol’s dick once again disappears into you. His thrusts get harder. “Yeah? My baby’s close?”

Every time his dick drives into you, your slick forms a ring around the base of his dick.

“Mghh so go-good,” you sigh out, tossing your head back. Seungcheol pushes his face into the valley of your bouncing tits. Each tap of his tip against your cervix had him dizzy, the overstimulation causing each muscle in his body to tense.

Seungcheol’s grip tightened on your hips as he pounded into you with unrelenting force, every thrust sending jolts of pleasure spiraling through your core. Your nails raked down his back, desperate to anchor yourself to him, to the overwhelming heat building between you.

He dipped his head, breath hitching as he nipped at the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Your back arched instinctively, pressing closer.

“Cheol…” you gasped, voice trembling with need, “I can’t hold– nghh anymore.”

He didn’t slow— if anything, his pace grew more fierce, more demanding, matching your rising desperation. His mouth found yours again, a searing kiss that stole your breath, teeth grazing and tongues tangling in a fierce dance.

Your bodies moved as one— taut, desperate– chasing the impossible thrill of release. And then— with a guttural growl, he tensed inside you, shattering the last restraint as waves of pleasure crashed over you both in a crescendo of raw, unfiltered bliss.

You clung to each other in the aftermath, breathless and trembling, the fierce glow of your shared fire still burning bright in the dim room.

Seungcheol shifted beside you, his hands warm and careful as they brushed away the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead. His fingers traced slow, soothing patterns along your skin, grounding you after the storm of sensation.

He reached for the soft towel folded nearby and dipped it into the glass of water on the nightstand. With deliberate gentleness, he pressed the cool cloth to your flushed cheeks, wiping away the sheen of sweat and the remnants of kisses along your neck.

“You’ve got marks,” he murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of admiration and protectiveness. His lips brushed over the places where his teeth had left gentle imprints, leaving you breathless all over again.

Without a word, he pressed a tender kiss to each one, as if silently apologizing and claiming you all at once.

Seungcheol’s fingers slid beneath the sheet, tracing the curve of your waist, making sure you were comfortable. Then he helped you adjust your clothes, pulling the fabric back over your shoulders and smoothing it down with care.

His hands lingered just a moment longer as he pulled you close, wrapping you in a warm embrace. The steady beat of his heart against your ear was the only sound in the room, a quiet promise that he was there, that you were safe.

“Rest now,” he whispered, voice low and soothing. “I’ll be right here.”

You sighed, melting into his arms, feeling the last traces of tension ebb away. And as your eyelids drifted closed, the world outside faded until all that remained was this— his touch, his warmth, and the quiet certainty of being loved.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

It was only day three of dating, but somehow every little thing Seungcheol did felt like a scene straight out of a movie— and you weren’t complaining.

You were wandering near the Seine, the spring breeze tousling your hair, when Seungcheol suddenly stopped and looked at you with a mischievous grin.

“Race you to that bench,” he challenged, pointing across the park.

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “You’re on.”

In a burst of laughter and clumsy running, you both sprinted— Seungcheol barely beating you and collapsed on the bench, breathless.

He nudged you with his shoulder. “Not bad for someone who claims to hate running.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you huffed. “I’m just letting you win.”

He laughed and then suddenly turned serious, eyes soft. “You know, it’s crazy how fast this feels like more than just three days.”

You blinked, heart thudding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long. “I’m already imagining all the mornings I want to wake up next to you.”

You grinned. “Slow down, Speed Racer.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, quick but sweet. “I’m just getting started.”

______________

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Tags: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna x fem!Reader, american!Reader, forced/arranged marriage, dark romance trope, dead dove, age gap romance (reader is around 21-22, Sukuna is 37), cursing, suggestive language, use of nicknames like “doll” and “kitten”, use of y/n, NSFW, MDNI, Sukuna is his own warning, description of violence including murder.

Synopsis: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna owns all of entertainment district. You’re trying to work to put yourself through law school. He has a proposition for you, and you have one for him. Chaos ensues.

An: I am so not ready to go back to school..

Part one. | Part two. | Part three. | Part four.

*art creds for sukuna image goes to @.maru6 here on tumblr

His tattooed hand felt heavy on your thigh.

It was a respectable distance from your upper thigh. Really, he was more so holding your knee than your thigh. Throughout the drive, he’d spontaneously grip your leg, reminding you that this was exactly where you belonged.

Your words were jumbled in your brain, unable to form a sentence or a coherent question. You were stuck between thanking him and asking him how he got into the staff parking lot…

You also wanted to chastise him for speeding. It was reckless and unnecessary…

The silence was deafening, but the car’s engine made up plenty for the lack of talking. You looked out the window as it seemed you two were heading to Ginza, one of the most prominent high-end shopping districts in Japan.

“You made me a spectacle in front of my professor…” You finally found the courage in you to speak up. However, your eyes could not meet his out of fear. Was this how it was going to be for the rest of your life? Walking on eggshells around Sukuna?

“Is that how you thank someone from getting you out of a clearly uncomfortable situation, doll?” His hand squeezes your thigh again, and his thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants.

You mentally curse yourself. This is the first time Sukuna has seen you outside of Malevolent Mass, and you’re wearing yoga pants and a school-spirit hoodie.

Your eyes finally look up to meet his as he’s focused on the road. “Who said it was uncomfortable? My professor was just…”

“He was only trying to take my future bride out on a date… unbeknownst to her, clearly.” He finished your sentence for you, shooting you a small amused look on his face. “And you didn’t have to say it was uncomfortable. You wear all of your emotions on that pretty little face. I can read you like a book.”

You huff, looking away from him once again. Lawyers are meant to be good a bluffing. You’re suppose to have a poker face of steel, and yet… he’s able to tell.

“How did you even get into the staff parking lot?” you ask, switching gears to a different line of interrogation.

“I know people, doll. Are you going to continue to make a fuss, or are you going to enjoy our date tonight?”

“Date?” you ask as you immediately look over at him. A crease forms between your eyebrows. You’re not in anyway ready for a date!

A deep throaty chuckle leaves Sukuna as he gives your leg one last squeeze. “You know, the outings that people in a relationship usually go on?”

“I know what a date is!” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Get all that attitude out now while you can, kitten. Once we sign this contract tonight, I have a good way to correct that behavior.”

Correct that behavior..?

Your face burns hot from the realization, and you feel your heartbeat speed up. The most confusing reaction was the small thrum between your thighs. You shift in your seat, hoping he doesn’t notice.

Sukuna puts his car in park in the middle of the street in front of an elegant looking building. Mannequins were posed in the windows, wearing stunning clothes and jewelry.

You feel yourself swallow thickly. You’re so out of place here that it hurts. You’re glued to your seat, not wanting anyone to see you like this… in fucking yoga pants.

Your future husband doesn’t seem to notice as he gets out of the car. He hands his key over to the valet driver, and from the window, it looks like they have a brief intense conversation.

Sinking back into your seat, you pull your hoodie up over your head and pull the strings taut so you’re swallowed whole by your hood.

You hear the door open up to your side, and another amused chuckle escapes from Sukuna’s mouth. “Do you really think hiding yourself means no one else can see you?”

“I’m not going in there. You didn’t warn me that you were taking me out.”

“I don’t have to tell my future bride when I crave her presence. I’m only going to embarrass you more if you don’t move.”

You stay still. You can’t walk in there. You’re not meant for this lifestyle. The people inside are going to look at you and immediately know you’re an outsider. American. Your choice of attire will only heighten their dislike for you.

Your body flinches as you feel two strong arms wrap around your figure. One of his arms cradles your back, and the other hooks underneath your legs, carrying you bridal style out of the car.

“Put me down!” You thrash in his arms.

Sukuna’s voice responds in a low growl against your ear. “Keep making a scene, and I’m not going to wait for a contract to take you over my knee, do you understand?”

Your body goes still, and you slowly pull your hood off of your head, looking at him with wide eyes as he carries you to the door. The valet driver has already gotten into Sukuna’s car, driving it off to be parked somewhere safe.

“Speak when spoken to, girl. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” you murmur back to him, conceding in the argument.

“Good girl. I didn’t take you to be such a brat.”

It was going to be a long life for you in this marriage… if Sukuna didn’t kill you first.

*** *** ***

You stood almost completely bare on a small pedestal in a fitting room while three women worked to get your exact measurements. Measuring tape was wrapped around your arms, hips, and bust.

Turns out, this wasn’t the destination of your date. This was a mere pitstop. Sukuna wanted custom made clothes for you, and he of course was going to buy something for you to wear on the date.

You were still mortified from everyone seeing you in yoga pants and a hoodie, but no one made any sort of offhand comment.

You didn’t get any “foreigner” comments. You didn’t get side eyes or flat out ignored. Sukuna’s presence was already affecting the way people treated you, even while he wasn’t in the room.

“You have such pretty skin color, miss — very healthy. Mr. Sukuna wants to see you in something red tonight. It will complement your features well.”

It didn’t take long for the ladies to drape your body in a gorgeous rich burgundy satin slip dress. Unease settled into your stomach as you noted the amount of skin peeking out from the dress.

What kind of respectable lawyer dresses like this..?

It doesn’t stop with the dress. Soon, you’re standing in black glossy YSL heels that you’ll be lucky not to break your neck in too. The sheer thought of the price tag on this outfit sends shivers down your spine.

With the amount of disposable income Sukuna has frivolously shown you, you and your dad could’ve easily lived a peaceful life nearing his death. He wouldn’t have had to have sat awake, calling all kinds of law firms and insurance agencies.

You push the thought to the back of your mind, staring down at the floor as you try to find the courage to be grateful for what you have now… for what you will have.

“Red looks good on you, angel.” That deep gravely voice breaks you from your trance. “Breathtaking.”

“Hardly something a future lawyer would wear,” you murmur, unable to figure out if you like what you see in the mirror or if you hate it. Have you lost sight in what truly matters?

“Oh?” Sukuna prompts, stepping into the dressing area further. He takes a seat in one of the chairs. This was truly like a private viewing area, where no one could bother you two.

Wordlessly, Sukuna curls his finger, beckoning you to him. He then pats his knee. Memories of sitting on his lap in the club fill your mind. It was one of the first times you felt alive — like you were truly living and not just trying to survive.

“I’m scared to sit in this dress,” you awkwardly laugh, looking at yourself in the mirror with an unsure look in your eye.

“Better get use to it, doll. We’re going out to dinner after this,” he says, continuing to pat his lap.

Letting out a sigh, you decide it’s best not to argue right now. You don’t have the mental energy to. Slowly, you take a seat on his lap, looking over in the mirror to see how his body completely dwarfs yours.

His hand rests on your hip as he too is mesmerized by your reflection in the mirror. “Looks like a future lawyer to me.”

You feel the tips of your ears and back of your neck prickle with heat. He sounds so sure of himself. No one has showed you that amount of faith before.

“I— I just meant.. not a respectable lawyer.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Lawyers aren’t allowed to feel sexy in their free time? I hate to disappoint you, doll, but we’re not going to some stuffy courtroom to eat dinner.”

Your eyebrows furrow together as you look at him. His eyes are dancing across your body with a satisfied smirk on his lips.

“I know that,” you huff. “I just don’t think this is me.”

“Oh? Was that not you who was a bottle girl in my club? Sitting on my lap? Choking on my fingers? You weren’t the angel masquerading as some lithe imp amongst devils?”

You make a move to get up from his lap. “I needed money—“

His hand snakes up your body before carefully wrapping around your throat. He doesn’t apply any pressure, merely holding you in place.

“Pretty girls like you go work at ski resorts or country clubs to make money. They don’t end up in a club called Malevolent Mass, and they certainly don’t offer themselves to men like me. Face it, angel. You’re drawn to depravity, but you can’t admit yourself. You want some excuse to enjoy all of the sick little fucked up acts your brain conjures up. You want to be known as some noble robin hood lawyer who steals from greedy corporations and gives back to the poor, but you’re not the saint you want to be.”

The sniffle that shakes your body surprises you. You didn’t even realize you were crying until one of your tears dripped off of your cheek and onto Sukuna’s hand.

His eyes slowly trail from yours down to your wet cheeks. “Such a pitiful sight,” he mutters before leaning into you.

His tongue darts out, flicking upward against your cheek as he licks the tears off your face. You hold your breath as you can feel his hardened length press against your thigh.

His warm breath tickles your face with every small tentative lick. The act is much more intimate than you expected.

Once satisfied, he presses a gentle chaste kiss right beneath your eye. “Better stop crying, angel. It only makes me want to tear into that virgin cunt so much more.”

He chuckles at the way your body tenses. You hide your flushed expression in the crook of his neck while his hand sensually strokes the small of your back.

“Also, lawyers are hired based off how good they are in the courtroom and how thorough they are in their pursuit of justice. No one hires a lawyer based on what they’re wearing, so get that thought out of your head.”

You meekly nod, unable to use your words after he just gave you such whiplash. Sukuna was truly an enigma.

*** *** ***

Domain Devour was a modern style restaurant with dark and moody decor. The lighting was low, and the walls were painted a rich satin black. Priceless art pieces hung from the walls.

There was a mostly empty back room which contained half-circle booths that were clearly built to entertain.

You could imagine Sukuna bringing his men here and them enjoying some of the… entertainment.

The staff were overly accommodating if not weary of you and Sukuna. It dawned on you that this was another one of Sukuna’s establishments after one of the waiters called him boss.

How many businesses did he own exactly? You were starting to wonder if Sukuna had monopolized the entire Entertainment District.

“The usual. Cook whatever the lady desires,” Sukuna grunted nodding towards you.

Your eyes widened a little bit as an awkward laugh bubbled in your throat. “Oh— I uh, don’t have a menu. I’m sorry-“

Sukuna can’t help but grin from your polite nature. “You don’t need one. Just order whatever you fancy, and the kitchen will make it happen.”

Decision paralysis struck hard. You could have whatever you asked for? Your fingers fumbled together as you tried to even remember what your favorite food was.

“You know, I’ll just have whatever he’s having,” you finally reason, nodding back towards Sukuna. You didn’t want to cause the kitchen any sort of bother by putting in an order for something they didn’t have.

The waiter’s eyes widened slightly. “Are you sure about that, miss?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed at the staff member. “Did she fucking stutter?”

“No! No— Of course not. I’ll have that right out.” He scrambled his way back to the kitchen to get away from Sukuna’s scrutinizing glare.

You were planted rigidly in your seat, staring at the table not wanting to be the reason that some poor waiter lost his job.

“I don’t tolerate insolence. He wouldn’t have questioned me or any other patron about their choice in meal, so he shouldn’t question you either.”

You don’t even know what to say, so you sheepishly shrug your shoulders. “The customer isn’t always right.”

The corner of Sukuna’s lips twitch up into a smirk. “Such a clever girl, but you’re not a mere customer to him.”

That sentiment makes you squirm a bit in your seat. You always wanted to be respected by people, but you didn’t want to be feared like Sukuna is.

“So.. the contract,” you mention, sipping on your water to cure your dry throat.

“Straight into it, huh? No room for typical date conversation?”

You immediately open your mouth to say that this isn’t a typical date, but you think better of it. Why are you in such a rush to sign your life away to him in some form of contract?

“I’ve never been on a date before, so I guess I wouldn’t know what to talk about on one.”

That makes Sukuna’s eyes light up with a twisted sense of amusement. He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table to get closer to you. “Is that so? This is my bride’s first date ever?”

You hate the way a simple nickname makes you face flush with embarrassment. You silently nod in affirmation.

“How adorable,” he taunts while his eyes roam your figure for a moment. “What do you think you and the professor would’ve talked about if he had taken you out?”

“That wasn’t a date,” you scoff in protest, turning your head away from him as you remembered just how he presented to your school.

“Oh, but it was in his mind.” He takes a drink of the champagne he ordered earlier. “You’re just unaware to how men think.”

“Enlighten me then.”

Your defiant gaze and sharp words only seem to make Sukuna more amused. “In his mind, he was going to take you out to lunch. He would probably answer all your questions about law and whatever else your nerdy heart desires. Then, he’d offer to keep the date going by heading back to his place. Perhaps he would say it’s to look over one of your recent papers or he could show you something like his dissertation. However, once you were in his space, he’d see it as a sign that it was safe enough to take things further. It starts with small touches and gradually becomes more bold. Judging by the way he had his hand so carelessly on your back, I would say that he would’ve quickly escalated.”

Your mouth is slightly agape. No way was your professor going to do any of that. It was a harmless invitation to lunch, right?

“You don’t know him. He’s not like that,” you mutter, a crease forming between your eyebrows.

“Oh angel, you’re so naive. I may not know him, but I know how men like him think and where their intentions lie.”

“If we weren’t here to sign a contract, what would your intentions lie?” you ask, frowning at your future husband.

Sukuna actually looks off kilter for a moment. You managed to catch him off guard, but his face quickly smooths out to his default amused look. “I do not shy away from my intentions, doll. If I wanted nothing more from you, I’d already have you in my bed. No. Perhaps I wouldn’t even bring you to my bed, I’d have you in the basement of Malevolent Mass. As soon as I was finished using that cute cunt, I’d leave, and you’d probably never see me again.”

A strange tight feeling settles in your chest. How many women has he had in that way? He said it like it was second nature to him. Was he at Malevolent Mass that day to do that exact thing with some other girl downstairs? Had he just finished up downstairs and decided to stop by your booth for a drink?

Then, it hits you. Sukuna originally proposed a free use deal to you — not marriage. He had not always intended for you to be his wife.

“Jealousy looks cute on you, angel.” He grins, soaking in ever small line of your clearly frustrated face.

“I’m not jealous,” you grumble, taking another sip of your water.

A rich chuckle leaves Sukuna’s lips. “I didn’t know my wife was such a liar. You’re sitting there thinking about just how I was able to rattle that answer off without much thought.”

You tighten your jaw, hating how he was taunting you right now and hating how right he was. “We’re here to talk about specifications of the contract, right? I don’t want you sharing a bed or whatever surface you use with some other woman while you’re sharing a bed with me.”

A meek voice sounds next to you. “I uh.. have two lamb dinners..?” the waiter says as his face is burning red. He definitely just heard you say that, and now you’re face is also burning up.

Sukuna barks out a laugh. He loves seeing people squirm from embarrassment. First, you get jealous over him which makes his cock ache with the need to reassure you. Then, you go on to angrily lay out a rule against sleeping with other women right in front of the waiter. It’s truly the cherry on top for this night.

You’re sulking as the plates are put down in front of you and Sukuna. Then, you’re unable to stifle your surprise. No wonder the waiter second guessed you for ordering this. The plate itself was bigger than your head.

The plate was piled with mashed potatoes slathered in gravy. On top, several lamb chops sit that have been delicately cooked just right. Fresh stalks of green beans also sit to the side, and as if that wasn’t enough, a basket of rolls were also brought to the table.

Your eyebrows slightly furrow as you realize this isn’t any sort of Japanese cuisine that you would’ve expected. You take note of the fork, knife, and spoon carefully rolled up in a napkin next to your plate.

While you’ve been raised around Japanese customs and food options, your dad also cooked dinners that were reminiscent of comfort foods from the west. Seeing silverware sent a dull ache in your chest.

“So? My angel doesn’t like the thought of me sleeping with other women?” Sukuna’s grating voice ruins your nostalgic trip. You glare up at him, remembering how you just made a fool of yourself.

“It’s disrespectful and unhygienic,” you reason with a bit more bite to your voice than you intended.

Sukuna can’t wipe the shit eating grin off his face. “Careful doll, your jealousy is showing again.”

“Shut up,” you snap, stabbing into your food and taking a bite. Your anger is quickly soothed from the myriad of savory flavors in your mouth. You’re barely able to dampen the moan that expels from your body.

Your future husband bites back the amused laugh from your blatantly pleased sounds. He knows that if he teases you, then you may stop eating, and he doesn’t want that.

“There is no other woman who I’ll want to accompany my bed, doll.” He cuts into his lamb chop, taking a bite for himself.

The sincerity in his voice makes you pause for a moment. Flickering an uneasy gaze up to him, you quickly shake away any feelings threatening to bubble up. This is merely an exchange.

“I assume you have stipulations you’d like to add?”

“Always so perceptive.” He puts down his utensils, and his gaze weighs heavy on you, demanding you to give him your full attention. He only continues once your gaze meets his. “I enjoy your defiant nature and independence, but there are things I get the final say on such as your safety and our future heir’s safety.”

You swallow thickly, wondering how far he’d take that rule. Would he start telling you what you can and can’t do? What you can eat? Who you can see and speak to?

“Beyond that, you’re blindly stepping into a world you know nothing about, angel. Thus, if I say the word ‘enchain’, you are to immediately obey me without question or thought. Do you understand?”

Sukuna expected your immediate refusal. He knew that was a big thing to expect of you, and it went against your very nature.

“No, I— I don’t understand. What situations would you need me to do that? I thought you said you’d keep me out of your livelihood..”

“I will keep you as far removed from my livelihood as possible, but my livelihood may find you whether I want that or not. Surely you understand the risk you’re agreeing to.”

You close your eyes, trying to sort through your thoughts. It was giving him so much power in the relationship — too much for your own peace of mind.

“You could misuse it…”

“I very well could, but where’s the fun in that? I already said I enjoy your mouthy attitude and the way you cry and squirm in my lap. Why would I take such joys away from myself?” He gives you a sharp grin.

“You won’t use it to make me hurt anyone or…?” you ask, still running possibilities through your mind of why he’d need to control you for an undisclosed amount of time.

“No angel. I won’t have you do anything that goes against your morals.”

You take a deep breath. You’re really committing to a trust fall here with this entire agreement. Though, he is also taking a gamble. You could cross him and turn him into the police if you wanted.

“Okay,” you breathe with a small nod. “We’re exclusive. I’ll remain a virgin until our wedding then I’ll… be of free use. You’ll support me and our future children after law school. I’ll get to use your last name to my benefit, and you’ll protect me at all costs from your livelihood.”

“And you’ll obey me about your safety and surrender yourself to me if I use our word,” Sukuna adds, his voice taking on a more serious tone.

You nod, signaling you understand.

“That’s not enough, doll. Say it. Say you’ll obey and surrender yourself to me.”

“I’ll… I’ll obey you when it comes to my safety, and I’ll surrender myself to you if you use that word with the clause that you can’t make me do anything against my morals.”

“Good girl,” your future husband purrs before he snaps his fingers once. The waiter from earlier comes barreling towards the table.

“Yes boss?” he pants, looking frightened out of his mind.

“Bring me the contract.”

You’re not even sure if you feel surprised when the waiter somehow brings you the contract that Sukuna intends for you to sign to set your agreement in stone. The devil works hard, but Sukuna’s a different beast entirely.

Your eyes carefully read each and every word. You know damn well not to sign your name to something you haven’t read.

You expected to find some sort of fine print or something that Sukuna had “failed” to mention, but everything in the contract was already verbally agreed upon by both of you.

“You’re going to take ownership over my debt as well?” you ask, looking up to meet Sukuna’s gaze.

“You’ll be my wife, will you not? Combining finances is typical of normal marriage,” he reasons with an unbothered shrug. “I promise you, angel. Your debt is the least of my concerns. It’ll be taken care of within the first week after our wedding.”

You sigh, continuing to read on. Everything seemed to be in order until you read the last clause.

“I’m to stay in the guest room until we’re officially wed?”

“That’s for your comfort. You’re more than welcome to share my bed before our wedding, angel. Just don’t cry when my body responds to you.”

You face flushes as you picture sleeping next to Sukuna. You can’t imagine someone as tough and hardened as Sukuna sleeping peacefully.

“I’ll stay in the guest room, thanks..”

He gives you an unbothered shrug. “You may change your mind. Who knows?”

You roll your eyes as you pick up the pen the waiter left behind. There was no way in hell you’d seek out Sukuna’s bed before you had to. You’d sooner start doing drugs.

Both of you are silent as you sign your name and date on the line. You pass the contract to Sukuna, and he signs right below your name.

With another snap of his fingers, the waiter was right beside your table once again. Sukuna gives him an expectant gaze.

The waiter nods nervously and fishes in his coat pocket for a moment. Your breath hitches as you wonder if Sukuna is going to make a scene out of some sort of proposal.

When you see the box that’s passed to Sukuna’s hand, you feel a bit of relief, noting that it’s too big to be a ring.

“Calm down, kitten. You and I are alike in our disdain for gaudy public gestures,” Sukuna chuckles as he stands up next to the table. “Allow me to put it on you?”

You nervously nod, wondering just what kind of gift he was giving you.

You turn your back towards him, pulling your hair to the side as he places the necklace around your neck. It was a short petite golden chain. Even while the chain wasn’t heavy, you could tell it wasn’t some fake metal from the grocery store. He was putting real gold around your neck.

You reach up, touching the chain as Sukuna is busy putting it on you. Your fingers find a small golden S charm, undoubtedly to mark you in his initial.

Noticing it’s taking him too long to work a simple clasp, you laugh softly. “Need any help back there?”

That’s when you feel the cool metal of pliers against the back of your neck. Your body goes rigid for a moment, wondering what the hell Sukuna was doing.

Your body is tugged backwards as Sukuna loops his fingers through your fully clasped necklace, pulling you towards him. He leans over your back, his breath ghosting against your neck.

“Let this necklace serve as a reminder that you are mine now, angel. Day in and day out. You can’t take this off like you can’t get away from me.” His lips gently brush against the delicate skin between your shoulder and neck, causing you to shiver before he steps away.

Your heart is beating wildly in your chest. Your hands automatically go up to where your airflow was slightly restricted by the necklace, and you tug on it forwards this time. The gold remains strong, biting into your skin instead of snapping. You then search for the clasp with your fingers, finding that there is no such thing.

This bastard just collared and marked you with a permanent piece of jewelry.

“Now, be a good little wife and close your eyes and cover your ears.”

“Why would I—“

“Don’t make me tell you again.”

Your eyes widen as your breath stutters in your chest. Everything was moving so quickly. What had you just signed?

You close your eyes tightly, already feeling tears of fear dampen your waterline. Your hands come up and cup your ears.

“Good. Slide over to your left, angel. Towards the wall.”

Doing as you’re told, you slide over in the booth towards the wall. Your arm presses against the cool wall before your entire body flinches.

BOOM!

A gunshot fires off right next to you. You try to silence a scream as you double over out of fear. Your eyes fly open just in time to see Sukuna aiming a handgun but not towards you.

You cringe as soon as you hear a thud. Your future husband just shot a man dining right behind you.

So much for not being brought into his world.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah @lizatonix @starmapz @everywonuu @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @depressiondiaries @t4naiis @hishearttohave @soraya-daydreams @lulunx @s-1-xx @el-lise @prettyngeto @marifujioka @iheartlinds @gina239 @actuallynarii @shxyxyxxxx @krispycreamepie @emoedgylord @nina-from-317 @pandabiene5115 @paintedperidot @dissociativewriter @lmaoshush @ninani-nanina @sadrna @boisenberry77 @tojifush @erwinawesomeness @meanwhilesomewhereelse @safasz @kassfunk19 @moncher-ire @gradmacoco @riahlynn-102 @diduzzula @juiceeypeach @kunasthiast @jinxiewritings @mordacioust @rinofcike @therealjustpeachesback

[humanjarvis]

call it what you want

synopsis: when you visit a gathering of childhood friends, they’re wary of you and caleb’s relationship. and while you take it in stride, he takes it to heart. 

tags: fluff, angst, heart to heart, happy ending, calebmc judged by childhood friends for their relationship, mc withstands it but caleb withdraws, barely yandere caleb, he does watch mc when they’re apart though, caleb breaks somebody’s teeth with his evol, calebmc relationship depicted as the jumbled up mess that it is, there’s not really pseudocest though, calebmc are each other’s first kiss, caleb is insecure, mc comforts the hell out of him, references to caleb’s mental illness, allusions to sex. inspired by “call it what you want” by taylor swift  pairing: caleb x fem!reader, reader is mc word count: 8.1k (woah!)

a/n: behold my thesis on the intricate siblingfriendpartnership of calebmc. it’s the best thing i’ve written and i’m so glad. but also this has ended up doubling as my 2k followers special 🎉🎉🎉 that is an unfathomable amount of people subjecting themselves to my writing and i’m seriously so grateful. thank you for motivating me to create! anyway, i truly hope you get something out of this, but even if you don’t, i’m proud of it 💞

“C’mon, pip-squeak. We can't ignore it forever. I’m here now, and I'll be right by your side. All those bad memories…you won’t have to face them alone anymore.”

“I know. And I’m glad. But still, it’s…different now,” you smile weakly, failing to suppress a heavy sigh. 

Caleb was in Linkon for the week, having put his foot down about his well-earned time off. And you, having gotten used to the constant Fleet interruptions, had gone the extra mile to make him unreachable: locking his communicator in your bedside drawer. 

After three days of making new memories—you’d ticked the movies, the zoo, and a concert off your list—his love for nostalgia had finally gotten the better of him. He’d set his sights on reminiscence, and all morning, he’d been pestering you to visit your old neighborhood. Where your childhood home had once stood.

“We can just take a look around. Five minutes, tops. Aren’t you curious about that old playset you used to drag me to? Always made me spot you under the monkey bars in case you fell. I’m sure they miss you,” he teases, hope shining in his ametrine eyes. 

And as you picture it—the iron bars of the jungle gym, now rusted with time; the grayish, well-traveled cobblestone streets; the wild honeysuckle bushes scattered around the block—you know this is a battle you can’t win. 

“Fine,” you huff. “But you’re driving.” 

“As if I’d refuse. And hey,” he softens, grabbing your arm gently. “If it’s too much, let me know. We’ll come back right away.” 

***

Your stomach roils as familiar street signs come into view.  

Green lawns and picket fences. Symbols of safety you could no longer trust. 

Humming along to an old pop hit on the radio—a valiant attempt to distract you—Caleb turns into your neighborhood, and you clench your teeth involuntarily. 

Luckily, you don’t have too much time to worry. Because seconds later, he pulls over a few houses from home and puts the car in park. 

You sit for a moment. Watching. Breathing.  

Thinking of how the last time you came here, he was dead.

“I’ll race ya,” he says suddenly, shutting the engine off and throwing his door open. And with a strained chuckle, you follow suit.

You lose on purpose, slowing your steps the closer you get to Gran’s house. You know he can tell.  

But soon, you run out of room to stall. 

As you stand beside the “FOR SALE” sign, feeling like a stranger, the freshly polished wood and foreign color scheme deepen the pit inside your stomach. 

Caleb whistles lowly. “Sure looks different, doesn’t it?”

But you’re not listening. You’re remembering. 

You remember the smell—the charred scent that stuck with you for so long after the explosion, your nostrils blistered from too much blowing. The way ashes fell endlessly from the sky, and you didn’t know what—or who—they were made of. The last-minute salon visit you’d had to schedule to chop the singed ends of your hair off. 

“C’mon. That playground is just this way,” he offers, coaxing voice saving you from too much rumination. 

“Okay,” you whisper, sliding your hand into his.

It was an age-old lesson, one you’d learned a hundred times: summer heat and monkey bars don’t mix.

As you flinch away with a startled hiss, Caleb casually pulls spare gloves from his pocket—as if he kept them on him for a situation like this—and carefully slips them onto you. For someone whose hands dwarf yours, they fit suspiciously well. 

“Up you go,” he sings, lifting you to reach the handles. And just like all those years before, he walks beside you as you cross, steadying you with his gentle touch. 

When you reach the end, instead of jumping down, you shift your momentum to swing backwards, skater dress twirling with the motion. 

But as your front faces the street again, you realize your mistake a moment too late. 

“Oh my gosh, is that who I think it is?!” 

As a vaguely recognizable voice squeals, you freeze in place, hands squeezing around the iron bars in a death grip. 

“Oh, it totally is! You haven’t come around here in forever—it’s so good to see you!” the voice continues. 

Turning your head—slowly, like the main character in a horror film—your eyes land on an all too familiar figure. Sarah, a girl around your age you used to envy for her toy collection, stands just feet away from you, long leash corralling a massive German Shepherd held tightly in her manicured hand. 

With two light taps on your back—Caleb’s signal for you to come down—you loosen your hold and land almost gracefully on the pea gravel below. 

This was a situation you’d only been in once before. When Gideon had crossed paths with you at the cemetery and learned his dead friend was, well…not. 

In any case, the circumstances then had been rare enough for you to carry on without establishing a protocol. And now, as you stand at the mercy of someone with no reason to keep Caleb’s secret, you’ll be forced to improvise. 

“Hi…Sarah,” you grin awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Thought you’d have moved by now.”

“Nope!” she chirps, not catching your apprehension. “We’re gonna give it one more year. After my husband saves up from his new job, we want to travel a bit before settling down.” 

You nod brusquely. 

“By the way, we haven’t really seen you here since the accident. I’m so sorry about your grandmother and Caleb—I know how close you two were. But—oh! Excuse my manners,” she pivots, looking behind you as if a lightbulb flicked on overhead. “Who’s th—”

Sarah’s tanned face blanches. 

“Hey Sarah. It’s been a while,” he greets casually. 

And the woman in front of you looks between you both as if she’s seconds away from siccing that dog on you. 

“You…caught us at a bad time,” you giggle nervously. “It’s kind of a secret, but…that was a…false report, after the explosion. Caleb actually managed to flee the area with a few burns. The authorities just kept the whole thing under wraps in case it was a targeted attack, or something. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since!” you smile tightly, squeezing his dry palm with your clammy one. 

“Oh…well…what a relief, I guess!” she chuckles uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re not laying too low, Caleb,” she starts, extroverted nature beating out her rationality, “we’re having a get-together with all the neighborhood kids tomorrow! You guys should totally come. We’d hate to miss our favorite duo—you were always so funny, nagging each other like siblings.” 

You bristle at the term, gripping Caleb’s hand so tightly it could bruise. “Um, thanks for the offer, Sarah, but we…” you trail off, looking at him to help you. 

“We’d love to come!” he doesn’t. 

“Uh, we…would?” you question, perplexed by his sudden enthusiasm. 

“Yeah, why not, pips? It’d do you good to reconnect with some of the girls you liked hangin’ around. Plus, I’ll be right there with you,” he smiles brightly. 

Though his reasoning barely quells your anxiety, your heart softens at the gesture.

“Alright, then,” you turn to Sarah. “We’ll be there.”

The old mall down the block is halfway through renovations. 

Neon orange construction cones litter the parking lot, and every door but the main entrance is sealed off with yellow caution tape. 

Navigating through the weekend traffic, you and Caleb wander through the swarming, noisy corridors, leaving store after store empty-handed. 

You don’t know what to wear. 

Meeting so many people after such a long time…there’s an irrational need to impress, to look like you have your life together.

And somehow, every outfit seems off on you. It’s not false advertising—the mannequins are gorgeous as ever. But there’s something about you that ruins every look. 

As you rummaged through different displays, Caleb had done some light hovering—staying near, but letting you do your own thing, overall. 

But as you return another dress to the rack with a frustrated growl, he swoops in to put his scary intuition to good use. 

“This would suit you,” he grins kindly, brandishing a pastel blue sundress. “Wanna try it on?”

You eye the fabric skeptically. It’s not your usual style, but you take it into the dressing room anyway. 

And of course, the first thing Caleb picks out for you is perfect. 

“Told ya,” he laughs when you call him inside, back hugging you in the mirror. “You look beautiful. ‘Course it helps that it was my idea, and all.”

Swatting him gently, you giggle as you try to push him out of the cramped space, grunting with annoyance when he sandbags you. 

“Get out of here!” you protest. “We still have to find your outfit, and the mall closes soon.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he relents cheekily. “Snap a picture for me before you take it off, though, alright?”

***

Once you’d paid—or he’d paid, having levitated your purse in the air while you scowled at him—you’d dragged him over to the men’s section, where you’d found an outfit just his size with a similar color scheme.

He’d preened when you held it out to him, puffing his chest out with pride at the fact you knew his tastes so well. And in his sparkling eyes, you’d spotted a flicker of possessiveness as he looked between your clear garment bag and the clothes in his hands, not so subtly comparing the blues to each other. 

And evidently, with the way he’d refused to even try anything on before heading back to the register, he’d been satisfied. 

As you make your way back to his car, Caleb tugs you in by the waist to claim your lips in a tender kiss. 

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “It’ll be perfect. And even though we’ll be matchin’…I get the feeling you’ll be the one people can’t look away from.”

Caleb’s hand is on the small of your back as you step through Sarah’s front door, but it leaves you as he encourages you to mingle. “Go catch up,” he urges with his signature grin. 

You know what he’s doing. What this whole thing has been. A way to push you out of your comfort zone, a prolonged apology, and a promise to be less overbearing, all in one.

He needs it just as much as you do. Needs you to know that he’s trying. So as you nod softly and make your way through the throng of laughing faces, you hope he sees you trying, too.

Sarah’s parents had both been lawyers, and if the diplomas lining the far wall of the living room didn’t make that clear enough, the sheer size of their house sure did. 

The layout is vaguely familiar—Caleb had been friends with her older brother, and you’d practically begged him to tag along on playdates so you could see the fancy house down the street. 

As you take it all in—the flat screen TVs (plural) broadcasting different channels, the iridescent streamers lining the bannisters, the variety of appetizers spread out across the first floor—you only grow more envious. 

Turning away with a petty huff, you focus on the people instead. As you study faces new and old, you wonder how many guests here brought their partners. How many know that you brought yours.

Sarah—ever the gracious host, never the gossip—had informed the attendees about Caleb’s situation in hopes that he wouldn’t be bombarded the second he stepped inside. And it was working, somehow, as far as you could tell. Aside from a few wary glances sent his way, people greeted him just like they did before: as the golden boy whose presence was a gift. 

At some point, as you’d hovered aimlessly by the drink table, a girl you remembered fondly had strolled up to you. Marley, her name was. With her lively eyes, kind smile, and eagerness to play dolls with you, she’d been your closest non-Caleb friend in the neighborhood. 

“Who would’ve thought the girl next door would grow up to be a hunter, huh?” she jokes, gently elbowing your ribs. 

“It’s really not that special,” you laugh, halfheartedly dodging her pokes. “Just something necessary, I guess, since the Wanderers came. I thought it’d be cool, high-stakes action movie stuff every day, but I kinda feel like a firefighter saving a cat from a tree sometimes.”

“Oh, please. You’re practically a superhero! Caleb, too, being a whole pilot and all. Time really flies—I still remember when he helped you set up your lemonade stand that one summer,” she giggles. “You were always so in sync.” 

“Still are,” you smile softly, gaze subconsciously finding Caleb from across the room. He's chatting in a group of his old buddies, but as always, it’s like he can sense you looking at him. His eyes find yours in an instant, as if he already knew where you were standing—because of course he did—and he shoots you a boyish wink.

“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” Marley hesitates, her eyes shifting perplexedly between you. “Are you two…together…now? You seem even closer than you were as kids, if that’s even possible,” she mutters sarcastically, talking from the side of her mouth. 

As the question hits you for the first time that night, you plaster a big, fake smile on your face. “We sure are! It was five months last week.” 

“Well, congrats, I guess,” she tries to exclaim, but her confusion stunts her sincerity. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…I never expected you guys would date! You always seemed more like…ah…friends,” she cringes, her own fake smile twitching slightly.

Friends.

As the word fights its way out of her mouth, likely beating several less polite alternatives, the weight of her hesitance is not lost on you.

“Friends, huh?” you echo, and your smile is real this time. A show of your teeth, a hint that she’s just entered dangerous waters. “What kind of friends grow up in the same house, Marley? Raised by the same person, and all. Pretty rare if you ask me,” you cock your head in mock contemplation. “C’mon, what do you really mean to say?”

You’d been taught well. 

“Okay, okay!” she huffs, folding like a lawn chair under the pressure. “I always thought you were like siblings. Thought you guys thought you were like siblings. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” you nod curtly. “You lived next door, not with us. You don’t know how we felt about each other.”

Your voice is robotic as you meet her with a deadened stare. No matter how much you’d expected it, no matter how much you’d prepared, the judgment catches you off guard. 

The rumors, the gossip—it’s one reason you thought Caleb would decline the invite. To protect you, if nothing else. But with a bitter, inward laugh, you guess that him trying means letting you be in situations you might’ve begged him to shield you from.

“I need some air,” you decide suddenly, interrupting Marley’s frantic apologies to turn toward the door. “It was nice catching up.” 

A cool breeze kisses your exposed skin as you watch the fireflies blink from the patio. And as beautiful as they are, glittering in the night sky, there are other things on your mind at the moment.

If Caleb was ever a brother to you, he was the best brother anyone ever had.

You’d seen the way your friends acted with their brothers. Always kept a watchful eye on their interactions, as if comparing their relationships to yours. Middle school, high school, college.

And over all those years, no brother had ever been as attentive—as doting, as patient, as loving—as Caleb. 

After the explosion, when you were left to deal with your feelings alone—no nagging, oversized puppy to distract you—you’d pondered how you saw him. Deep down, under the structure and order and propriety that was forced upon you too young. Regretted that it was too late to ask him how he saw you. 

And if those quiet nights crying so hard it felt like drowning had taught you anything, it was this: as much as Caleb was brotherly, he had always been more—so much more than what he had to be to you.

He could’ve shut himself in his room for hours, leaving you to fend for yourself. He could’ve ghosted you the minute you no longer went to the same school. Could’ve found a girlfriend, had kids early, and moved his real family far away from you. All these things, you’d seen happen.

But through it all, Caleb had stayed, and he’d done it with his signature smile. Even when you’d worried he’d outgrown you, had outpaced you with his stellar achievements, he’d just pinched your cheek with a fond grin. Who d’ya think I do all that for, silly? he’d laughed. 

By your reunion, when he’d stared down at you so cruelly, you’d known what he was to you. The only man you’d ever loved, in all meanings of the phrase. That’s why it had hurt so much. 

And Caleb had scared you off. Your feelings were fragile, only newly realized. But his…were developed. Intense. More intense than you were ready for, coming from someone who’d been off-limits for 15 years. 

So you’d resisted. Resisted his spiraling admissions, resisted the feelings you knew he had for you, resisted his frantic attempts to steal you from the world. 

It would take time for you to accept a love like his. You’d told him as much five months ago—that you needed to meet in the middle. And he’d promised to try. 

As the days went by, you got used to treating him like a lover. To putting new meanings behind every touch. And every time you kissed him, he carved out more of his own paradise in your mind, escaping the liminal area he’d occupied in unfulfilling restraint. 

It was only in moments like this when prying eyes and hushed whispers wore you down. People who thought that, because they knew you once—for a summer, for a semester, for a school year—they knew who you were and how you felt. But there was something paradoxically mercurial about you and Caleb: the more you stayed the same, the more you changed. And only the two of you were privy to it. 

Even still, some leers and questions got to you, just as they had tonight. Apprehension and a resented sense of shame had filled your gut, as if you’d been “caught” stealing from your own wallet. 

But of all the things Caleb was to you, only one mattered: he was yours. And as a firefly lands on your outstretched palm, twinkling beautifully in the darkness that threatens it, you know no one can take that from you. 

Caleb had had better nights. 

He’d had worse, for sure—agony and loneliness come to mind—but he’d definitely had better. 

He’s spent this one mingling among the names he hadn’t cared to remember, all as an attempt to show you he won’t cage you in. You can have fun, have friends outside of him, as much as the thought makes his stomach churn. 

And what better way to start than with people he already knew? Baby steps.

As he cranes his neck to find you again (which shouldn’t be hard, since he just has to look for the one dressed like him), he vaguely registers an incessant buzz of a voice talking his ear off. Jared, he calls himself. 

“Anyway, I can’t believe you did that to her. That’s fucked up, man,” the voice says, clapping Caleb’s back with an obnoxious chortle. 

And as much as he needs to find you, Caleb really wishes he’d spared some of his attention for the homunculus beside him. 

“What exactly are you implying?” he asks lowly, lifting the hand from his shoulder with a firmness that any sober person would find threatening. 

He’s almost certain you’re not in the room, now, your calming presence lost in the sea of discarded memories. Alarms sound in his head at the realization, only to be drowned out by something more damning.

“It’s just…you grew up together! Had the same grandma. That's like your sister, dude. But you know what, to each their own. The way she looks, I can’t say I would've held myself back any better than you did. Probably worse, man. Matter of fact, you fucked her y—?”

The force of Caleb’s Evol clamps Jared’s mouth shut.

And, if his muffled yelp is any indication, hopefully breaks a few of his teeth, their bloodied chips settling on his tongue.

“This sorry excuse for a conversation is over. Leave. Now. And if I see you talking to her on your way out, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to again.”

Jared nods fearfully, and after one last snarl, Caleb lifts his Evol, albeit begrudgingly. It takes Jared a few seconds to notice his newfound freedom, but the moment he does, he’s scurrying out of the house. Good. 

You’re back in Caleb’s sight, now. But as he takes in your shy smile, the faint melody of your laughter filling his keen ears, he doesn’t feel the comfort he normally would. 

Instead, he feels his dog tag. 

Your precious gift to him. A symbol of how you needed him, of your anticipation that he’d always be in your life. Of his hope that one day, you’d return his feelings. 

He recalls the once comfortable weight, the way his body heat would flow into the cool metal, linking it to him in a warm embrace. 

The chain now burns against his throat.

Jared had been brash.

Crude, crass, and certainly cocky, thinking he was deserving of you. 

So as Caleb watches you chat among a mixed group of guests, swirling his full cup in agitation, he decides he doesn’t care about the delivery. It’s the content that troubles him. 

Because Jared, in his drunken state, had managed to hit a nerve Caleb had tried to sever five months ago. 

Are you sure you want this? he’d asked you shakily. Want it from me? With me?

And in clear confirmation, you’d claimed his first kiss.

But even still, the thoughts lingered at the back of his brain. That he was tainting you, taking advantage of you, stealing your life away. 

He knows Jared isn’t worth the scum beneath his shoe, but those unsavory thoughts made his own worries resurface. 

And as fickle as his mind was, he’d only ever known to trust it. 

So when Caleb sees you beam at another man’s compliment, glowing like you’d been sent from heaven itself, he feels like maybe he’d been right.

For the rest of the night, Caleb dreaded the drive home. Luckily, you’d slept for most of the way back. 

But as he parks outside your building, gently rousing you from your sleep, the feeling returns in full force. 

“Good morning,” you giggle, stretching drowsily. “Sorry I fell asleep on you—I can’t remember the last time I talked that much. Did you have fun?” 

“Something like that,” he says, popping the driver’s door open. “You?”

“I did, I think,” you start, opening your own side and sliding out of his car. “I really did. It was a little rough at first, but it got better. What about you? Anybody try to stab your brains out? Since you’re undead and all.” 

He chuckles dryly. “Not exactly.”

As you trudge toward your apartment, Caleb trails behind you. You’re so dazed, you almost don’t notice it. But you miss the familiar warmth of his left hand.

Your tired fingers quiver as you fail to unlock your door, and with a gentle nudge, Caleb slides the key in for you. 

Mumbling a “thank you,” you step through the doorway, making space for him to follow. When he doesn’t, you turn to face him, frowning lightly in confusion. Gleaming in the moonlight, the metal threshold separates your feet: yours on the inside, his on the outside. 

“I’ve been called back to Skyhaven. It’s nothing too serious, but I’ll have to cut this visit short. Don’t worry about me.”

The words pierce your chest like a dagger, but his cold delivery twists the knife.

“Oh,” you breathe, not knowing what to do or where to look or how to hide your disappointment. “I didn’t know they had any way of contacting you. Your communicator’s still in my nightstand, you know,” you quip lamely. “But I guess four days has to be enough this time. I’m lucky to have gotten that.”

Smiling weakly, you lean in to kiss him. But with his sudden reservation, the moment is more chaste than you’d intended. 

As he starts to turn away, you instinctively grab his hand. “Are you…is everything okay? You’re being weird,” you whisper, eyes searching him in concern. 

“No I’m not,” he retorts, forcing life back into his voice. The weight of his hand ruffling your hair feels wrong, somehow, and his airy tone is a contrast to the darkness in his gaze. “Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

Caleb never thought the jewelry box you’d left at his place would come in handy. 

He had no use for it—the only piece he truly needed to preserve stayed looped around his neck at all times. 

But as he stares at the silver chain hung carefully on a hook, its ruby-crested apple dangling in the evening sunlight, he silently thanks you for your forgetfulness. 

It’s been two days since he returned to Skyhaven, but the events of that night remain fresh wounds in a fragile mind. 

I can’t believe you did that to her.

I can’t believe you did that to her.

To you. Not with.

As if his love was an assault. 

All his life, Caleb had tried to show you only the good sides of him. To tamper down his intensities so you’d eat from his palm. You were a skittish thing, failed one too many times by an inadequate world. So he’d approached you gently, practicing docility until it became second nature. To keep his eager hands from defiling you. 

He’d molded himself into whoever you needed him to be, never admitting what he wanted to be to you. All so you would tolerate him, want to keep him around for his services, if nothing else. Because as much as he claimed to protect you, your safety was his anchor. If you were loved, warm, and unharmed—if he kept you that way—then every consequence was worth it. 

He’d learned to live like a chameleon, his temperament matching your mood. And as much as a forgotten part of him yearned for identity, it was a role he’d settled into playing—until his weakened back had snapped under the pressure. 

When you’d confessed that you felt the same—that you loved him in more ways than the one you should—he’d deluded himself into thinking those years of restraint were over. That he could stop watching over you and start walking with you. That you would fall from propriety hand in hand. 

He’d never thought himself naive. Always launched himself ahead of the curve so that would never be an option for him. Naive was something someone with his responsibility couldn’t afford to be. 

But now, as his lifeline swings back and forth on its new perch, jingling with what could only be mockery, the feeling swallows Caleb whole. 

It would’ve killed him to see you with someone else. He’d had nightmares about it every month, save for the last five, ever since he was a teenager. But even if you chose to live with someone else by your side…at least he would have gotten to see you do it. To watch you be happy, carefree, without you wondering if it was your right to be. Without the guilt of robbing your life from you, tainting your purity with his sin.

He knew you were wary. You’d gotten better about it—at hiding it, at least—but he could still feel the panicked clench of your hand in his when someone looked at you too long. You were trying, for him, just as he tried for you. But if trying meant the unfiltered scrutiny that Jared had spewed could one day reach you, it wasn’t worth it, he decided. 

You deserved more than the headache he’d give you. 

***

The days drag on. 

Caleb’s vacation ends as little more than purgatory, and when he dons his Colonel uniform once more, the Fleet’s affairs feel his presence now more than ever. 

He’s sharper now, meaner. Mistakes that would usually earn a light slap on the wrist now end in termination. Figurative or literal, the recruits aren’t sure. 

He knows he’s spiraling. He hears the whispers: “The Colonel’s finally lost it” met with “As if he ever had it.” But rebuke from any voice but yours doesn’t reach him. 

During flights, he plays his missions a little less safe, making rash decisions sure to end in incident, eventually. He justifies it, in his head, by thinking that maybe an injury would inflict upon him the suffering he deserves. 

He’s been drifting, lately. Through the hallways, through the streets, through space. 

But aimless as he is, Caleb can’t bring himself to desert you completely. Those 15 years of gentle servitude had become so ingrained in him, he thinks a total cutoff would only make him more reckless. So he pacifies you with brief, polite answers, sharing none of his usual charm and emoticons. This flighty, diluted version of himself was all that he could offer. 

But each day, when Caleb stumbles back into the necessary solitude of his house, wheezing with overexertion, he heads straight to the hidden room where you’d discovered his bionic arm. Where, under dark wooden panels, a row of monitors hide. 

Their feeds are clear as they’ve always been. Your cubicle, your route home, your front door, your kitchen. Your bedroom. 

And until he succumbs to exhaustion, Caleb watches you. 

Watches you sift through reports, eyes open but unseeing. 

Watches you stumble on the way home, your foot catching on a stray root that he would’ve spotted in time. 

Watches you crumble, after a while, and curl up on the side of your bed where he always slept. 

Watches until the rhythmic rocks of your crying body lull you to sleep in place of his heartbeat.

As the clock strikes midnight, you complete your count to 23.

It’s been 23 days since you’d received anything more than a one-word response from Caleb. 

At first, you’d given him grace—thought he just wasn’t feeling well. He was always one to withdraw from you when sick, locking himself away for a while before emerging like nothing happened. 

But even then, he was never this curt with you. He always reassured you that he was okay.

Days passed, and the mysterious illness theory flew out the window. As you fired off another concerned text, all but pleading for him to say something, you wondered if he was mad at you—but what could you have done? Not to mention that when he was mad at you, it usually ended with him apologizing, somehow. It’s always Caleb’s fault, huh? he’d cooed at you, rubbing your back tenderly. I’m sorry, baby. 

Something was just…wrong. Terribly, scarily wrong. And whatever it was, you had to figure it out alone.

With a frustrated growl, you snatch your phone up from its place on your nightstand and scroll to your latest messages, hoping he’s decided to take you out of time-out. 

you: hi. i know you’re probably sick of me asking, but can you call when you get a chance? haven’t heard your voice in a while.

>:( : later.

Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing.

You want to scream. Want to hunt him down, grab him by the collar, and thrash him around for being so difficult. But as your gaze flits to the photo on your desk—a silly selfie you’d taken on your first official date—your heart constricts from how badly miss him. 

You miss him so desperately that the pain in your chest is worse than when he left for college. At least you’d known he would come back to you, then.  

As hot tears well in your eyes—far from the first time—you remember the words he’d written to you once, never intending for you to read them: “Any man who makes you cry isn't worth your time,” you repeat, snorting softly at the irony.

But unluckily for him, Caleb wasn't any man.

Any man wouldn't braid your hair from childhood to now, never teaching you to do it yourself because he wasn’t willing to give up doing it. Any man wouldn't skip the senior trip he’d saved hundreds for just to nurse you through a stomach bug. Any man wouldn't dedicate half his life to making sure yours was painless. 

So no, Caleb wasn’t any man. He was smart, skilled, and devoted. He was reliable, doting, and selfishly self-sacrificing. He was the reason you’d grown up so well, always wanting to make him proud. And he was yours.

Tugging harshly at the roots of your hair—a habit he’d always tried to break—you pace around your bedroom like a frenzied animal.

You were going to go to him, that much was obvious. To ambush him and make him explain what you’d done for him to discard you like this. To apologize, if he’d hear it. 

But how, if he wouldn’t give you the time of day? The man lived in a giant sky fortress, for God’s sake. And with his neverending suspicions, it wasn’t like he trusted any other members of the Fleet enough to give you their contact informati—

Except, you interrupt yourself, freezing mid-step. He did.

Liam.

Caleb’s faithful adjutant, the one you’d spoken to—or spoken at, while he looked at you unnervingly—just a handful of times.

Sometimes, bad ideas are the only ones available.

Retrieving your phone from where it lies face down on your rumpled blanket, you scroll and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, where Liam’s name stares back at you forebodingly. 

Steeling yourself with a shaky nod, you press call and wait with bated breath. He answers on the second ring. 

“Miss, may I ask why you’re calling? Are you in any trouble?” his deep, dispassionate voice, devoid of any true concern, rings out.

You swallow thickly before trusting your voice enough to sound as anything more than a pitiful squeak. “I-I have Caleb’s communicator,” you maneuver skillfully despite your nerves. “He left it at my apartment. Can you take me to him? So I can give it back.”

“You’d be better off turning it in to one of our administrators. The Colonel is very busy right now and—”

“Take me to him, please,” you repeat stubbornly, raised voice echoing off ivory drywall. 

“Miss, I'm only allowed to speak with you if you’re in immediate danger. I'm under strict orders not to facilitate any interaction with the Colonel.”

He’s going to hang up soon, you panic. And then your only chance is gone. 

A flare of anger heats your skin as you realize you don’t have an appointment to see your own boyfriend. The one who can pester you and break your boundaries with a barely apologetic smile, but shuts you out the second you try to do the same.

Channeling your tears from earlier—they still line your eyes, after all—you sniffle into the speaker. Desperate times… 

“What do you think will happen when I tell him you made me cry? You won’t be under any orders anymore,” you bait him quietly, relying on the fragile hope that Caleb was still as fiercely protective of you as he’d been before. 

The pregnant pause on the other line tells you you’d succeeded. “I…” he clears his throat. “Please arrive at the Skyhaven airport at your earliest convenience. I'll be there to take you to the Colonel.”

When Liam’s aircraft lands on the familiar floating island, you rush out with a muttered “thanks” and jam your thumb onto the sensor.

But as the doors slide open and you stomp inside, the silence you’re met with tells you Caleb isn’t home. 

Sighing heavily, you survey your surroundings: the spotless kitchen, barren like it hadn’t been used in weeks; the dust collecting on his most-used surfaces; the tray on the coffee table, missing its usual array of apples. Had he been eating? Had he been coming here at all?

Your worries carry you through the other rooms, but none hold the answers to your questions. 

And as you step into his bedroom, the place you were most likely to find a clue, you wish you hadn’t. 

Because there, hanging tauntingly on a familiar looking jewelry box, is Caleb’s dog tag. The chain he never went without. 

The ache in your chest becomes a gaping void. 

Blood rushes to your ears and makes them ring so loudly that you can’t hear the despondent noise you make. On unsteady feet, you lurch farther into the room and lower your trembling body onto the mattress. 

As you stare at the mahogany jewelry box, looming mockingly on the dresser, you think the walls spin around you. 

In all the years you’d known Caleb, he had never been one to just give up—so what about you was so condemnable that it finally made him?

He wasn’t here to answer. 

So you take the chain for what it is: resignation. Eviction. 

It feels like you shouldn’t be here anymore. Like you’re an intruder in a sacred space. Like maybe you shouldn’t have even made it in, but he just hadn’t had the time to axe your thumbprint from the system yet. 

You need to leave. That much is clear. But here, stranded in the sky, you don’t exactly have a getaway plan. 

Without the leverage of Caleb’s love, you doubt Liam would take too kindly to being threatened again, just hours after the first time. 

As fruitless minutes tick by, it’s clear that waiting is your only option. But as you curl up in the center of the bed, chest heaving with labored breaths, you no longer anticipate Caleb’s return. 

When your eyes blink open in the dead of night, you know he’s there before you see him.

The air in the room feels different. Heavy and charged, like just before a thunderstorm. 

Anything could happen when you face him. But he’s deprived you of so much lately, that at least something would. 

Shoving the thought to the front of your mind for motivation, you raise your head to find him in the darkness of the room, lit only by a lone streetlight. 

And the sight of him makes your stomach drop.

Caleb, uniform torn and tattered, slumps against the wall closest to the bed, eyes closed and head lowered. 

A smear of blood paints his cheek, and as you zero in on it, you notice the eyebags so dark they look like bruises. Like he hasn’t slept in days. 

But even with his eyes closed, you should know by now that you don’t have the time to ogle him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers hoarsely. 

“Where else would I go?” 

And those violet irises find yours. 

“Do you regret it? That you have nowhere else to go?” he asks softly, bloodshot gaze searching your huddled form. Checking, like he always did. 

No is your immediate answer. But you figure you should ask him first. That way, when you say it, he might actually believe you. “What?”

“Do you regret what I’ve done to you?” he elaborates, voice dropping near the end. 

The explanation doesn’t help. “What have you done to me, Caleb?”

He winces at the phrasing, though he knows it’s not an accusation. 

Cocking his head cynically, he lets a hollow chuckle escape. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that party. Guess that’s what I get for trying.” 

“What are you talking about?” you probe, shifting to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“What’s wrong with me,” he mimics, “is that I’m trying to stay away from you. For your own sake.” 

“You weren’t there to see it. Hung up in another room, or outside, or something. It was the only time I lost sight of you,” he recalls bitterly. “And this guy started mouthin’ off about how fucked it was for us to be together. Said I was sick for the things I must’ve done to you.” 

A sliver of understanding eases the tension in your muscles. But you need to hear it from him. “And you believed him?” you ask, eyeing him warily. 

“It wasn't him who I had to believe. I already knew. Have known, for a while now, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t. The way I thought my hands deserved to touch you—it’s a sin, isn’t it? One you shouldn’t have to carry. That’s why I left—so you could live a life unburdened by me.” 

At his words, an all too familiar irritation stirs within you. Alongside sadness that he’d thought it best to feel this way alone. 

Pushing forcefully off the bed, you kneel between his knees, gripping his bloodied face between your hands. “Who said you had permission to leave?” you ask lowly, and you hear his voice in yours. 

“I asked you what happened that night,” you continue. “More than once. And I'd have listened if you told me. Would’ve been there to tell you that none of it mattered. But you said it was nothing—another way to protect me, I guess. And then you left me on my doorstep, wondering how I’d hurt you.” 

Caleb’s mouth drops slightly, but you don’t let him interrupt. “When you said you would try, you overlooked one thing. Part of trying is considering how I feel. Like when I saw your necklace—how do you think I felt? I thought…you didn’t want me anymore. That you’d decided I was too big a burden for you,” you breathe, and when your voice breaks at the end, Caleb covers your hands with his.

“If your sin involves me, you don’t get to live through it alone. You pulled away from me without wondering if I wanted to be complicit. If I wanted to share it with you. You don’t get to make me a victim without asking if I feel like one. And I never have.”

He freezes at that, gazing up at you imploringly. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns his head slightly, lips brushing your wrist in a hesitant kiss. “I know—” he swallows. “I know you feel ashamed sometimes. Of being with me, now, when I was who I was to you. Even if you don’t want to be, when we go out together, I can feel it.”

“You’re right,” you nod simply, and he fails to stifle a choked gasp. “But I don’t let it change anything.”

Now, it’s Caleb’s turn to ask. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Marley?” you start softly, stroking his tousled hair. “Girl I used to play dolls with when you were too busy? She asked about us, too. And I told her the truth: we’re together, and we’re happy, and our story is ours. It’s not just your choice, Caleb. I’m with you because I want the same. I always have.” 

And as much as you know he wants to believe it, to accept it and move on, things were never that simple with him. 

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs shakily, returning your hands to your lap as if they’ve burned him. “I can't…I've only ever wanted to keep you safe. No matter who I had to be to you. And when you let me have you—how I want to, how I’d wanted to…I wasn’t strong enough to turn you away. I’m not strong enough to do what’s best for you,” he whispers with glistening eyes.

Slowly, gently, you reach out to him a second time. To splay a hand on his exposed chest, to get him used to the feeling of your touch again. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you murmur, stroking your thumb against him. “Because I think you’re very strong.” 

“I thought you were strong when you saved me from those bullies in middle school. Still remember the black eyes you gave them. When I saw that…I thought you were a hero. And I wanted to be just like you.” Pausing, you lean down to kiss his collarbone, and though he shudders, you take his pleading gaze as a sign to continue. 

“I thought you were strong when Gran got really sick, and you had to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking me to school. And you did it with a smile.” Giving him one of your own, you cradle his flushed face in your hands, stroking his darkening cheeks tenderly. Violet eyes watch you with disbelief—a reflection of six months ago, when you’d entrusted your first kiss to him. 

“And when you kissed me back that first time? When I felt how much you wanted to, how you kept it bottled up inside you for so long—I thought you were so strong,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his. “You’ve always been strong, Caleb. It’s why I love you so much.”

In time with his sharp inhale, you press your lips to his. But as large hands flex against your sides, he doesn’t respond to your touch. 

So you press harder, deeper, as if your kiss will awaken what’s dormant within him: his molten, unabashed need for you. The need that holds purity in its paradox, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And when you circle your hand around his throat, where his necklace once collared him in your name, Caleb kisses you back. 

It’s an exploratory kiss, but a passionate one. As if your reacquainted lips are making up for lost time. 

You guide him with the steady suction of your lips, and when you tug at his frayed lapel, Caleb takes the lead. 

His tongue surges into your mouth, reclaiming what he’d missed, and you moan at the welcome intrusion. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing away slightly. “Sometimes I just wonder…if you’d be better off without me.” 

“I wouldn't,” you soothe, pulling him in for a reassuring peck. “You’re a part of me. I want you wherever I am, whichever version of you will have me.”

“All of them,” he mumbles against you. “And then some.”

And as you slip his hand under your shirt, there’s no reluctance in his tender grasp. Like he belongs there. 

Soft strokes on your bare shoulder wake you as the sun rises. 

“I missed seein’ you like this,” murmurs the voice you’d missed just as much. 

“And whose fault is that?” you chide, cutting your eyes to glare up at him playfully. 

“Mine,” he concedes instantly. “All mine.”

“Mhm. Speaking of,” you begin, stepping out of bed gingerly. “If you’re going to be my Caleb, there’s one more thing you need to do. Close your eyes,” you instruct. 

And Caleb complies—something that’s come easy the past six months. 

The room is silent for a moment, with only the distant sounds of jet planes piercing the air. 

Then, a soft clink. 

And as the mattress dips with your return to him, Caleb lifts his head instinctively. And the cool surface of metal slips around his neck. 

As Caleb spares you a glance from the passenger’s seat, the apple charm on his dog tag glints in the sunlight. 

Row after row of familiar houses comes into view, but you seem calm, this time. Unburdened. 

With some compliments and exaggerated enthusiasm, Sarah had been more than happy to host another party. And you’d been more than patient as you’d encouraged Caleb to attend. 

He’d been cautious, at first, for obvious reasons. But you didn’t dare push. 

So as the date loomed closer, he’d decided to try. 

And when you cross the threshold hand in hand to a sea of curious faces, the tension he expects to compress his pulsing heart never comes.

Instead, something kinder blossoms: pure, weightless pride.

[em1i2a3]

Supersonic

Pairing: CollegeAU!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When you ask Bob Floyd to tutor you after not doing so well on your first Advanced Theoretical Physics test, you never expected him to say yes, nor did you expect him to be so enthusiastic to teach you the material either.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Reader is an Engineering Major who is just trying to take a required elective that doesn’t tank their average, Bob is a Physics Major who is an overachiever and is top of his class. We love a good tutor trope y’all, and technically it’s friends to lovers hehehehe

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all, wrap it up), Bob’s a certified munch…What Can I Say? It’s in the holy scripture lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Hair Pulling, Face Grinding, Bob’s got a bit of performance anxiety (and loves praise, but the man also likes worshipping hehehe), Breast Play, Bob’s giving sub vibes in this, Handjob (I don’t think I’m missing anything)

Author’s Note: Alright. Alright. I heard the crowd lol. I heard the masses, and I finally got around to writing for THE Bob Floyd....And I came out guns blazing on this one. I hope it’s not a let down, I know y’all have been waiting for something from me regarding this cutie patootie, so I’m glad I can please the masses 😂Enjoy!!! (Side note: I’m not a physics major but I took a few courses here and there, don’t strike me down if I don’t get certain things right about the questions please! lol) This was also a request by @shewhocallstothestars but I did modify it a bit (hopefully that's okay.) 😏

P.S: Evil stuff dropping this so casually on a Wednesday afternoon! Lol Surprise tho!

Word Count: 19,626 (HA!)

The first time Bob Floyd saw you, you were late for Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Not embarrassingly late–but just enough for the heavy lecture hall door to groan open and click shut behind you with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the cavernous space. Just enough to make the professor falter mid-sentence, his marker hovering above the whiteboard as heads turned in your direction like a wave.

Your chin stayed tucked, gaze low as you moved up the steps with a quick, purposeful stride that practically whispered “please for the love of god don’t look at me.” Still, it was a walk that carried weight. Not flustered or apologetic–just sharp. Like you were used to showing up in the middle of things and moving through rooms without needing to explain why.

But even if you didn’t owe anyone an apology, you didn’t want the attention.

Especially not in the outfit you were wearing.

You didn’t mean to put on anything eye-catching, but laundry day had come and gone without mercy. Between leading three straight days of exhausting freshman orientation–clipboard, whistle, and all–and trying to get your textbooks, syllabi, and housing situation in order before classes began, your options had run out. So you’d thrown on a slightly-too-tight zip-up hoodie, your college’s emblem half-hidden under the worn zipper, and the only clean bottom you had left: a black skirt you hadn’t touched since the first day of summer.

It rode a little higher than you remembered, and paired with your bare legs and sneakers, it was far from inappropriate, but in a room where everyone else was in jeans and sweats, it made you feel seen. And not in a way you liked.

You spotted a half-empty row about midway up the lecture hall, three seats in from the aisle, and made a beeline for it, holding your skirt down as you made quick strides towards the spot that had your name written all over it. The weight of dozens of eyes prickled against your skin, but you kept moving, zeroed in on that opening like it might swallow you whole and hide you from the ogling stares.

Bob was seated near the end of that row.

His notebook was open, half a page of densely packed notes already filled in with that small, impossibly neat handwriting of his. A mechanical pencil twitched in his right hand as you approached–still mid-spin from the distraction you had caused. He looked like someone who took school seriously, but not obnoxiously so. His light brown hair was cropped short and a little mussed on the top, as though he hadn’t quite decided whether to tame it or not–or the wind got to it and messed it up on the way to class.

He was wearing a white t-shirt–simple, fitted just enough to hint at the softness of muscle underneath, but crisp in that way cotton gets when it’s been folded with care. Not stiff, but starched just slightly from the wash, like maybe he had just done his laundry the night before. His jeans were a classic blue–not faded or overly worn, but comfortably lived-in. No rips or frays.

His glasses were perched low on the bridge of his nose, the thin metal frames glinting faintly beneath the harsh overhead lights–almost silver against the warm tones of his skin. They sat just crooked enough to suggest he’d pushed them up one-handed without really thinking about it. Lenses wide and clear, catching reflections of the whiteboard, but not enough to shield the way his eyes flicked toward you the moment your footsteps slowed beside him.

He looked sun-kissed from the dying summer–like August had clung to him a little longer than it should have. His skin was a shade deeper than it would be in a few weeks’ time, golden along his forearms and the high points of his face, like he’d spent the end of break outside–on rooftops, maybe, or walking alone down sidewalks still radiating heat. His lips were a touch dry, his knuckles faintly rough. But he looked steady. Bright-eyed and well-rested. Like he wanted to start the semester with good intentions and achievable goals.

You stopped just beside him–hovering for half a second, your bag shifting on your shoulder as you nodded toward the empty seat a few spots in.

”Sorry, just gotta get by,” You murmured, voice low and unassuming.

Bob looked up fully then and immediately shifted forward, pulling his legs in without hesitation. His knee brushed the underside of the desk as he tucked himself close to make room for you, the motion smooth but stiff like he hadn’t quite expected you to speak to him. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to sound like that–soft, a little breathless from the walk up the gauntlet of steps, but still sharp.

You moved past him in one fluid step whispering a thanks, then your scent hit him.

It wasn’t overpowering. It wasn’t the cloying kind of perfume that lingered too long in a hallway. It was just…You. Soft and sweet, but grounded–like vanilla left to steep in warm skin, the subtle warmth of almond or cream trailing just behind it. Lotion maybe. Something gentle. Something worn, not sprayed on. Like it had been absorbed into your hoodie, your neck, the backs of your knees in the early September heat.

But then there was something brighter, just beneath it–like sugar and citrus had melted into the mix. Not sharp. Not tart. Just the idea of lemon. A barely-there twist of brightness that reminded him of the first sip of a drink on a hot day. Cool. Balanced. Memorable.

It made Bob lose all his grip on the pencil in his hand, and made him straighten slightly, as his eyes glanced over to you slipping into the seat three down from his, holding your skirt against yourself so it didn’t ride up when you settled. When you shifted–once, just enough to adjust your bag or maybe smooth your hoodie–his eyes dropped quickly to your legs.

Bare and warm-looking in the stale lecture hall light. The skin smooth, catching little glints of reflection in a way that made him stare too long before he realized what he was doing.

His gaze jerked back up, and his pencil fell out of his hands. He fumbled to catch it before it rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor, and somehow he barely managed to do it. He cleared his throat so quietly that it didn’t even echo under the dome of the lecture hall. And then he exhaled once, trying to shake off the heat that creeped up his neck, fingers curling tight around the side of his notebook.

You didn’t look at him. Not once.

Not even when you pulled out your pen and your fresh, untouched notebook and started scribbling quick, efficient notes in handwriting he couldn’t quite see. Not even when your fingers fidgeted once at the hem of your hoodie like you weren’t sure if it was covering enough. Not even when you tilted your head slightly to the left, exposing the faint shape of your jaw and that one stubborn wisp of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t look back.

But he couldn’t stop glancing.

Every time there was a lull in the lecture–every time the professor turned toward the whiteboard or paused to answer a question from across the room–Bob’s eyes slid sideways. Just for a second. Just to check.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That he hadn’t seen you around before, and that this class wasn’t usually the kind that brought in new faces. Not Advanced Theoretical Physics. Not on day one. And especially not someone like you.

You didn’t fit the mold–not in the way you moved, not in the way you sat. There was a presence to you, even when you were quiet. Like you weren’t just taking space–you owned it. It made him curious. It made him distracted.

It made the last half of his notes nearly unreadable.

He’d rewrite them later. He always did.

But he’d still remember the scent you left behind when you passed him. The subtle trace of sweetness and skin-warmed citrus that had settled in the air like something meant to haunt him.

And he’d remember that you never once looked back.

—————————

You didn’t speak to Bob until the third week of classes, when you got your first ‘mini’ test back and got hit with the harsh realities of the choice you had made in picking Advanced Theoretical Physics for your upper elective.

You got a 68. You had never got a 68 in your life.

Not in high school, not in your other college courses, not in anything that involved formulas or numbers or mental gymnastics you were usually proud to be good at. Being an engineering student was supposed to make classes like this feel natural. Calculation, logic, technical problem solving–it was your bread and butter.

But this? This was humbling.

You stared down at the note the professor had written in red just beneath the grade:

”Revisit your derivations–conceptual understanding needs tightening.” You didn’t even know what the hell that meant. You had studied everything possible to prepare yourself, you knew you had been on the right track, there was no possible way this was the right grade. Your jaw flexed, and you tapped your pen once against the corner of your desk before you forced yourself to still.

You tried to breathe through the sting crawling up the back of your neck, the tightness that formed just under your ribs. This wasn’t even a midterm–it wasn’t supposed to matter. But to you, it did. You prided yourself on being able to handle anything. Being the kind of student professors leaned on. A leader. Someone who could run orientation like a sergeant and still ace quantum mechanics in the same week.

And here you were. With a 68 circled at the top of your page like a slap.

You let the paper fall face-down across your notebook and sighed hard through your nose.

Then you glanced over.

Three seats down, Bob was sitting quietly, glasses low on his nose again, flipping his test booklet over to the back like he wanted to get one more long look at it before class officially started.

You caught a glimpse of the front page as he did–and there it was. Written in the same red your grade was given in, unmistakable in the overhead light.

97.

Clean, confident. Circled big enough to make a statement.

He didn’t look smug about it. Not exactly. But there was something in the way he stared at that number, his brows lifting faintly as if confirming to himself, Yeah, that sounds right. His lips were pressed together in a close-lipped smile, the kind people wear when they’ve worked hard and know it paid off. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the bottom of the page once. Then again.

Pleased as punch.

You didn’t mean to keep staring–but it was hard to look away.

His black t-shirt was tucked just barely into the waistband of his jeans today, like he’d rushed to get dressed but still managed to look clean and composed. His hair looked softer, freshly washed maybe, curling a little more than normal without any product in his hair. The sun-kissed flush along his cheekbones hadn’t faded just yet, but it was slowly revealing little patches of paleness beneath it. The silver frames of his glasses caught the light again as he leaned slightly forward, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook to take pre-class notes even though nothing had started yet.

He was…Prepared. Calm, and clearly good at this.

And you were not evidently.

You sat back slowly in your seat, gaze flicking toward the whiteboard, but your mind was still racing. Not with formulas. Not with panic. But with something slower, more deliberate.

You needed help. That much was obvious.

And unfortunately–or maybe fortunately–the only person who hadn’t fumbled through the last three weeks with shaky handwriting and unsure eyes was sitting just three seats away.

Then…You made a decision you never thought you would be making in a class you expected to be good in.

You were going to ask him for help.

It went against every fibre in your being–the pride you carried like a shield, the belief that if you just studied harder, dug deeper, figured it out on your own, you’d make it through. That’s how it had always worked before. You didn’t need tutors. You didn’t ask for things.

But your test score was still burning a hole through your notebook, and Bob Floyd was still sitting three seats down, calmly annotating equations while half the class looked like they were on the verge of weeping. He definitely had the highest mark and there was no denying that, and you had to pick his brain to see if you could emulate the same genius level thinking. Maybe there was a secret to it all, and he would somehow share it with you so you could make a quick recovery and still grasp honours at the end of the semester…At this point you’d take even the craziest solutions to save yourself from another embarrassing mark.

So…You waited until the end of the lecture.

It took everything in you not to bolt out the second the professor dismissed the room. You always left quickly–efficiently–avoiding the post-class shuffle of students with questions or headphones already in. But today you stayed seated, even as the sound of backpacks zipping and notebooks slamming shut rose around you like thunder. You didn’t move, just flicked your pen closed and kept your eyes on the spiral binding of your notes until most of the room had emptied.

You packed up faster than usual, sweeping your things into your bag in quiet, practiced movements–but you left your test out, folded once, red ink still just barely visible beneath the crease. Your hands felt warm. A little clammy. The kind of nervous energy you hadn’t felt since your very first midterm in undergrad. But you stood anyway.

Bob was still at his desk, leaning forward, transcribing the last few formulas the professor had scribbled across the bottom corner of the board. His notebook looked the same as always–clean lines, small print, mechanical pencil pressed tight to the paper like he didn’t know how to be imprecise.

You made your way down the row, test in hand, and stopped just short of his space. The words were already forming in your mouth, even before he noticed you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… Sorry to bother you. You’re Bob, right?”

His head snapped up fast, and his eyes locked onto yours like he hadn’t expected you to actually exist this close.

“Uh–yeah,” He replied, “Yeah. Bob Floyd.”

You’d caught him off guard. You could tell by the way he blinked, like he had to reset. His mouth parted slightly, lips soft and chapped in the middle, and then–almost as if he remembered he was supposed to be someone in this moment–he cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

“You’re…Y/N? Right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He held out his hand, a little unsure. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitated for a beat–because it wasn’t every day someone in a physics class offered a handshake–but you took it. His palm was warm and dry, his grip a little firm at first, like he hadn’t meant for it to feel that strong.

His fingers were long. His nails clean, almost manicured in a way that surprised you. His thumb brushed yours briefly, and for a second, the contact lingered just a little too long.

You let go, and Bob rubbed his hand on the knee of his jeans as you both sat in the pause that followed, air slightly charged.

You weren’t wearing anything special today–just an old cropped t-shirt that rode up when you lifted your arms and a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had long since given up trying to cling to your hips. A hoodie hung open over it all, soft with wear. It wasn’t much. Just lazy comfort. But something in the way Bob’s eyes dropped for half a second–just below the hem to a flicker of skin at your waist–told you it wasn’t invisible either.

He gulped again, trying to recover from being caught.

You cleared your throat. “So, uh… I was wondering if you offer tutoring or something. I kinda bombed that first mini quiz.” His brows lifted over the rim of his glasses–an expression halfway between surprise and amusement.

“I…I don’t offer it or anything,” He said, already fumbling a little, “But I can help, if that’s what you’re looking for…How bad did you do?” He asked, trying not to assume the worst, but knowing there was a possibility he was going to see a fairly bad mark, judging by the conversations that happened behind him when the tests were handed out at the beginning of class. You flipped the test open toward him, and he stared at the 68, a smirk drawing up on his lips. He let out a short, soft laugh through his nose, more of a warm exhale than anything mean.

”I mean…It’s not great, but I’ve seen worse.” You raised your eyebrows at him and smirked faintly.

”How comforting.” You mumbled. He shifted in his seat, thumb rubbing across the corner of his notebook like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His gaze didn’t meet yours directly; it just hovered somewhere around your shoulder, your mouth, and your hair. He was still absorbing the fact you were in front of him asking to be tutored.

“I can definitely help you bring your grade up. It’s early enough in the semester to get it back on track.” He explained. Something in his voice steadied–like the gears in his brain had finally clicked into place. Like this was territory he knew how to navigate. Structure. Process. Solutions. A small smile tugged at your lips. A breath of relief rushed through you before you could stop it.

“Thank you so much,” You replied. And then, already leaning in with eagerness, “When can we get started?” Bob paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicked slightly upward–thinking, scanning the mental file cabinet of his day.

“We could do today…You could meet me at the library,” He suggested, after a second, “I'm free after four.” You wrinkled your nose a little, already shaking your head.

“The library’s kind of a distraction for me,” You admitted. “It’s always too loud–someone’s always coughing or typing like they’re in a race. Even the reserved study rooms…I don’t know, it never really works for me.”

Bob tilted his head a little, listening closely, waiting for you to present a different option.

You hesitated for just a second before offering, more carefully now, “If you feel okay with it…We could study at my dorm? It’s definitely quieter. And there’s not much to get distracted by.”

You didn’t say it with any kind of tone. No flirt, no implication. Just facts. Just a space.

But Bob’s throat tightened anyway.

His mind, helpful as ever, immediately conjured the image–your dorm. What it looked like. What it might smell like. You curled up in your desk chair, with your hair pushed out of your face, sleeves rolled, and a half-empty mug of tea or coffee next to an open binder. Maybe your bed was still unmade. Maybe there was a bottle of lotion on your nightstand in the same scent that clung to you now, soft and sweet and skin-warmed.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Not because he had any ulterior motives. Not because he thought anything would happen. But because it had been a long time since he’d been invited into someone’s space like that. A woman’s space. A woman like you–all sharp eyes and soft smiles, casual comfort and effortless pull.

“Yeah,” He agreed, clearing his throat and nodding. “Yeah, that’s totally fine. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t,” You said easily, and the way you said it–so certain, so casual–made something tighten low in his stomach again.

“Okay,” He replied, and he finally looked at you. His blue eyes were steady behind his glasses, a little glassy from the fluorescents, but locked on yours. “Just email me your dorm number. I’ll bring the notes, you bring the test, and we’ll make a plan.”

You grinned, and god, it hit him like a sucker punch. Like something he hadn’t braced for.

“Deal.”

And then you turned, backpack swinging over one shoulder, hoodie hem swaying against your hips as you made your way back up the aisle.

Bob sat still for a moment. Longer than he meant to.

He hadn’t even packed up yet.

It took him another ten seconds before he finally exhaled, shoved his pencil into the spiral of his notebook, and muttered to himself under his breath–

“…Way to make this hard for yourself…You dummy.”

————————

Your dorm wasn’t anything glamorous–but it was yours, and that made all the difference.

When you unlocked the door and pushed it open after class, you were immediately met with the familiar scent of fabric softener and the faint citrus-vanilla from the reed diffuser you kept on the dresser. The room was small, technically a single dorm, but it was just enough space for you to carve out your version of comfort. Still, as you stood in the doorway, backpack slipping off one shoulder, you looked around and immediately thought that there was no way in hell it was going to stay like this, especially with a guest coming over.

You dropped your bag near the door, and got to work immediately.

The bed was first. You hadn’t made it this morning–just rolled out with your alarm still going, one arm flung across your eyes as you reached blindly for your phone, groggy and unwilling to admit the day had started. The sheets were still tangled, your navy-blue comforter half-slid to the floor, the corner twisted around your foot in your sleep. You tugged it all back with quick, practiced tugs, smoothing the fitted sheet until the last of the sleep wrinkles vanished under your palm.

Your comforter had a faint rip in the seam on the left side near your hip–stitched up once, badly, with mismatched thread. You’d done it the second week of your freshman year, the night you’d fallen asleep sobbing after a brutal call with your high school boyfriend, and woken up the next morning tangled so tightly in the blanket that it tore when you got up. You never fixed it properly. You kind of liked the scar.

You fluffed the single throw pillow you used for your head–an old one, pillowcase faded with soft clouds printed across pale blue fabric. Not the prettiest, but it felt like home. And the long body pillow you always fell asleep hugging–cream-colored, with one end slightly more smushed than the other–went right in its usual spot against the wall. A comfort thing. You didn’t sleep well without it.

Then you moved to your desk.

It was more shelf than desk, sure–but it held your brain in neat, tiny pieces. Notes, sticky tabs, a single battered wire basket for loose paper, and a coffee mug you never drank out of that just held highlighters, lip balm, and the same pair of scissors you’d had since high school. You stacked your textbooks neatly–physics, mechanics, one painfully dry thermodynamics manual–and slid your notebook on top, flipping it to the most recent page so Bob wouldn’t see your chaotic post-lab scrawl from earlier in the week.

There was a Polaroid pinned to the corkboard just above the workspace–one of you and your best friend from home, taken in your kitchen during winter break. You were both in pajamas, mid-laugh, a sliver of frosting from a baking experiment smeared across your nose. You paused for a moment, fixing the pin to straighten it, and sighed.

Your reed diffuser sat on the corner of the dresser–three pale wooden sticks soaked in a warm citrus-vanilla scent that reminded you of summer mornings and freshly folded laundry. The bottle was nearly empty now. You should’ve replaced it weeks ago, but you kept putting it off. There was something comforting about the familiar scent, even as it faded.

Near it sat a tiny glass tray shaped like a shell, where you kept rings you barely wore and two hair ties you always reached for. One had stretched out completely, the elastic barely holding together–but you refused to throw it away. It had survived too many late-night study sessions, too many chaotic mornings before class. It had history.

You lit your desk lamp–the one with the soft yellow bulb, not the bright blue-white you hated. It cast a glow across the room that made it look gentler, less like a dorm and more like a nook carved from a novel. Cozy. Private. You turned off the overhead light and stood there for a second, letting yourself just look. The soft shadows, the freshly made bed, the diffuser’s scent hanging lightly in the air.

You sigh, satisfied with your work, eyes scanning over the room once more. Everything was in its place. Not perfect, maybe–but it looked lived in, cared for, warm. It looked like you.

With that final breath of approval, you turned toward the door tucked just beside your dresser–the greatest stroke of luck you’d had all year.

An attached bathroom.

Single dorms were hard enough to land as a second-year, but a single with a private bathroom? That was near mythic. Your RA had called it the “housing lottery jackpot,” and you hadn’t argued. No communal showers meant no mildew smell clinging to your towel, no forgotten flip-flops, and–best of all–no awkward small talk with girls brushing their teeth beside you at midnight.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click, and reached for your phone on the counter. 3:30 PM. Forty-five minutes, give or take.

Bob said “after four,” but something told you he wasn’t the type to be late. You weren’t sure if that meant he’d be early–but either way, you weren’t risking being caught in your towel when he showed up at your door.

Without much thought, you tugged your clothes off in a few quick motions and tossed them into the hamper tucked beside the sink. The hoodie fell in a heap, the fabric heavy with the day’s wear. Your cropped t-shirt was damp at the neckline, your waistband creased from sitting through the afternoon lecture. It all smelled faintly of the campus and the late-summer air–sun-warmed concrete, paper, and the barest hint of classroom chalk.

You flicked on the fan and twisted the shower knob until the water reached the right balance of hot–just shy of scalding.

Steam bloomed in the narrow space like it had been waiting, curling along the top of the curtain and fogging the mirror in soft, slow layers. You stepped in, letting the heat rush over your shoulders in a way that made your muscles go slack and your eyelids flutter briefly closed. You weren’t indulging, not really. You just needed to rinse the day away–strip it off like a second skin, let the tension from your shoulders drain down the tiles and vanish with the suds.

While the water beat down over the back of your neck, your thoughts began to drift.

Even though this was just a tutoring session–just notes, formulas, and a second chance at a first impression–it felt bigger than that.

You hadn’t brought a guy into your room in months.

Not since you’d drawn that invisible line in the sand–the one that said: this space is mine and mine only. Not since you started guarding your time, your energy, and your peace. You weren’t a prude–far from it. You weren’t closed off either. You just…Stopped inviting chaos into your life. And sometimes, chaos looked like someone else’s backpack thrown on your floor, someone else’s hand on your thigh or under the waistband of your sweatpants, or someone else’s voice asking, “Do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

You didn’t miss it.

But still–when you looked Bob Floyd in the eyes and suggested your dorm like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything–something in your chest had fluttered. Not panic. Not excitement. Just a shift.

A crack in the routine.

Now, standing under the steaming pulse of your shower, with the scent of citrus shampoo rising like vapor and the water cascading down your spine, you realized you hadn’t really prepared yourself for that part.

Bob Floyd. In your dorm. Sitting on your bed, or at your desk…Breathing in your space.

You didn’t think it would be weird. He didn’t seem like the type to make things uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed like the kind of guy who’d knock twice even after you told him the door was open. He was polite. Mild-mannered. A little tightly wound in a way that made you think he probably alphabetized his class folders.

But you didn’t know him.

And it was dawning on you, as you tilted your face into the stream and let it blur your vision with heat, that this was only the second conversation you’d had with him. Two conversations, and now you were inviting him into the most intimate space a student could have–your dorm. Your bedroom. Your sanctuary. A place where your throw blanket still held the scent of last week’s laundry, and where your pillowcase had that faint stretch of mascara from the night you fell asleep before washing your face.

What if he thought it was messy?

What if he thought you were messy?

What if he saw the tangled cords beside your bed or the half-finished cup of coffee on your nightstand and assumed you were the kind of person who couldn’t get it together–even when your whole reputation said otherwise?

What if he looked at your 68 again, and thought you were dumb suddenly?

You hated that thought most of all.

You weren’t dumb. You knew you weren’t. You were sharp, resilient, calculated when it mattered–and still, you wondered if he’d already made up his mind about you. Academic ego like his–97s without breaking a sweat–probably came with an equally inflated sense of who could keep up. Maybe he was too polite to say it, but what if he thought you were just another pretty girl in a hard class, grasping for help she hadn’t earned?

You scrubbed your hands over your scalp trying to shake the thought loose, because it didn’t matter what he thought.

Right?

You’d asked for help. That was the whole point. And he’d agreed. He’d said yes without hesitation–well, after a small nervous stammer, but still. He’d seemed open. Kind, even. And if you were being honest with yourself–and not just stewing in self-preservation–you didn’t think he saw you that way. Not as dense. Not as helpless. If anything, he seemed genuinely surprised that you’d asked him at all. Like he hadn’t expected someone like you to even talk to someone like him.

You rinsed the last remnants of soap and shampoo off your body, letting the moment pass.

You weren’t going to overthink this.

He was coming over, he was going to sit down. You were going to go through your test and try and work through the incorrect answers, maybe laugh once or twice, and you’d be one step closer to not failing this class.

That was it.

You shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening in the tiny bathroom.

Steam clung to every surface. You wiped your hand across the mirror, catching your own reflection looking back at you–a few beads of water dripping from your hair, over your collarbones, down over your breasts, the light reflecting off of them like little glowing orbs.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, padded out onto the tile, and toweled your hair dry with slow, deliberate motions. You’d keep things light. Professional. You’d study. You’d ask questions. You’d nod along when he explained something that made sense. And then–

You paused.

Then maybe…Maybe you’d ask what his secret was. The 97. The sharp notes. The calm in his hands. The look in his eyes when he first saw you walking up those lecture hall stairs. Not because you wanted anything from it.

But because part of you was just…Curious.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in the last traces of damp heat, the steam still clinging faintly to your skin like a second breath. The scent of your shampoo followed you into the room–light citrus, clean warmth, a kind of quiet comfort–and you padded barefoot across the tile, leaving soft marks on the floor that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.

Your eyes flicked to the digital clock on your nightstand.

3:55 PM.

Of course it was. Right on the edge of too early, which meant Bob would probably be here right on time–maybe even five minutes ahead, just to be polite. Just to prove he meant it when he said he took this seriously.

You crossed the room in quick, practiced steps, flipping through your clothes without ceremony. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t overthink it. You were still a little warm from the shower, your skin flushed and hair damp, and the last thing you needed was to feel sweat pooling under a too-thick hoodie while trying to understand whatever theoretical mind game was about to come your way.

So you grabbed a soft t-shirt–a light heather grey, already worn thin in spots from too many washes–and a pair of black workout shorts that hit mid-thigh. Functional. Comfortable. No-nonsense. You pulled them on in a few quick motions, not bothering with makeup or overthinking how the shorts made your legs look in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the slits of your blinds. It wasn’t about that.

You hung up your towels quickly on the hook by the door, turned to your desk, and yanked open the middle drawer with a quiet clatter. Your whiteboard markers were all crammed into a cup at the back–caps loose, labels fading. You pulled out four of them–blue, green, red, and black–and lined them up on your desk next to your notebook like you’d planned it that way all along. Some kind of subconscious need for control, maybe. Or maybe you just didn’t want Bob to see you fumbling for supplies mid-conversation.

Then you reached for the test. The test. The damn 68, still folded and creased and red-inked like a bruise on paper. You slapped it onto the desk with a sigh, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the room. Your hands slid to your hips. You stared at it for a long second.

This was where it would start. Hopefully where it would turn around.

And then–just as your breath settled and you were about to pull your chair out–

Knock knock.

Two firm taps.

Not tentative. Not obnoxious. Just…Precisely delivered. Like he’d rehearsed it.

You sighed. Not from dread–but from inevitability. From the knowledge that this, right here, was the moment it would all shift. You rolled your shoulders once, exhaled through your nose, and crossed the room in five brisk steps.

You pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Bob Floyd stood just outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, a black three-ring binder hugged awkwardly to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He had changed. He was wearing a navy t-shirt that clung just enough to his chest to remind you that he was broader than he looked seated in a lecture hall. His jeans were dark again–clean, cuffed slightly at the ankle because they were a little too long for his legs–and his sneakers looked freshly wiped down, as if he’d paused just outside the dorm building to rub them clean against the concrete.

His glasses were perched on his nose again, slightly fogged at the corners from the outside humidity. His hair was still a little mussed, like the wind had gotten to him–or maybe he’d run his hand through it on the walk over. His eyes met yours instantly, wide and a little unsure, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“Hey,” He said, and it came out just a little too soft.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand curled around the edge of it, the other still resting lightly on your hip. You didn’t mean to look casual–but you did. Warm skin. Damp hair. Legs bare in your shorts. You were dressed like comfort, like late afternoon, like a version of home he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Hey,” You returned. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Right on time.”

“I–uh, yeah.” Bob adjusted the strap on his backpack like it gave him something to do. “Didn’t wanna be early. Or, you know, too early. But also didn’t wanna be late.”

You stepped aside. “You’re good. Come on in.”

He hesitated just slightly before crossing the threshold, like he was stepping into a space that demanded a kind of reverence. And maybe, in a way, he was. His eyes swept the room instinctively, slow and deliberate–not nosey, just observant. His gaze skimmed over the bed, the desk, the glow of the warm lamp light, the closed bathroom door. Then back to you.

You watched him take it all in. The details. The neatness. The quiet hum of your diffuser still at work in the corner.

“This is…Nice,” He said finally. And he meant it. “Like, really nice. Kinda cozy.”

You smirked like you hadn’t been panic cleaning for the past hour or two, “I try.”He nodded once, still a little awestruck, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here.

“Smells good too…Like you baked something.” You raised an eyebrow at him and gave a small laugh, motioning behind him.

”It’s just my diffuser.” Bob’s gaze drifted toward the thin plume of steam rising from your dresser, his face going slightly blush.

“Oh…” He blinked. “Didn’t notice that.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a sheepish little smile, soft and crooked. He ran his palm over the front of his jeans like it might smooth over the awkward pause that followed.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brow arched.

“Well,” You started, already moving toward your desk, “You can sit anywhere you’d like. I’m just gonna pull my whiteboard out so we have somewhere to work.”

He opened his mouth–maybe to respond, maybe to stall–but you cut in before the silence could return. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got water, Sprite, or…” you paused with a shrug, “an emergency stash of energy drinks if you’re into heart palpitations.”

Bob let out a short laugh, ducking his head as his fingers scratched the back of his neck. “Water’s good, thank you. Do you… need any help with anything?”

You shook your head with a quiet chuckle, already crouching to slide the whiteboard from behind your desk. “It’s all good, I got it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you replied with a grin. “Just get comfortable.”

Bob hesitated for a beat–then nodded once and toed off his shoes with quiet care, tucking them neatly beside the frame of your bed. The soft creak of your mattress followed as he eased himself up onto it, adjusting his binder across his lap. He settled back against your pillows like someone trying not to disturb a shrine. His back met the wall in a slow, deliberate lean, shoulders squaring before his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent just slightly.

You were still crouched in front of your desk, tugging the whiteboard forward and flipping the eraser out of the marker tray with practiced ease. When you stood and propped the board upright against the far wall–angled so you could sit beside the bed and still reach it–Bob’s gaze caught on you again.

He wasn’t proud of it. But he couldn’t help it.

The soft sheen on your legs caught the warm light from your desk lamp, the moisture from your shower still clinging in subtle streaks across your skin. Your shorts were tight–they were the kind that followed the natural dip of your thighs when you bent forward, holding you in all the right places. Every angle pulled his attention. The curve where your hip met your waist, the shadow along the back of your knee when you adjusted your weight. You were only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, nothing scandalous, nothing remotely calculated–but Bob felt like he was seeing something private.

Like you’d invited him into something sacred and forgot to mention just how much of you lived here.

He cleared his throat and glanced out the window beside your bed, the blinds slatted just enough to let in the softest touch of late afternoon sun. The light was golden. Low. Hazy in the kind of way that made everything look suspended in time.

He told himself to focus. On the equations. On the test in your hand. On the notes in his binder.

Not on the way your legs moved when you crossed the room again, not on the lotion-sweet smell of you that lingered now even stronger than it had that first day in class, and not on the sight of you–relaxed and warm and totally unguarded–in a way he hadn’t seen before.

You crossed the room with a bottle of water and handed it to him without fuss, and when your fingers brushed, he felt the jolt of it deep in his chest.

“Thanks,” He said quietly, cradling the bottle like a peace offering.

You gave him a smile. Not teasing, not knowing. Just kind. Grounded. Unbothered.

And that made it worse somehow. Made it harder not to stare. Harder not to wonder what this was becoming, and how much trouble he was in already.

Because he could memorize equations. He could build models, ace problem sets, and calculate theoretical orbital mechanics in his sleep.

But none of that had prepared him for you.

You didn’t sit right away.

Instead, you hovered just beside the whiteboard for a moment longer, the test clutched in your hand, thumb brushing over the red mark like maybe you could fade it out with friction alone. But Bob waited patiently–quiet, composed, the bottle of water still nestled in his lap like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands yet.

You held the test out toward him. “Alright, let’s see how bad it really is.”

Bob offered a faint, crooked smile as he took the folded packet, careful not to smudge the corners with condensation from the bottle. He flipped it open to the first page, eyes scanning the first problem set. His gaze moved quickly–but not dismissively. He was reading, really reading, lips parting slightly as he traced your work with his eyes.

Then his brows lifted, just a touch–not surprise, but curiosity.

“Can you…” He glanced up at you, the glint of his glasses catching the light again, “show me how you got this answer? Go through it with me…I just want to pick your brain first. See your logic a bit.”

You hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because you didn’t remember how you got the answer. You did. You remembered every painful minute of trying to pull it out of thin air, piecing together old lecture notes and half-remembered formulas from late-night readings. But the thought of speaking it out loud? Of saying it in front of him?

That part felt…Vulnerable.

You bit the inside of your lip for a second, eyes flicking from the board to his face, then back again. Then, without a word, you bent down and picked up the black marker.

Bob leaned forward just slightly, shifting the binder onto the mattress beside him as you uncapped it with your teeth and started writing on the board. The soft squeak of dry erase on the surface filled the room.

“Okay,” You said finally, your voice steadier than you expected, “So the question was asking about particle behavior in a non-inertial reference frame, right? So I assumed we were supposed to use the rotating frame model the prof showed us last week. The one with the centrifugal and Coriolis corrections?” Bob nodded slowly, eyes locked on the board, on your hand.

You started to draw–carefully, neatly, the way you always did when trying to make sense of something. A circle. A line to represent the radius. Arrows for velocity, angular acceleration. You wrote out the base equation next to it, then began working through your substitutions.

“I plugged in the knowns here,” you continued, underlining as you spoke, “and then tried to isolate the pseudo-forces…but I think I misapplied the coordinate system. I used polar, but I think the solution assumed Cartesian.”

Bob made a small hum in the back of his throat–soft, thoughtful. You glanced back at him.

He was watching you. Focused, engaged. Almost the look a professor would give when they saw potential flickering just beneath a student’s mistake, and that made your throat tighten from the nerves that began to bubble over in your stomach.

Bob shifted again, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight as he leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed beside his binder. “No, that’s good,” He murmured. “That’s actually really good. You weren’t wrong to try it that way. I think the issue’s just here–”He reached for the red marker from your stack, uncapping it with a soft click.

“See how you treated this term?” He pointed gently toward a partial derivative in your equation, careful not to touch the board. “You factored it like it was independent, but because it’s nested in the rotating frame, it still has angular dependence. That’s what threw the rest off.”

You blinked at the board, then at him.

“Wait…So if I’d just accounted for the cross-product instead of canceling it…”

“You would’ve landed within the margin of error,” He finished, smiling softly. “Easily a B. Maybe even B+ depending on how much partial credit he gave.” You stared at your own math like it had betrayed you and then slowly dropped your hand to your side, still holding the marker.

“That…Makes so much more sense,” You said, voice a little quieter now. Not embarrassed. Just a little humbled.

Bob stood up slowly, the mattress giving a soft groan beneath him as he rose. His steps were quiet but sure as he moved to stand beside you at the whiteboard, marker still poised in his hand like a baton he didn’t quite realize he’d taken control of. You stepped slightly to the side to give him space, though your shoulders still nearly brushed.

His voice came low, steady, as he started to rewrite the middle portion of your equation. His handwriting was sharp and balanced–blocky print with just a hint of slant, the kind of penmanship that spoke of hours spent copying down formula after formula with care.

“Your approach wasn’t bad,” He started, glancing at you just briefly before continuing, “Seriously. You just went too fast on the middle step, that’s all…And honestly?” He let out a breathy, half-laugh. “That’s the part that gets everyone.” You let out a quiet, half-aware chuckle–more breath than voice.

“Well…Evidently it doesn’t get you. You’re the one that got a 97.”

Bob flushed immediately. The back of his neck went pink first, then the tips of his ears. He ducked his head as he kept writing, though his next words carried a little laugh of their own.

“I’m a physics major,” He said. “So I better be getting that mark or else I’d be needing a refund from the school.”

You let out a real laugh at that–light, short, amused–and crossed your arms loosely over your chest, watching him scribble through the rest of the correction with a kind of practiced rhythm.

“No wonder you’re so good at this…” You muttered, more to yourself than him, but loud enough for him to catch.

Bob’s head tilted slightly toward you. “What’re you majoring in?”

You scratched the back of your neck, mildly self-conscious. “Engineering.”

He paused–just long enough to let the silence feel deliberate–and then let out a short, knowing laugh. “Ahh. Now it makes sense.”

You raised a brow, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You guys are chronic overthinkers,” He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. “And you guys aren’t? Please. Look at all the work you need to do just to get a simple solution. Two extra diagrams and four substitutions just to prove a particle moves left.”

He rolled his eyes, the kind of eye roll that had barely any edge–just enough sass to keep the playfulness alive. “Least if I took an engineering course, I’d still hit an 80 on the tests.”

You blinked at him. “Wow. Bold of you to assume you’d survive statics.”

Bob turned toward you a little more, raising an eyebrow, eyes glittering behind the faint reflection on his glasses. “I’d thrive in statics.”

“Oh, really?” you said, grinning now. “You think you would have a handle on it?” He cleared his throat lightly and gave you a soft smirk, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Maybe if I had the right tutor.” You blinked once. And then…Smiled.

He turned back to the board and finished the last line of the solution with a soft swipe of the marker.

“There,” He said, voice quieter again. “That’s how I did it.”

You stared at the board, then at him. The space between your shoulders eased a little. The knot in your chest began to loosen.

”Well…That’s one question down…At least I know where I went wrong…” Bob nodded, tapping the cap of the red marker softly against his palm.

“Let’s go to the next one.”

You reached over to flip the test packet to the next problem set, fingers skimming over the thin paper before tugging the top page aside. The math was already crowding your vision–variables stacked in tight lines, subscripts nestled between integrals and force vectors–and you let out a breath as you raised the black marker again.

He stepped back slightly to give you room, standing just behind and to your left. You could feel the warmth of him, the quiet energy he held so close to his chest, just skimming your shoulder. You swiped the board clean with the eraser in a few broad, practiced strokes until nothing remained but the faint sheen of leftover marker ghosting the surface.

“I’m gonna admit,” You started, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I winged this one. So I’m definitely not gonna have an explanation for it.”

Bob shrugged, unbothered. “Then solve it,” He said casually. “Or attempt to. I’ll guide if you need it.”

There was a subtle shift in his tone–something a little less guarded, a little more drawled than usual. A slight southern cadence that lilted through the last few words, soft but present, like a warm hush pulled from somewhere deeper than lecture hall confidence. You felt your cheeks heat slightly at the sound.

Still, you nodded. “Alright.”

You started from scratch–no notes, no copying, just your best attempt. The marker glided smoothly under your hand as you worked through the logic piece by piece, pausing every few steps to reassess. You murmured quietly to yourself as you went, instinctively talking through the math aloud, and Bob said nothing–just watched. You could feel his eyes trace the path your gaze took, from the top of your diagram down through the first few steps of your math. Then–

“Nope. Wrong,” He interrupted, it came gently but firmly.

You blinked at the board, your hand frozen mid-step, and let out a quiet sigh. “Why?”

He stepped forward again, lifting the red marker. He didn’t correct it for you–just circled one specific term, the ink smooth and patient.

“This,” He pointed out, “You forgot to convert the mass into angular components. You treated it like a point mass.”

Your stomach sank just slightly. Not out of shame, but frustration. You dipped your head and started erasing that line.

“Sorry,” You murmured, almost under your breath.

“No need to apologize,” Bob said immediately, softer now. “Though I’m hopin’ this stuff sinks in…”

Your eyebrows knit, and you turned your head a little toward him. “Do you think it won’t?”

He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders. “It takes a while to apply the theory. Knowing it in your head’s one thing…Applying it to a random question is something else…But being able to fix your own mistakes is the first step to understanding things a little better to apply things properly.” You nodded once, pressing your lips together. Then you went back to work, quieter now, more deliberate. He watched you fall into the rhythm of the solution again, only stepping back when you didn’t seem to need his guidance. You could feel his eyes flicking down toward the test for a second before he moved behind you.

You heard the soft scrape of his hand over the textbook as he grabbed it from your desk, flipping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Pages whispered past each other as he navigated straight to the chapter you’d been tested on–like he’d memorized the structure without even meaning to. His eyes scanned the problems, fingers tapping the margin of the page as he skimmed.

By the time he turned back around, you were capping the black marker with a little sigh of effort. “I think I got it?”

Bob came closer again and tilted his head to read your work. His gaze moved from line to line, his mouth twitching just slightly before he nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it.” You caught the smile as it crept over his face–unfiltered this time, soft and a little proud. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose before holding out the textbook toward you, with his thumb slipped between the pages.

“Try number twelve,” He said, the corner of his mouth still lifted. “New problem. Same concept. Let’s see what you remember.” Your eyes scanned the paragraph of setup–classic physics problem: rotating frame, non-uniform mass distribution, some sly attempt to catch overconfident students slipping past the conversion factor. You clicked your tongue once and let your focus shift back to the whiteboard, grabbing the green marker this time.

He watched you move–quiet, efficient, no hesitation as you picked apart the language of the question, breaking it into manageable parts. You leaned your hip against the desk just slightly, skin catching the late-afternoon light in the softest gleam. Your fingers danced over your phone screen, pulling up the calculator, thumb tapping with precise rhythm as your eyes flicked between the numbers and the formulas.

Bob didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring anymore.

There was a faint shimmer along your shoulder from where the light met your skin, a dewy glow from the shower that hadn’t fully faded. You were chewing softly on the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowed in concentration, and he thought–briefly, helplessly–that he could watch you solve problems forever if it meant watching you like this.

You didn’t say anything. Not for the full ten minutes it took you to work it through.

You just calculated, and wrote, and thought. You whispered a few fragments to yourself as you filled in a diagram at the top right corner of the board, then traced your logic through in smooth, deliberate steps. You stepped back finally, the marker hanging loosely from your fingers, your other hand planted lightly on your hip.

You turned slightly toward him.

“Well?” You asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Bob blinked–once, hard. Then blinked again.

“Right,” He replied quickly, moving forward, the textbook now tucked under one arm. He studied your work for a moment, leaning in just enough to squint at one portion of your substitutions. His lips pressed together.

“You did most of it right,” He murmured, pointing to a midsection of your math. “This part’s good…But you forgot to apply the correction here–” He tapped gently on a bracketed term near the top. “That throws the coefficient off. Still–partial credit would be earned. It’s not like you’d lose all the points.”

You let out a breath and nodded. “Got it.”

Bob uncapped the red marker again and leaned forward, elbow bent as he carefully scribbled a correction in the margin beside your step. His handwriting was still annoyingly neat, even in red, even when rushed. He talked you through it slowly, the pace gentle but firm, breaking down the terms like a translation instead of a reprimand.

Your arms crossed as you leaned against the edge of the desk, chin tilted toward him slightly. He didn’t rush, didn’t sound superior–he just…Taught. Like he wanted you to understand it, not just memorize it.

You smirked.

“You should become a professor with the way you teach.”

Bob glanced over his shoulder at you, an amused little tilt to his head. “Why? Am I boring you?”

You let out a real laugh this time, low and warm and amused. “No. Not yet, at least.”

He turned a little more to face you, one hand still holding the red marker.

“Don’t speak too soon,” He warned, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slow, boyish grin. “I’m sure I’ve got a lot more opportunities to do that.”

And even though the whiteboard still glowed behind him, filled with formulas and diagrams and half-solved questions, all you could see was the quiet crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and the way his voice–soft, sincere–almost sounded like a promise.

————————

Bob’s elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced, binder long forgotten beside him on the bed.

You were pacing.

Again.

Back and forth in front of your desk, your physics textbook open in your hands like it might suddenly say something different if you glared hard enough at the chapter title.

“I don’t understand,” You huffed, fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “We’ve been working through these questions almost every night for the past two weeks. I’m getting them very close to right when I do them here. I know what I’m doing on the whiteboard, I’m getting partial credit in class–but then I sit down during the quiz and it’s like…Like my brain just decides to take a smoke break.”

Bob watched you quietly from the bed, his gaze flicking down briefly as your shirt lifted with your movements. The hem rose just enough to show the waistband of the boxer shorts you’d thrown on after your shower, the edge of soft cotton skimming the top of your thighs as you turned in another sharp step.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just watched. Like he always did when you got worked up–like his stillness might balance out your storm.

You dropped the book onto your desk with a soft thud, dragging both hands through your hair before planting them on your hips in frustration.

“I mean, it’s ridiculous,” You muttered. “I can do it here. I’ve done it. You’ve seen me do it. What the hell happens between here and the classroom?” Bob leaned back slightly, hands now braced behind him against the bedspread, one leg bent, the other stretched long.

“Do you feel anxious when you’re writing the test?” He asked, tilting his head just a little.

You turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

“It’s a normal amount of anxiety,” You said flatly. “What, are you about to tell me that’s why I’m still not doing well on quizzes? A little test stress?”

He shrugged, his lips quirking upward like he knew he was about to toe the line. “Could be,” He replied simply. “Or…Maybe you just need some kind of…Positive reinforcement.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Positive reinforcement?” You repeated slowly, curious and suspicious of how he was bringing up the topic.

He nodded, straight-faced. “Affirmations. Encouragement. Rewards. You know. Psychology stuff.” You crossed your arms, the motion slow and deliberate, as you turned fully to face him. Your hips settled just to one side, weight shifting into that slightly challenging posture–the kind that said you weren’t going to let this slide, but not in the way he should be afraid of. Your head tilted a little, eyes narrowed like you were sizing him up. Watching.

Noticing.

And God, was he blushing.

Not a violent flush, but that creeping kind–the kind that started at the tips of his ears and crawled slowly down the sides of his neck like embarrassment blooming from the inside out. He wasn’t meeting your gaze now. Just staring down at the binder on his lap, his thumbs rubbing over the edge of the plastic like it had something important to say.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Took him in.

The soft slope of his shoulders where they leaned back into the pillow. The subtle indent his jaw made when he clenched it without meaning to. The flush of red creeping into his cheeks, all while trying to keep that composed, helpful tone–like he was still just your tutor and not someone who thought about kissing you when you leaned too close during derivatives.

The silence held for a beat too long.

Then you spoke.

“So you’re trying to condition me?”

Bob’s head snapped up, and his eyes met yours–wide, startled, and already bracing for the tease he knew was coming. But then, to your surprise, he laughed. A real laugh. Short and soft and so genuine that it made the tips of his ears go even redder.

“N-No!” he said quickly, shaking his head, that lopsided smile overtaking his face. “Jesus–no, I wasn’t–conditioning you?”

You smirked, keeping your arms crossed like a challenge. “It kinda sounds like you’re conditioning me.”

He laughed again–this time accompanied by a quiet snort he couldn’t quite swallow down fast enough. It made your grin widen.

“I’m not trying to train you like a dog,” He commented, wiping a hand down his face with mock-exhaustion. “I just meant…If you associate physics with something good, maybe your brain will stop freaking out every time you’re handed a test.”

You blinked at him once. Raised an eyebrow.

“So…” You started, slowly, carefully, “You’re trying to open my third eye for physics?”

Bob looked at you. Deadpan. “That’s not what I said.”

You stepped closer, a teasing lilt curling into your voice now as you gestured with one hand. “No, no, I think that’s exactly what you said. You want me to transcend. Find academic Nirvana through external praise.” He rolled his eyes.

”Okay. Now you’re just twisting my words.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Am I?” You grinned. He gave you a look. A very Bob look. One part fond, one part I walked into this with my eyes wide open and it’s too late to leave now. But the pink still hadn’t faded from his cheeks.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk again, bare thighs catching the warm glow of your desk lamp, watching the way Bob’s eyes flicked toward your legs and then immediately back up again.

“Alright, Professor Floyd,” You said lightly, “I’ll bite. What kind of positive reinforcement are we talking about here? You handing out gold stars? Stickers? Should I bring a report card for you to sign?” Bob cleared his throat. It was soft but unmistakable. A nervous reflex that made him sit up a little straighter on your bed, one hand rising to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose even though they hadn’t really slipped.

“I mean…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on some distant point above your shoulder. “I was thinking more like…A kiss.” Your entire body stilled, hands still loosely clasped in front of you from your teasing posture, your weight half-shifted against the desk. A beat passed–just long enough to wonder if you’d misheard him. But then his eyes flicked back to yours, just for a second, and the heat in his gaze made it impossible to pretend he hadn’t said exactly what you thought he did.

You could feel your cheeks warm–instantly, helplessly–heat blooming beneath your skin like it had been waiting for the right moment to spill forward. But you masked it with a slow raise of your eyebrows and a smirk, playful but laced with that sharp new curiosity curling low in your gut.

“Yeah?” You said, voice softer now. You shifted your weight and tilted your head. “A kiss? That’s what you had in mind?”

Bob’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked to the space beside your head before dropping to the floor–then back up to you, like he was trying not to look too long but couldn’t help it. He shifted on the mattress, fingers brushing over the edge of the binder like he needed something to hold onto. “I-I mean…It was just an idea. One of…Several.”

You stepped closer.

“Is that what you’ve had in mind this entire time?” You questioned, voice low, the smile on your lips laced with something sweeter now–teasing, but sincere. “Kissing me?”

Bob let out a nervous little laugh, breath catching as he tried to string together a reply. His knuckles were pale where they gripped the binder now, eyes flicking toward your legs again before jerking back up to your face.

“I–no, I mean, not… I never really got that idea till today,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought—I don’t know. It might help.”

You took another step forward.

“You sure about that?” you asked, the words curling in your throat like heat, low and just a little amused. Now you were standing directly in front of him, and the change in height made it impossible not to notice how he looked up at you–head tilted back slightly, wide blue eyes tracking your every move. His glasses slid a fraction down his nose, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to fix them.

His mouth opened and closed once before he found his voice. “I personally…Think it might work,” He murmured.

Your eyes flicked down to his lips–soft, parted slightly, flushed–and then back to his eyes. He was blinking slow now, like your presence this close was physically slowing his thoughts.

You bit your lip. Slowly. Purposefully.

“So you’re telling me,” You said, almost whispering now, “That you want to reward me with kisses…Whenever I get a question right?”

Bob exhaled through his nose. His legs had parted slightly where he sat, not intentionally–but enough to suggest his body was reacting faster than his brain. He nodded once, tentative but clear. His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper.

“I could…Do a whole lot more than kisses,” He said.

The second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Like he hadn’t even known he was capable of it. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the binder, his spine curving slightly forward as if he could fold himself up to hide from the boldness that had just escaped him.

Your breath caught–just barely–and something about the way he said it, almost reverent, almost pleading, sent a shiver down your spine. You watched his throat work, his chest rising and falling in subtle, shaky breaths.

He wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t teasing you back with confidence.

He wanted you.

Desperately.

You leaned in, closing that last bit of space between your knees and the edge of the bed until your thighs brushed his. The binder slid from his lap onto the comforter with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Yeah?” You murmured, voice warm, velvety, almost indulgent. “You think you could do more?” Bob nodded, slowly–eyes wide, lips parted, breath coming a little uneven now, fanning over your face.

“If you’d let me,” He said quietly, “I’d do anything.”

The words landed between you like a weight, heavy with longing, trembling with truth.

And you believed him.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

He didn’t play games. He didn’t flirt to win. He offered, quietly, completely–like giving a piece of himself to someone felt holy.

Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up, instinct carrying you as you lifted them slowly–deliberately–and rested them against the sides of his neck.

He was warm.

The kind of warmth that radiated from beneath the skin, the kind that felt like it could seep into your palms and settle somewhere inside your chest if you let it. His skin was soft under your thumbs, his pulse fluttering just beneath one, and when your fingers brushed lightly over the edge of his jaw, you felt the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Bob stilled.

Completely.

The kind of stillness that only came when something sacred was happening–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the moment by breathing too loud.

And then you leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow–measured. Confident in the space he’d given you. Confident in the way his knees shifted to make room for you between them, in the way his lips had parted already, waiting, hoping.

Your nose brushed his cheek softly. His glasses tilted just slightly from the nudge, slipping down the bridge of his nose in a slow, unbothered drift. You felt the ghost of his breath over your mouth, shaky and warm, and then–

You kissed him.

Gently. Just once. Lips pressed to his like the start of a sentence that would take its time to finish.

Bob breathed into it–exhaled a soft, shuddering hum from the back of his throat that vibrated against your mouth. His hands came up slow, tentative, like he didn’t want to assume. But then they settled–one sliding to your lower back, warm and careful, the other ghosting over your hip before stilling there.

And then he kissed you back.

Really kissed you.

Slow at first. So slow it made your knees weak.

He lingered on your upper lip, plush and steady, then pulled back half an inch and tilted–just enough to brush your bottom lip between his with soft, seeking pressure. His lips moved with purpose, not urgency. Thoughtful. Intent. Like he wanted to memorize you in pieces, to map the shape of your mouth one breath at a time.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into him–a quiet, pleased little “mmm”–and he kissed you again like he needed to drink it in. His thumb pressed lightly against the small of your back, grounding him, grounding you. Every motion of his mouth was reverent, restrained, and dripping with a kind of intimacy that made your skin burn.

You pulled back just an inch–lips brushing his, breath warm between you.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sweeping against flushed cheeks. His pupils were blown wide behind his fogged glasses, lips pink and slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with careful, controlled breaths. He looked dazed. Unmoored.

You smiled.

A quiet, knowing smile, and let your thumbs brush the sides of his jaw.

“Better go get the next question right, huh?” You whispered, teasing but breathless. “Gotta meet my end of the bargain.”

And just as you started to pull back, maybe to reach for the marker again, maybe to hide the way your heart was slamming against your ribs like a drum–

Bob’s hand on your lower back pressed just slightly.

“Wait,” He murmured, voice low and husky now. “How about we suspend the studying for now?”

The words came quiet. Careful. But you could hear the edge beneath them–that hunger he’d tried so hard to suppress now curling softly around the syllables.

You arched an eyebrow at him, still close enough that your noses brushed.

“Hmm…” You started, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Now you’re just going to end up distracting me.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth. Then back up.

You ran a finger gently down the side of his neck, your voice warm and teasing.

“Let’s stick to the plan…” Bob exhaled slowly. Like it took everything in him not to pull you back in.

His hands didn’t move. But he nodded.

Barely.

And when you stepped away and turned toward the whiteboard again, you could feel the heat of his gaze trailing after you–like he was trying to sear every inch of the moment into memory.

———————

By the second correct answer, you were setting a timer for yourselves.

Ten minutes. That was the new rule.

Ten minutes per problem, per kiss. No exceptions. No shortcuts.

Because the last time you’d leaned in for one–intended to be short, controlled, just enough to make good on the deal–you’d ended up in his lap. His hands had slipped under your shirt almost instinctively, like they knew where to go before he consciously gave them permission. And when his palms flattened against the small of your back, warm and strong and bare, your breath had hitched in a way that surprised you.

Not because it was too much.

But because it was exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d been needing.

His fingers pressed into your skin–not harshly, not possessively, just enough to ground you. Like he couldn’t believe he was touching you and needed to memorize the shape of your body with his hands before you slipped away again. You’d gasped into his mouth, not even meaning to, and felt him inhale like the sound had gone straight to his chest.

And then you kissed him harder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, wrecking the neatness of it with the kind of carelessness that only came when heat outweighed hesitation. You pulled, just a little–testing, exploring–and he moaned softly against your lips like it cracked him open. His glasses were crooked by then, fogged from your shared breaths, and neither of you bothered fixing them. The world could stay blurry if it meant this stayed sharp.

Somewhere in the haze, Bob’s shirt had come off. You hadn’t meant for it to escalate. It had just…Happened. One minute your hands were sliding beneath the hem, feeling the heat of him, the tension in his abdomen, the ridges of muscle that lined his stomach, and the next, the shirt was gone. Flung off to the side without a single graceful motion. You hadn’t even looked where it landed.

He was solid beneath you. Not chiseled in a gym-rat kind of way, but strong in that natural, everyday way. Like he was built for work. His skin was sun-warmed with just a pinch of colour, a faint line of tan cutting across the middle of his arms where T-shirts always stopped. You touched him like he might disappear. He held you like he never wanted you to.

And God…He was good.

Surprisingly good.

Not in the way of someone who practiced, but someone who paid attention. Someone who kissed with focus. With reverence. Like your mouth was an answer he’d been solving toward for weeks. He kissed like he studied–slow, thorough, intentional. His tongue was gentle at first, coaxing. His teeth grazed your lip once, barely, and you swore you could feel it in your spine. When he kissed you the second time–after the next problem, when your timer dinged again–you already knew it wasn’t going to stay brief.

And it didn’t.

He pulled you in with hands that were just slightly rough from calluses and pencil grooves, fingers curling tight around your waist, your ribs, like he needed to feel you under his hands. And when he slipped those same fingers under the hem of your shirt again—this time slower, surer–you let him. You wanted him to. His touch wasn’t greedy. It was searching. Savoring. Like he was learning every inch of you the way he learned his formulas.

And you didn’t realize how touch-starved you’d been until then.

Until the heat of his hand met the curve of your spine, and you arched into him like your body had been waiting for permission. Until he kissed down the side of your jaw, slowly, reverently, and you felt the hum of it in your chest. Until your own hand traced the broad slope of his shoulder, down over the rise and fall of his ribs, and found nothing but steady strength and gentle restraint.

You didn’t say it out loud–but he could feel it.

The hunger in the way you kissed him. The gratitude in the way your hands explored him. The desperate edge that slipped into your breath every time you whispered his name between kisses like it wasn’t something you’d meant to do.

And maybe it wasn’t about physics anymore.

Maybe it never really was.

Because as Bob pulled back, breathless and flushed, his glasses still askew and hair mussed into soft waves from your fingers pulling and tightening, he looked at you like you’d changed something fundamental inside him. Like you’d opened a door he didn’t know was locked. Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Your timer buzzed again in the background. Neither of you moved.

“…You got that one right,” He whispered, lips brushing your cheek “Think you deserve…A break.” You let out a breathless little laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the aftermath of the last kiss. Your hair was a bit mussed from his hands, your lips slightly swollen from the soft, reverent press of his mouth–and you were dizzy, absolutely dizzy with the way he looked at you.

“Bob…” You murmured, voice playful, warm, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got some sort of ulterior motive.” Bob, still slightly breathless, hand still planted firm and reverent on your thigh, sat back just a little. Enough to give you a look. One of those boyish, guilty-but-not-really guilty grins that curled slow at the edges and made your heart skip.

He pressed a hand flat to his bare chest, wide-eyed in mock innocence.

“Me?” He said, lips twitching. “No…Definitely no ulterior motives here. I’m just…” He leaned in again, close enough for his breath to dance against your jaw, “Trying to do something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Your brows lifted, pulse tripping.

“Oh?” You murmured, teasing but curious. “And what’s that?” He pressed a kiss to your jaw–so gentle it nearly didn’t register as a kiss at all. Just warmth. Just intent. Then another, lower, slower, right beneath the curve of your ear. And then:

“Going down on you,” He whispered.

The words landed hot, like they’d been spoken directly into your bloodstream.

Your breath hitched audibly. You swore you could feel your pulse flutter in places you didn’t think could react to words alone. Heat pooled low in your stomach like syrup spilling into something hollow. Still, you managed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh, voice tightening as you tilted your head to look at him again.

“Now I need to know,” You said, fingers threading back into his hair, “How long you’ve been thinking about that.” Bob let out a soft laugh, one hand splaying open against your hip, the other bracing himself still, like he needed to keep steady before he admitted anything to you. He kissed down your neck again, slower this time–each inch of skin passed over with the kind of devotion that said this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment confession.

And when he reached the collar of your shirt, where the fabric hung loose from earlier tugging, he nosed at it gently. Not greedy. Just wanting more.

You tugged lightly on his hair, not to stop him, but to coax him to pause–just enough to get him to look up.

“Hey,” You said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”

Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours–blue and wide and already glassy with the weight of how badly he wanted you. And then his face turned a shade deeper, that telltale blush painting up his cheeks and crawling behind his ears.

“Since…” He paused, like the words were too embarrassing to say. “Since the first day of class. When you came in late…Dressed in that skirt.”

You blinked, lips parting slowly.

“The black one?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your mouth like it might give him the courage to keep talking.

“It rode up just a little when you walked past. And you sat a few seats down and didn’t look at me once. And I–” He broke off for a second, laughing nervously. “I dropped my pencil because of how you smelled and how your legs looked and because you didn’t even notice me looking.”

You stared at him.

Then grinned, slow and wicked.

“Well,” You murmured, leaning in again until your lips were just barely brushing his, “Guess it’s a good thing you’re getting your chance now.” Bob exhaled a shaky breath–one of awe, of disbelief, of absolutely overwhelmed want.

And then he kissed you again.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the first.

It was deeper. Hungrier. Your lips opened beneath his without hesitation this time, and he drank in the permission like it was oxygen–his hands curling tighter around the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly into his lap. You gasped softly against his mouth as your knees bent around him, your weight settling against the solid warmth of his thighs, your hands sliding up the broad slope of his bare shoulders.

He kissed you like he’d waited for this.

Like every moment you’d spent leaning over equations, brushing fingertips, trading teasing words had led to this exact point–and now he had you here, soft and open in his lap, your legs bare and warm against denim, your breath stuttering into his mouth every time he tugged you closer.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your t-shirt again, palms hot against your back, and this time he didn’t hesitate. The fabric peeled upward in one smooth motion–up, over your ribs, brushing your chest–until you lifted your arms and let him tug it off completely. He tossed it somewhere behind you, neither of you looking to see where it landed.

His eyes dropped.

The moment he saw what you were wearing underneath, his breath hitched—and for a second, he didn’t move. A soft cotton sports bra in a worn, dusky pink–simple, comfortable, a little faded from wash after wash–but the way it hugged you? The way it molded to the curve of your breasts, straps digging gently into your warm skin?

Bob Floyd looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

He swallowed once. Then again. His glasses had slipped slightly lower on his nose, giving him that boyish, dazed expression he got whenever something completely wrecked his train of thought. You watched his eyes trail over you, caught between reverence and want, and then–

He hummed. A soft, breathy sound from deep in his chest. Something unfiltered. Something warm.

Then he looked back up at you.

And kissed you again.

His hands gripped your hips now, anchoring you down in his lap like he didn’t want you to shift an inch. He kissed you harder–open-mouthed, deep, letting out a quiet groan as your hips rocked forward ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just let the noise fall between you, ragged and raw, swallowing your gasp as he shifted his grip and guided you until your back hit the mattress.

The room spun gently with the motion, soft yellow light from the lamp catching in the lenses of his glasses as he leaned over you. His body followed—broad shoulders, warm bare chest pressing down as he settled between your legs. He braced his hands on either side of your ribcage, framing you like a question he couldn’t stop asking. His eyes searched your face for just a second, but you nodded–softly, wordlessly–already reaching for him again.

He dipped his head.

Kissed your throat.

Then lower.

And lower still.

He took his time.

Every press of his lips trailed down the line of your collarbone, across the top swell of your breasts where the fabric cut gently across your skin. His glasses slipped again, nearly falling off–but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even lift a hand to adjust them. He kissed you through the blur, lips brushing the tops of your breasts like they were something sacred.

You let out a quiet sound–half gasp, half moan–and threaded your fingers into his hair again. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your skin as he groaned softly against you.

“Are you always this sensual?” you whispered, voice thick, dazed, breathless.

Bob let out a quiet sigh, like your question made something in him ease and deepen at the same time.

“Let’s just say I love giving…” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest. “…A lot.”

The way he said it–low, quiet, honest–made your legs clench involuntarily around his waist. Your mind flooded with images far too filthy for someone as sweet as Bob Floyd to inspire.

But then again, the way he looked right now–glasses fogging, lips red and glistening, his chest moving in slow, hungry waves with every breath–maybe he wasn’t that sweet after all.

His fingers reached for the thin straps of your bra.

“Hope you don’t mind,” He whispered against your skin, lips still pressing hot kisses between every word.

You shook your head quickly. “I don’t mind at all…”

With a reverent kind of care, he slipped the straps off your shoulders. One. Then the other. His fingers brushed your arms on the way down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your skin like he was memorizing it. Then–slowly, carefully–he tugged the fabric down, baring you to him inch by inch.

His breath hitched.

Your breasts, soft and flushed from heat and touch, rose with every breath you took. Bob didn’t reach for you right away. He just…Looked. Let himself take it in. His hands slid up your sides again–rougher now, purposeful–and when they cupped the curve beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushed upward, stroking slowly until your nipples tightened under the attention.

His glasses fogged completely.

Still, he didn’t take them off.

He leaned in and kissed the soft mound of your left breast, then your right, each kiss dragging slower than the last. His lips were gentle, his hands firm, and when he finally brushed the tip of his tongue over your nipple, your hips bucked without warning.

“God,” You whispered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. Bob just smiled. Quietly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, lips hovering just over your nipple again, breath warm and teasing.

You shook your head slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. “I call it anticipation.”

His low laugh rumbled against your skin. “Didn’t know we were calling it that now… but okay.”

Then he kissed you again–this time firmer, lips wrapping around your nipple with a slow, aching pull that made your hips twitch beneath him. His tongue was wet and warm, lapping slow circles around the soft peak before closing over it again, sucking just a little deeper now–just enough to make you moan quietly, enough to send a thrum straight between your thighs.

His hands didn’t stop, either–broad palms sliding up and down the sides of your ribcage, thumbs sweeping in careful, reverent passes. He alternated between breasts with the same kind of concentration you’d seen in study sessions: deliberate, measured, like he was solving you.

And when he finally pulled away, lips red and glistening from worship, he blew a soft, chilled stream of air across your saliva-slick nipple–then the other.

Your entire body arched. He watched it happen with wide eyes, completely entranced.

Then–without a word–you sat up.

He blinked in surprise, hands still resting on your sides as you reached behind yourself and unhooked your bra the rest of the way, slipping the fabric down your arms and flinging it off the bed. The second it landed somewhere behind you, you laid back down–bare, flushed, and completely open.

Bob’s breath hitched hard. His glasses had slipped lower again, fogged beyond all reason now, and he still hadn’t touched them. He didn’t even seem aware of the state he was in–just that you were laid out beneath him, chest rising in unsteady waves, eyes soft but daring.

He exhaled shakily.

And then he moved lower.

He kissed the center of your sternum once, then again, trailing down past your navel with slow, reverent care. When he reached the waistband of your boxer shorts, he paused. His hands came to rest just above your hips, fingers curling slightly under the band.

He looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark behind the silver frames.

You nodded–slow, sure.

That was all he needed.

He pulled the fabric down just an inch. Then another. Just enough to reveal the top of your hips, the soft line of your lower stomach. His lips followed–kissing each inch as it was exposed, trailing warmth into places that had never felt this kind of attention before. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air made your thighs twitch, and he hummed softly against your skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” He whispered. “You don’t even know, do you…”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. Your fingers were tangled in the sheets again, breath catching every time his lips brushed lower, every time he said something in that breathless, reverent voice that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time.

When he reached the base of your hips, he gave the waistband a firmer tug, and you lifted your hips to help him–knees bending slightly, thighs parting as he pulled the shorts down your legs. He slid them off with practiced care, and you watched as he tossed them aside with the same nonchalance he’d flung his shirt–like every barrier between you was one more step toward something sacred.

He paused there.

Just knelt between your legs for a second, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he needed to anchor himself before continuing. Then–without saying anything–he pushed your thighs up gently, spreading you open just enough.

His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee.

You gasped.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim. A promise. His lips lingered there for a second, and then they moved–trailing up the inside of your thigh in slow, wet presses, each one firmer than the last.

“You’ve got no idea,” He murmured against your skin. “How long I’ve wanted to do this… How many times I’ve imagined being between your thighs just like this…”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your inner thigh, and your hips jerked slightly at the contact. He didn’t move away. Just kissed the spot he’d grazed. Then again. Higher this time.

“Wanted to take my time with you,” He whispered, voice low, breath hot. “Make sure you know what it feels like when someone actually wants to do this…” Your hands gripped the comforter.

“I want to hear the way you sound when it’s good. When it’s real. When it’s slow…”

He kissed the top of your inner thigh–right at the edge of where you needed him most.

Then, finally, he glanced up–his glasses slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, mouth slick with his saliva and swollen.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” He said softly. “You’ll never forget it.”

His tongue moved with devastating precision–slow, savoring, like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t about to waste a single second.

He started with a kiss-low, just at the edge of your folds, then dragged his tongue up in one long, warm stripe that made your legs twitch. You gasped, hands flying instinctively to his hair as he groaned into you, deep and low, like he’d been starving for this.

“Jesus–Bob–” You whispered, voice cracking on the edge of a moan.

He didn’t answer. Just licked you again, slower this time, tongue flattening against you with such gentleness it made your stomach tighten. Then he did it again. And again. Until the room dissolved into heat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of him eating you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

He used his mouth like a worshipper—like this wasn’t about getting you off, but about tasting everything he’d been dreaming of for weeks. He kissed your clit softly at first, then circled it with his tongue—just enough pressure to make you cry out, just enough to leave you chasing more. Your hips rocked against his mouth before you could stop them, and instead of pulling back, he moaned again, deeper this time, and grabbed your thighs—holding you open like a man possessed.

His fingers dug gently into your hips as he sucked on you now, lips wrapped around your clit with wet, deliberate pulls. His glasses were fogged beyond saving, the lenses glinting in the dorm light as they slipped further down his nose. He didn’t stop. Didn’t lift his head once. Just kept tasting and kissing and groaning like your body was the only thing he needed to study for the rest of his life.

You whimpered.

“F-Fuck, Bob–too good–”

That finally earned a reaction. He groaned again, louder, like your words were gasoline, and then–God–he slipped two fingers between your thighs, slick with your arousal, and pushed them in with a slow, practiced ease.

Your back arched.

The stretch was perfect. His fingers curled immediately, searching for that spot–and finding it like he’d mapped it out ahead of time. His mouth never left your clit, tongue flicking faster now, suction intensifying just slightly, just enough to send a full-body tremor through you.

“C’mon,” He murmured between strokes, voice ragged, lips brushing against you with every syllable. “That’s it… Just like that. Let me hear you.”

You did.

You let go of any remaining shred of restraint and moaned–loud, broken, lost to the rhythm of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth. Your thighs shook, your body tightening, unraveling. The dorm room felt like it might dissolve around you.

“G-Gonna–”

“I know,” he whispered, breath hot, eyes glassy as he looked up at you from between your thighs. “Go ahead. I got you.”

And then he did something devastating.

He sucked harder.

Curled his fingers deeper.

And moaned into you like your orgasm was his reward.

You shattered.

Your hands clutched his hair, your legs tensed around his head, and your breath broke into a stuttering cry as he licked you through it–never stopping, never letting up. He worshipped you all the way through your high, his mouth messy, eager, lips slick with you as he kept kissing, kept groaning, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, panting, spent–he didn’t move right away.

He kissed your inner thigh.

Then again. And again.

Then trailed up your body with soft, slow presses of his mouth, leaving a trail of your own taste on his lips as he made his way back up. His chest hovered over yours, his weight warm and solid, and when he finally kissed your mouth again–full and deep–you could taste yourself on his tongue.

And he let you.

Let you feel it.

Let you know exactly what he’d just done to you.

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering above you, mouth swollen from all the work he had done, lips slightly parted. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way–hair mussed from your fingers, flushed cheeks, chest rising with the weight of restraint.

Then, like a flicker of light through the haze, he let out a breathy laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

You laughed too–soft, breathless, dazed–your palm dragging slowly down his bare chest before reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose. The lenses had slipped almost entirely off his face, smudged and misted at the edges. You caught the little fingerprints and streaks near the bottom and smiled, chest still heaving slightly as you murmured:

“Where…The hell did you learn that?”

Bob’s laugh deepened this time, short and warm, his entire face flushing deeper crimson. He covered his face with one hand for a second, then dropped it to your waist, eyes shining with both amusement and bashfulness.

“From…My past partners?” He said, half like a question, half like a confession. “I told you I’m a giver. I may look timid but…As you can tell, I know my stuff.”

You grinned, your heart skipping at how proud–but still modest–he sounded. You leaned up, catching his mouth in another kiss, slower now, languid. He hummed against your lips, eyes fluttering shut as his hands pulled you just a little closer.

“Bit surprising,” you whispered against his mouth.

He nodded, kissing you again, hands smoothing down your sides. “I know.”

And it would’ve stayed gentle, dreamy, lazy like that–until your hand drifted between your bodies.

You hadn’t been trying to tease. Not really. But when your palm brushed over the thick bulge in his jeans, the way his breath hitched immediately had you curling your fingers lightly around him, just enough to feel the weight of him. The heat. The hardness pressing insistently behind the denim.

You smiled, eyes soft but mischievous. “Your turn?”

But to your surprise, Bob flinched—barely, but it was there. His hand caught your wrist gently, not to push you away, but to pause.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You blinked, your palm still resting against him. “What?” You tilted your head. “You don’t… even want to have sex?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, eyes darting to yours before lowering again. “I just…It’s really okay. You don’t have to.”

You sat up slightly, just enough to bring your faces closer again, concern slipping behind your smile.

“Are you…” Your voice gentle. “Are you nervous?”

His lashes fluttered. A breath stalled in his throat. And that was all the answer you needed.

You reached for his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. His skin was hot, his jaw tight, but he leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“Bob,” You said softly, a smile curling into your voice. “How can you be nervous after you just gave me the best orgasm of my life?”

That made his eyes shoot open–just a little. You watched his expression shift. Like he’d heard something he hadn’t expected. Like praise landed harder than touch ever could.

“Seriously,” you continued, your voice warm and slow, “That was unreal. No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like they wanted to. Not like they were…Memorizing it.”

His mouth parted. You didn’t miss the way his breath trembled now. His hips shifted slightly against yours, and when you glanced down, you could see he was getting harder from your words alone.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “You’re incredible, Bob.”

A sound left him–barely a sound, more of a low exhale, like it physically knocked something loose in him. His hand tightened slightly on your waist.

“You made me feel so good,” You whispered. “Safe. Wanted. Perfect.”

His eyes closed, lips parting with a shaky breath, and his hips rolled the tiniest bit into your palm. You could feel how much he wanted it now. How much he wanted you. He just hadn’t known if he was allowed.

And God, the way he responded to praise–it made something ache inside you.

Your foreheads rested together, breath shared in the quiet space between words, between heartbeats.

“Let’s do it together, hm?” You murmured, your voice warm and coaxing–softened with affection, laced with intent.

Bob let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, and his lips brushed yours as he smiled. “Okay.”

The word was nearly a whisper, but it carried weight–an unspoken trust folding itself into the syllables.

You leaned back just enough to reach between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the button of his jeans. He inhaled, shaky and quiet, watching you as you popped it open, then tugged the zipper down. The sound broke the hush of the room, loud in the stillness.

Bob shifted, lifting himself up just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband. He wriggled out of his jeans with a little bit of awkwardness, and when the denim bunched at his ankles, he kicked them off with a grunt.

You both laughed. Low and breathless, the kind of laughter that came when something was too intimate not to be a little bit funny.

His glasses slid further down his nose.

“Sexy,” You teased, bumping your knee gently against his side.

He rolled his eyes–blushing, flustered, but grinning–and settled back between your thighs, his hands bracing himself on either side of your hips now. The closeness allowed you a better view of him, and you didn’t waste the opportunity.

Your gaze drifted downward. His boxer briefs were tented–straining. You could see the thick outline of him pressed against the fabric, the darkened patch of wetness at the tip where he was already leaking.

Your hand slid slowly down the middle of his torso–over the soft rise and fall of his stomach, the faint ridges of muscle, the trail of hair beneath his navel. Bob held perfectly still, his breath shallow, watching you.

When your fingers ghosted along the inside of his waistband, just above the swell of him, he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Tease,” He muttered, voice tight.

You didn’t deny it.

Instead, you slid your fingers a little deeper. Tugged the fabric down just enough to expose him.

He sprang free with a soft, needy sound escaping his throat.

Your eyes widened slightly.

He was…Big. Thick, flushed, already glistening with precum. The head was ruddy and swollen, shiny with need, and your stomach fluttered at the realization that he’d gotten like this just from pleasuring you.

He looked desperate.

You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, your palm sliding up his length with soft pressure. His breath hitched immediately, head tilting back slightly. His glasses slid another fraction down his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them–just closed his eyes for a moment, his chest lifting in a shallow, shivering inhale.

You stroked him again–long, slow, deliberate. Your grip was just firm enough to make him twitch, your thumb swiping over the slick bead at his tip.

His hips bucked. He gasped, and then let out a shaky laugh.

“Sensitive?” you murmured, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

Bob’s head dropped forward a bit, cheeks flushed to hell. His voice cracked slightly.

“N-no…Anticipation.” He corrected jokingly, using your own words against you.

You laughed softly. So did he.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept stroking him, slow and sensual, your hand gliding up and down the length of him, savoring every tremble in his thighs, every shift in his breath, every twitch of his fingers against the mattress beside you. He was fully braced now, arms trembling slightly as he rocked into your touch.

His voice came out thin, frayed at the edges.

“I’m really…Really not gonna last if you keep doing that, and…” He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper, “And I really do want to have sex with you…”

His eyes met yours. Wide. Pleading. Vulnerable.

Like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

You leaned up slowly, hand still wrapped around him, lips brushing his ear.

“No need to beg…” You whispered, voice thick with heat. “But if you want to come inside me, Bob…Then you better hurry up and get these off.”

His whole body jolted.

A groan–low, raw, helpless–escaped him.

His boxer briefs were gone a second later. Pushed down and kicked away without a single thought, like he couldn’t bear another second of distance.

He came back over you with reverent slowness–climbing the length of your body like he was rediscovering it inch by inch.

His bare chest skimmed yours, warm and solid. His hips dipped low, the hard length of him brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath hitched at the contact.

“God,” he whispered, voice raw as his lips brushed against your neck. “You feel so good already.”

You arched into him just slightly, your hands finding his shoulders–broad and warm beneath your palms, still trembling faintly from restraint. His glasses were fogging again, slipping lower, but he didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t care.

He kissed the side of your neck.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek–lingering there with a kind of gentleness that made your stomach twist.

And then he kissed your mouth again. Slow. Sweet. Deep.

You moaned softly into him.

The tops of his thighs pressed flush to the backs of yours now, his cock resting heavily between your legs–leaking precum that smeared slightly against your inner thigh as he shifted to fit himself against you perfectly.

His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it, thumb stroking lightly against your skin as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You sure?” He asked softly, voice shaking with the weight of everything he was holding in. His eyes searched yours, pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

You nodded. Slow. Certain.

“I’m sure,” You whispered. He let out a shaky breath, then he reached down between the both of you, eyes never leaving yours.

You felt the warm glide of his knuckles against your folds first, then the soft, slick drag of his cock as he slowly ran the tip of himself through your arousal.

Your breath caught.

He swirled it over your clit once, twice–just enough to make your thighs twitch.

And God, the way he looked at you while he did it.

Eyes locked. Lips parted. Worship written into every line of his face, made you feel dizzy.

“You’re so wet,” He murmured. “You feel…Unreal.” You whimpered, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your other hand wrapped tighter around his bicep.

“Bob…” You whispered, voice already trembling. “Please.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips–soft and slow and steady.

Then–finally–he began to push in.

You both moaned.

The stretch hit immediately, slow and burning, a delicious ache that made your spine arch and your mouth fall open.

“F-fuck,” Bob gasped, his forehead dropping briefly to yours as he sank in inch by inch. “God, you’re–you’re so tight. So warm. You feel so good…Wow…” Your hips shifted, trying to take more, and his hands immediately gripped your thighs, grounding you.

“Easy,” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I got you. Just breathe.”

You nodded, your head swimming.

He pushed deeper.

You could feel every inch–every throb of him, every shudder in his breath as your walls stretched around him.

“Just like that,” He murmured. “Doing so good. Taking me so well.” You whimpered, and the sound cracked open something in him.

“You like that?” He whispered, kissing your cheek again, his hips rolling just the slightest bit deeper. “You like hearing how perfect you feel around me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes, Bob–keep talking–please–”

“Fuck,” He breathed, his voice breaking again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He rocked forward the last inch with a soft, helpless moan. Your body trembled beneath his as you adjusted, your thighs hugging his hips, your hands gripping him tightly. Bob groaned into your neck, voice ragged.

“God…You’re perfect. I swear, you’re–Jesus, I don’t even know how to describe this–” You turned your head, catching his mouth again in a deep, desperate kiss. You could feel him trembling above you, his muscles taut, breath stuttering with the effort of staying still.

“You feel so fucking good, Bob–so full–so deep–” His breath hitched.

“Say that again,” He whimpered, “Please.”

You kissed his neck, your voice thick with heat.

“You fill me up so good…God it feels amazing.” Bob let out a deep moan.

Then he began to move.

Just a tiny thrust at first–barely pulling out before pressing back in, the friction slow and hot and devastating.

Your mouth fell open.

His lips ghosted over your cheek as he whispered, “Gonna make you come on me just like this…” Your back arched at the words, your cheek bumping against his glasses. “You like the sound of that?” He added. Your fingers curled into his shoulder blades, nails dragging softly over warm skin as you nodded, breath catching on a moan.

“Yes…Yes, please.”

The quiet plea cracked something open in him.

He kissed you again–mouth hot, searching, needier this time–and his hips began to move.

Slow at first.

A deep roll forward, dragging his length out almost completely before easing back in, the friction molten, smooth, aching. You gasped into his mouth, your body lifting slightly to meet the next thrust. Bob groaned–low and husky–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, glasses fogging up again from your breath. Still, he didn’t take them off. He looked wrecked. Gorgeous. Reverent.

“God, you feel…” He whispered, voice thick and ruined as he rocked into you again, a little harder this time, “So good…So tight around me, baby–oh god.” Your breath stuttered. The nickname, unintentional or not, hit low and warm and made you clench involuntarily around him.

He felt it.

He swore softly–“Jesus”–and dropped his head to your shoulder, the next thrust coming sharper, more instinctual.

Your hands roamed—up his back, over the rise of his shoulders, down to his hips where your fingers dug in just slightly. He kissed your neck between thrusts, then bit gently just beneath your ear, and the second his teeth grazed your skin, you gasped.

Your body clenched again.

Bob moaned, full and broken.

“Fuck, that–You like that?” He murmured, voice hot and desperate against your ear. “You like when I do that?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered, trembling, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel so good, Bob…You’re hitting every part of me.”

He groaned–long, low, filthy in how soft it sounded. His hips began to move faster now, deeper, each thrust dragging a moan from your throat, and his hands slid beneath your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist so he could sink in even further.

“God, you’re perfect,” He praised. “You’re so perfect for me. Every inch of you–I swear–fuck–”

Your head fell back against the pillow. You were gasping now, barely able to respond, but you tried. You wanted him to hear it. You wanted him to know.

“You’re so good at this,” You panted, voice trembling. “So good at making me feel good–God, you’re incredible, Bob–”

His whole body stilled for half a second, as if praise struck something too deep.

Then he moved faster.

A rougher thrust–still controlled, still measured, but heavier now, thicker with want. He let out a moan against your neck, raw and hot, and your back arched at the sound.

You could feel him everywhere–his chest brushing yours, his lips at your throat, his hands gripping you tight like he needed to feel every part of you at once.

You cried out, hips lifting into his, clenching around him with every thick, slick stroke. He felt it. Groaned again. Slid one hand up your body to cradle the side of your face.

“Look at me,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

You did.

And the second your eyes locked, his pace stuttered–just for a heartbeat–like the sight of you, soft and dazed and open beneath him, was enough to make him lose rhythm.

Then he started thrusting again. Deep. Steady. Hot.

“I want you to come on me,” He whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “I want to feel you come again–want to hear how good it feels.”

Your lips parted. Your thighs trembled.

“Bob,” You gasped, desperate now. “You’re so good–please don’t stop–please–”

He kissed you again. Deep. Desperate. All tongue and breath and heat. His thrusts got heavier, faster, until you could feel your climax curling up your spine like a fuse.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He murmured, hips stuttering with restraint. “I can feel it, baby… You’re so tight–so fucking wet–come for me–please–“

You shattered.

With a cry that broke in the middle, your walls clenched around him, waves of heat and release rolling through you so hard your vision blurred. Bob moaned your name–ragged, reverent–thrusting into you a few more times before he groaned loud against your shoulder and came with a shuddering, broken gasp. Bob’s entire body tensed as he came–his cock pulsing deep inside you, hips stuttering against yours in involuntary thrusts as thick, hot ropes of cum filled you.

You felt everything.

The way his muscles tensed above you, taut and trembling. The low, broken sound he made as he buried his face in your neck. The way his arms curled tighter around your waist like he needed to hold onto something to stay connected to consciousness

“F-Fuck,” He choked out, hips giving one more weak, slow push. His release was hot and endless, spreading warmth low in your belly as his body finally started to give in. His breathing was ragged, the heat of it ghosting over your skin. He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t move at all for a long moment.

Just slumped forward, his bare chest sticky against yours, the last tremors of orgasm still rolling through him. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, and you felt him exhale with all the weight of a man undone.

Even the frames of his glasses were warm.

You let your arms slide around his back, hands splayed wide across the muscles there, sticky with sweat, anchoring you both. The only sounds in the room were your shallow, echoing breaths, and the soft hum of a distant hallway light buzzing just outside your dorm door.

Bob’s weight against you felt right. Heavy in the best way. Settled. Natural.

Your fingertips traced slow, thoughtless patterns over his back as you both lay tangled together, letting the afterglow settle around your limbs like warm syrup. Your heartbeats synced slowly–yours still fluttering, his gradually calming.

And then–

He shifted.

Lifted himself slightly on one trembling arm, the other brushing your hair back from your forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pink, and his glasses crooked beyond saving. His smile was dazed. Soft. Glowing.

He leaned in and kissed you again. A soft kiss. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and also more, and also stay.

When he pulled back, still breathless, still inside you, he murmured:

“We’re gonna have to start going to the library to study.”

You blinked. Confused. Flushed and blinking at him through the haze, your breath still catching a little in your throat.

“…Why?” You asked, voice hoarse but amused, one hand reaching up to gently smooth the short, light brown strands of his hair that were now sticking out in every direction.

His smile widened–lopsided and boyish, just a little cocky.

“Because we’re never going to get any studying done if we’re near a bed…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “The temptation will be too strong.”

You laughed–light, breathless, your chest shaking under his with the sound.

“Well,” You teased, trailing your fingertips down the curve of his back, “There goes that positive reinforcement idea, then.”

Bob leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“I’m sure we can figure out a replacement,” He replied, “Something that can be done in public spaces.”

You burst out laughing.

He did too.

And you stayed like that–wrapped up in each other, laughter echoing soft and breathless into the quiet room.

[dakusan]

B e G o o d F o r M e

Felix x Reader | praise-soaked filth, soft aftercare, and a thigh you’d die for

synopsis: He’s sunshine in the hallway. A hand on your lower back. A kiss to your temple. But tonight? He tells you to ride his thigh like you were made for it. Spits on your pussy, praises your cries, and fucks you through every broken sob until your voice is gone and your body’s trembling. And the worst part? He still calls you “baby.” Still holds your hand. Still whispers, “One more for me, yeah?” with that fucking smile. You thought you knew Felix. Until tonight, you were proven wrong.

💌a/n: okay so this was requested by 🦔anon and honestly? i blacked out somewhere between “ride my thigh” and “you ruined my guts, felix.” idk if i did well. i feel a lil unsatisfied but also my brain was full of static and lust and then halfway through writing i got violently pulled into a side quest where i had to help my mother BURN A FUCKING WASP NEST that decided to colonize our garden shed like it pays rent??? do i feel like i could’ve gone a different route? sure. do i also kinda love how this spiralled into daddy thigh riding praise ruin sunshine aftermath hours™? also yes. idk. i feel conflicted. if you loved it? i am kissing your forehead with consent. p.s. if you reblog it???? i will cry. on your carpet. gently. if you comment, i respect you. and if you're still here, i love you. p.p.s. i don’t even like wasps but i think one of them is haunting me now

⚠️warnings: NSFW | 18+ ONLY — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | hard!dom Felix (like capital D Dom energy) | praise kink | voice kink | overstimulation | thigh riding (and yes, you do cum on it) | spit (on your pussy. casually) | crying kink | restraint/control dynamics (verbal + positional, but loving) | dirty talk (SOFT. DEEP. NASTY.) | breeding kink (he fills you all the way up and doesn’t pull out) | cockwarming | established relationship | intense language + graphic smut

📌 Please ride responsibly. Moan louder. Hydrate after.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Mmmh — KAI « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:12 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You met Felix under the fluorescents of a backline studio.

He had walked in humming—hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, freckled face flushed from rehearsal, damp hair curling around his temples—and dropped his bag with a thud that made your audio meters spike. It was your second week working with Stray Kids’ internal production team, still proving yourself in a room full of idols and engineers who already moved like family.

But Felix? He’d smiled at you.

And not the polite, press-trained one. The real one—the kind that cracked wide open, all dimples and gold, the kind that made you forget your own name for a full five seconds.

“Hey, new sound girl,” he’d said. “You got magic fingers or something? This mix sounds insane.”

You didn’t blush. (You absolutely blushed.)

From there, it built in quiet pulses. Shared coffee runs. Long nights layering harmonies in empty booths. The two of you tucked into a corner of the console, your hands moving across sliders while his voice—that voice—poured like honey into the headphones. It didn’t take long before he was leaning into you, brushing your wrist with his pinky, whispering, “You always smell so good…” in a way that made your pulse hiccup behind your ears.

Six months later, he was in your bed. Not just once. Often. Softly. Cuddled behind you in oversized sleep shirts, brushing your hair out of your face in the morning. Whispering things like “I’m so lucky I get to love you” and giggling when you squirmed under the weight of it. He’d bring takeout to your place after double shifts. Leave notes tucked in your laptop bag. Keep his toothbrush beside yours in the cup.

You knew him as Felix the angel. Felix the sweet. Felix the clingy little golden retriever who kissed your temples and held your hand under the dinner table. Even the sex had been like that—sweet, devotional, slow. He called you beautiful. He was perfect. Made you feel like you were living in heaven.

But something had been changing lately.

Little things. A sharper look in his eyes when you teased him too far. A rougher grip on your waist when he pulled you onto his lap in the studio. That one time his voice dipped too low in a live take and you jolted so hard you hit the mute switch. You’d laughed it off.

But Felix had seen. And Felix never forgot.

Tonight, it starts like all the others.

Long day in the studio. Changbin and Chan gone before midnight. Felix stayed with you—always did—half-sprawled on the couch, hair tied back, legs propped up, scrolling through beat drafts while you fixed the last few compression issues on Jeongin’s verse.

He kept glancing over at you.

Not in a sweet boyfriend way. In a watching-you way. Like he knew something you didn’t.

You feel it again when you both get home—your place, still messy from the ramen rush earlier, one overhead light on low. You stretch your arms, ready to slip into something more comfortable, and murmur:

“God, you sounded so good today. That second take in the booth? Nearly melted me.”

Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. Felix has dropped his bag by the door, but hasn’t moved since. He’s standing there. Still. Head tilted. Eyes… dark.

“Yeah?” he says. Quiet. “You liked the way I sounded?”

Something in your stomach tightens.

“You always sound good,” you reply with a nervous smile, turning to walk toward the bathroom. “I mean, I mix you for hours every week, Lix. I—”

But he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not harsh.

But firm.

“Say that again.” His voice is still soft. But it slips now. Deeper. Tighter. “Say I sounded good. While I was making you melt.”

Your heart stutters. He takes a step forward.

“Felix…?”

He watches your throat bob as you swallow.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” he murmurs, crowding into your space. His palm slides down to your waist, warm and grounding, deceptively sweet. “I’ve been thinking about the way you react when my voice drops. The way you get quiet. Still. Like you’re waiting for something.”

You can’t speak. He presses forward again, herding you toward the couch.

“I’ve been good,” he says, lower now. Freckles glowing like they’re under a full moon. “I’ve been so good. But you keep pushing. You keep giving me that look like you want me to break.”

He stops when the back of your knees hit the couch cushion.

“So tonight, baby,” he whispers, brushing his lips against your ear, “You’re gonna let me.”

Felix’s hand finds your throat—not squeezing, just pressing you still, guiding you down further onto the couch with a gentleness that makes the control feel even stronger. Your back hits the cushion. You blink up at him, breath caught between a question and a moan.

He climbs over you, knees on the cushions, straddling your thighs. His hoodie’s still on, sleeves pushed up. His rings are warm from the walk home. He drags two fingers down your collarbone, slow, watching goosebumps bloom in his wake.

“You know I’ve been holding back, right?” “You know I watch how you squirm every time I call you good.”

Your breath stutters.

“So we’re gonna try something new tonight, angel.” “You don’t touch me unless I tell you to.” “You don’t cum unless I say so.” “You speak only when spoken to, and you take every fucking second of what I give you. Got it?”

You nod, frantic, heart pounding.

His hand moves to your hair and his grip tightens in it.

“Use your words.”

“Y-Yes. Got it.”

“Atta girl.”

He tugs your shorts down first. Not your top. Not your panties. He likes to tease. Leaves you half-dressed, on your back, thighs slightly open as he pushes your knees apart with one hand.

“Fuck, baby. Look at this mess.”

He hums. Brings his thumb between your legs and drags it slowly over the damp cotton. You whimper. His eyes flick up.

“You gonna cry already, sweetheart?”

And then he rips the panties to the side. No gentleness now. Just that soft tone and filthy mouth working in perfect contradiction.

He spits on your cunt.

Hot. Messy. His.

“You know what I wanna do to you?” he murmurs, dragging two fingers through the slick. “Wanna make you ride my thigh till you can’t see straight. Then bend you over and fuck you slow ‘til you cry for me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod. Helpless.

“Too fuckin’ pretty like this. Can’t say no to you when you beg.”

He tugs his hoodie off one-handed. You get a glimpse of his lean stomach, the way his chain hangs against his chest, the ridges of toned arms from hours of dancing.

And then he sinks back onto the couch, spreads his legs and points.

“Come sit, good girl.”

You hesitate for half a second—and he slaps the side of his thigh with a sharp smack.

“I said. Sit.”

You climb into his lap. He holds you in place, arms locked around your waist, his thigh pressing right there, and begins to rock you.

And the feeling? Oh, it's heaven. You're simply melting.

You’re already gasping before you’ve even started.

The heat of his thigh against your bare cunt—muscle flexed just enough to grind into that aching spot—makes your legs weak before they’ve even moved. Felix doesn’t rush you. He just watches. One arm around your waist, the other relaxed across the top of the couch like he has all the time in the world. And those eyes?

They ruin you. All heat and hunger, waiting for the show.

“Go on,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Make a mess for me.”

You brace your palms on his shoulders, shaky, breath trembling. The first grind of your hips feels dangerous. Too much friction, too much slick, not enough rhythm—but fuck, it hits.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, voice dropping further. “Rub that needy little pussy on my leg. Just like that. C’mon.”

You gasp. Then whine.

Your hips start moving on instinct—small at first, trying to chase pressure without falling apart too fast. But Felix’s leg is solid. Flexed. Perfect. Every roll of your body sends your clit dragging against muscle, and you can feel the wetness soaking through both layers already.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

You whimper, nails clutching at his hoodie sleeve. “Felix—”

“No.”

He grabs your chin and forces your eyes to meet his. “Not ‘Felix.’ Not when you’re like this.”

His lips hover right over your cheek, voice velvet and vicious in your ear.

“Try again, baby. What do you call the man ruining you?”

Your whole body stutters—hips still rocking, cunt dragging shamelessly over his thigh.

“D-Daddy—”

He moans, low and filthy, like the word alone strokes his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it. Knew you’d sound perfect saying it. Say it again while you ride me.”

You do. Over and over. Falling into it like a prayer. His name. His title. Your surrender. Your cunt is throbbing, twitching—your thighs slipping from the slick and heat of your own arousal. The more you chase it, the more you shake.

“You close?” he whispers, pressing his lips to the corner of your jaw. “You gonna cum just from my thigh like the good girl you are?”

You nod. Desperate. “Please, please—need it—need to—”

“Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

The moment you let go, it breaks you. You cry out—body seizing, vision spotting, hips still moving even as your muscles twitch through the overload. It’s too much. Not enough. You want to scream, moan, sob—and all that comes out is his name, slurred and needy.

“That’s it, angel. There she is.”

You collapse forward into his chest. Your legs refuse to work. Your pussy’s still pulsing and he’s holding you there, firm hands stroking over your spine like he cares—but his cock is hard beneath his sweats, and you feel it press against your stomach.

“One down,” he whispers against your temple, smiling like he hasn’t just destroyed you. “How many more can my good girl take?”

You try to answer—but you can’t. You’re dazed. Fucked out. Sweating and panting, still twitching from aftershocks.

And that’s when you feel him lift you.

Arms under your thighs. Carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing. You cling to him, head buried in his neck, still whimpering.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I got you, baby. Gonna lay you out. Gonna fuck you slow and deep ‘til all you remember is my name.”

When he enters the bedroom, Felix lays you down like you’re made of something expensive. Your back hits the sheets—warm, soft, rumpled—and he hovers over you with his palms planted on either side of your head. His hair has come loose from its tie. It falls into his face, golden and damp, framing the sharp line of his cheekbones and the flicker of obsession glowing in his eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice a threadbare hush. “Fucked out already. But I haven’t even been inside yet.”

You try to respond—some tiny sound of need or please or Lix—but the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between overstimulation and begging.

He smirks. And then he moves.

“Arms up, baby.”

He strips your tank top off first, dragging it over your head like he’s unwrapping silk. Your skin pebbles at the cold air, nipples tight, chest rising and falling with shallow little gasps—and fuck, does Felix stare. His eyes rake over you like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of your ruin.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, almost like he’s not saying it to you—just… to himself. “So fuckin’ perfect. All mine.”

His sweats are next, undoing them—slow, teasing—and then finally pulls them down along with his briefs, letting his cock spring free.

It’s hard. Already flushed, leaking. Beautiful. So him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he says, crawling over you again, voice deeper now. “Thinkin’ about how tight you’re gonna feel wrapped around me. Thinkin’ about how good you’re gonna take it.”

And then?

Then he turns you over.

“Face down, ass up baby.”

You shiver. But you listen. You shift onto your stomach, arms stretched up across the pillow, chest pressed into the sheets. Your ass is bare, slick, glistening under the light. You feel the mattress dip as Felix settles behind you, feel the heat of his body as he palms your thighs and spreads you wide.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he growls, dragging two fingers through your folds, slow and heavy. “You’re dripping, angel. You need me that bad?”

You sob. Nod. “Please—need you—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to the curve of your spine. “Gonna give it to you. Gonna fill you up real slow. Fuck you so deep you feel it tomorrow.”

He fists himself—just once—and then lines himself up.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispers, thumb pressing into the small of your back. “And stay still. Let me in.”

The first push is agony. Sweet, stretching agony. His cock slides in slow—so slow you think you’ll break—inch by inch, until the fullness makes your eyes roll back and your fingers clutch the sheets.

“There she is,” he groans, voice cracking. “So fuckin’ tight. So wet. You’re squeezing me already.”

He stills when he bottoms out. Just holds you there—stuffed full, twitching around him, your thighs trembling from the pressure.

“You feel that, baby?” he whispers, leaning over you, voice melting into your ear. “That’s mine now.”

He doesn’t start slow.

There’s no easing you into it. No gentleness now that he’s buried to the hilt inside you. Just the stretch of him—thick, perfect, intentional—and the way his hands lock around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him sane.

He finally starts moving. Deep. Slow.

His hips drive forward in measured, devastating strokes—like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your insides. Each thrust rocks you forward into the sheets, your arms trembling from the force. You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch, every grind against that spot that makes you see stars.

You’re a mess. Whimpering. Gasping. Drooling on the pillow.

And Felix?

He won’t shut up.

“That’s it, pretty thing. Cry into the sheets. Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you.” “You feel full? You feel mine?” “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob. “Fuck—Felix—I’m yours, I’m yours—”

“Fuckin’ right you are.”

He leans over you—pressing your spine down, mouth right at your ear—and his voice goes low. That lethal octave. That ruinous, deep rasp that shakes your bones from the inside.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” “Taking my cock so deep. Letting me fuck you stupid.” “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna cum so deep it drips out of you.”

Your eyes roll back. Your stomach coils. Your voice breaks on a scream, “I’m gonna—gonna cum—Felix—Daddy—!”

“Do it. Cum for me, baby. Let go. Show me who fuckin’ owns this pussy.”

And you do—you cum hard, body locking, thighs trembling uncontrollably as you clamp down around him, crying into the sheets, wrecked and shaking and so full you swear you can’t take another second.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down.

“Nah, sweetheart. We’re not done.”

His grip on your waist tightens. One hand slides up your spine and pushes—forcing your chest deeper into the mattress, arching your back until the angle makes your vision white out.

“One more,” he growls. “You can take it. Be good. Be so good for me and take every drop.”

You sob again—loud, broken—but your hips still push back. You want it. You need him to fuck you through it, to stretch your limits, to claim every inch of you like you asked for this.

And he does.

He fucks you until the sound of skin-on-skin is filthy and frantic, until the pressure builds again so fast you can’t catch your breath. You’re babbling now, incoherent—his name, god, daddy, please—over and over like a litany.

“You gonna give me one more?” he whispers, ragged. “Let me fuck you dumb, pretty girl. Just one more. C’mon. Make a mess on my cock.”

You break again.

Screaming. Crying. Shaking so hard your knees give out under you.

Your knees collapse.

You can’t hold yourself up. You’re shaking too hard—legs trembling, muscles locking from the force of your second orgasm. Tears have soaked into the sheets beneath your face. Your hands have long since given up. Your body is boneless, fucked out, ruined.

But he holds you.

Felix grunts low, adjusting his grip as you slump forward. One hand locks around your waist, the other slides beneath your chest, hauling you up against him.

Your back hits his chest—slick with sweat. His cock stays buried deep inside you. You whimper at the stretch, the burn, the rawness—but he coos softly in your ear, kisses your neck like it’s his salvation.

“That’s it, baby. I got you.”

He doesn’t stop moving.

His hips roll up into you—slow now, but just as deep—while his hand splay across your stomach, holding you flush against him like he never wants to let go. Your thighs are soaked, your pussy is twitching, and fuck, you can feel the mess between your legs.

“So full,” he whispers, lips dragging across your jaw. “So fuckin’ wet for me. All mine, yeah? Say it, baby. Say who owns this perfect fuckin’ body.”

You sob. “Y-You do, Felix—yours, I’m yours—”

“That’s my girl.”

His thrusts stutter—hips jerking erratically now, cock twitching inside you as he moans into your shoulder. His voice breaks—half-growl, half-worship.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. “Gonna fill you up so deep, baby. Wanna fuck it into you. Wanna watch it leak down these thighs while you’re still twitching for me.”

Your walls flutter around him—tight, hot, soaked—and that’s all it takes.

He snaps.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh, fuck—”

His moan rips through your ears as he buries himself one final time and cums hard—hot, thick pulses spilling deep inside you while he holds you pinned against his chest. You can feel it. The way he throbs, the way he doesn’t pull out, the way his body shakes around yours like he’s giving you everything he has left.

And through it all—he kisses you.

Everywhere.

Your temple. Your cheek. Your shoulder. The curve of your neck. Gentle little presses, over and over, like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ perfect. My pretty baby. My good girl. Took it all so well.”

You’re crying again, but they’re not sobs now. They’re soft. Shaky. Your body can’t process anything but him. His weight. His voice. His praise laced with that worn-out sunshine that’s never left.

He holds you there. Doesn’t pull out. Just lets you sit in his lap, full and dripping, his cock still twitching gently inside as your breath slows and your limbs go lax.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

It’s quiet. Only your breathing, mingling. And the occasional kiss— his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, his nose nudging into your temple, his voice whispering like a lullaby.

“So good for me, baby…” “Took me so well…” “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head. Weakly. “Never.” you whisper.

And God, does that wreck him.

His arms tighten. He holds you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His mouth presses to the top of your head, then your damp cheek, then your lips—soft, slow, tender.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I love you so much.”

And then—finally, finally—he shifts. One hand strokes your back. The other gently cups behind your thigh.

“Okay, angel,” he says gently. “I’m gonna pull out now, alright?”

You nod against him, breath catching.

And he does.

Slowly. Carefully. The stretch stings a little—your pussy is puffy, throbbing, still fluttering around nothing—and when he slips free, you can feel the mess spill out of you. His cum leaks down your thighs, warm and slick, and Felix groans low in his throat.

“Shit, baby… look at that. I really did fill you up, huh?”

But it’s not dirty now. Not filthy. Not teasing.

It’s awe.

“Time to take care of my girl.”

His arms wrap around you as he lays down on the bed, holding you close, cuddling you. You’re still quiet. Not from discomfort—just overloaded. Floating. Felix is holding you like he always does after a long day—chest to chest, arms around your waist, nose tucked into your hair.

If it weren’t for the light ache between your legs and the twitch in your thighs, you could almost pretend none of it happened.

But oh, it happened.

You feel it in every nerve ending.

“You okay, my love?” he murmurs, lips ghosting across your forehead. “Everything feel alright?”

You nod, still dazed. “I think I left my soul in the couch cushions.”

He laughs—a real laugh. Bright. Golden. Felix. The soft boy you thought you knew.

Until tonight.

“You’re not mad at me, right?” he asks after a moment, quieter now.

You blink up at him.

Stare.

Then squint.

And whisper: “Sir.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Felix. Sunshine. Angel boy. Literal human serotonin. You just—” You gesture vaguely to the air. “You ruined my guts.”

His mouth drops open. He chokes out a laugh, half-scandalized, half-proud.

“I did not!”

“You did too!” You shove his shoulder, weakly. “You throat-fucked me with praise and then made me ride your fucking thigh. I’m pretty sure my ancestors felt that orgasm.”

He’s red. Like ears-pink, nose-scrunched, dimples-deep red.

“I mean… I did say I was gonna fill you up,” he mumbles. “But I also kissed your forehead. So. Balance?”

You gape at him.

“Balance?! You said I was your good girl while you were filling me up.”

“Because you are!”

You collapse into the pillow, half-laughing, half-moaning. “Jesus fucking Christ, Felix.”

He wraps his arms around you even tighter. Nuzzles into your hair. His voice goes soft again, syrupy with affection.

“Hey. You really loved it?”

You pause. Look up at him again. There’s nothing teasing in his face now. Just that pure, open warmth—the boy who’s been falling in love with you since the day you EQ’d his vocals for the first time.

And you nod. Soft. Sincere.

“I didn’t just love it,” you whisper. “I think I need it again. Like… soon. Maybe with handcuffs next time?”

Felix short circuits. “I—you—what—okay—”

You smile into his chest. "I like this duality. How dare you not show it sooner."

He groans. Buries his face in your shoulder.

“God help me. I think I am creating a monster.”

But you just grin, ear to ear.

"Damn right you are."

[pucksandpower]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[rafesangelita]

♡ when dilf!rafe and bunny!reader first met

warnings: suggestive language

a/n: inspired by this gif — it’s soooo dilf!rafe and bunny coded, i just had to include it in so y’all could get my visual.. and also feel free to read more about dilf!rafe x housebunny!reader here ! leave req’s or discussion posts about them in my ask box, these two are one of my fav au’s to write for!!

sipping on an ice water, you hummed sweetly as the breeze from your little handheld fan blew gently through your hair, the chilly air providing you with some form of relief against the blazing outer banks sun. you had been out here on the golf course for about three hours now, the fanny pack hugging your hips already filled with crispy blue hundreds from the wealthy patrons of the country club. having met your money goal for the day, you decided a break was deemed necessary, considering you still had a few hours left until you were able to clock out.

it wasn’t until you spotted a group of men swinging their golf clubs far off in the distance, that you decided to make your way over there, plastering on your pretty smile that never failed to make the men empty their wallets to you. one of the men had turned around at the sound of the soft hum of the golf cart engine, the other two following suit as you stepped off, the zipper of your baby pink lululemon jacket zipped down just far enough to expose your cleavage and the dainty little tiffany and co. heart pendant on your necklace. “hi, there!” you chirped, “my goodness, everyone here looks like they can use a drink..”

at your flirtatious tone, the guys exchanged suggestive looks with each other before a certain one with cerulean eyes caught your attention. he gave you a once over, his jaw clenching as you bent over to grab the flavored liqueurs you had in stock. he was so tall, his broad shoulders alone made your imagination run wild as you pictured your nails digging into his flesh, his sharp facial features causing an influx of butterflies to flutter in your tummy. “you’re a lifesaver, bunny.” topper, the man you recognized from yesterday, was quick to give you his drink order, both of you making small talk as rafe watched you intently.

he waited until kelce and topper disappeared back to their original spots before finally towering over you, a surprised gasp leaving your lips when you turned around and found yourself face to face with the man you shamelessly imagined yourself getting fucked by. “i’ve never seen you around here before.” his voice was low as he spoke, almost as if he knew what you were thinking and he was teasing you for it. “this is my second day on the course..” you trailed off, your cheeks heating as the space between you two lessened. rafe loved seeing how nervous you grew under his stare, a smug grin gracing his lips as you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“how’s it going?” he adjusted the cap on his head, the gold ring on his index finger glinting underneath the sunlight. despite making really good money at the country club, you knew this job wasn’t something you could see yourself doing long term. “it’s alright.. it wasn’t my first choice but it’s funding my shopping sprees so far, sooo.. good enough!” at the mention of shopping sprees, rafe cleared his throat. “what was your first choice?” he asked, taking a sip from the alcohol in his cup as you started twirling the ends of your hair. “well, i was nannying on the mainland, so i was hoping to do the same thing when i decided to move here, but i just haven’t had much luck..”

it was like a lightbulb went off in rafe’s head, his eyes flickering down to your glossy lips. “no, shit? you know your way around a house?” you nodded, your lashes fluttering up at him as he decided right then and there that you were going to go home with him. “my son is actually out of the house right now for school, but i would love to have someone there to maintain things for me.. maybe even meal prep or just have dinner ready for me when i get home from work?” you smiled sweetly, looking past him to see topper and kelce already packing up their equipment. “i would love to do that for you.” that statement was like music to rafe’s ears.

“yeah? can you start right now?” you gasped when rafe took your wrist, spinning you around so his frontside was completely flushed against your ass. making sure the guys were gone, and there was no one else around to see you two in this compromising position, rafe rested his chin in the curve of your neck before whispering in your ear. “you’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen.” his hand snaked around your waist, a shiver running down your spine as he slipped his fingers underneath your skirt and cupped you just in time for you to reach back and palm him through his pants.

“let’s get out of here, i’ll give you a house tour once i’m done breaking you in.”

[heartmix]

Private Screening - MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.4k+

Warning: Max being oblivious, mention of sad reader

Summary: You really wanted to go to the private screening of the F1 movie, but Max doesn't want to

A/N: messy and all over the place

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

To say you loved movies was an understatement. At any free moment, there was bound to be a movie on. Which is why when they announced they were making a movie about F1 with the same director as Top Gun: Maverick, you were beyond excited. 

The chance to watch them film during the season and also meet the actors made you giddy. Your excitement was more than all the drivers combined, which was hardly any, considering they honestly couldn't have cared less about it. 

Max was one of those who wanted to stay away from the movie. If he had the chance to decline partaking in it, he would have dropped it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately for him, his job forced him, and even more so, you would not stop talking about it every time a promo dropped. 

"Do you think you guys will be invited to the premiere or a private screening?" You asked Max one day while watching yet another trailer drop. 

"If we do, I probably won't go," Max said, not even batting an eye. It was off-handed and you knew you shouldn't have made it a big deal, but deep inside, you were a little hurt. 

The next week, it seemed like everyone was talking about the private screening of the movie for everyone who worked in F1, even down to the engineers. Knowing Max would decline meant you wouldn't be able to go; you were sulking whenever the topic was brought up. 

"What's with the sad face?" Charles asked, seeing your face drop as he and Alexandra were talking about what they were wearing to the premiere next week. 

"You're coming right?" Alex inquired, seemingly knowing what was going on, but she wanted you to be the one to say it. 

"I wish. Max doesn't want to go, and Red Bull is giving him an out." The fact that your eyes didn't meet theirs, instead focusing on the drink in front of you, was a sign that it bothered you a lot. 

"Does he know how excited you are for it? I swear it's all you've been talking about last season." 

"He knows, but I don't think he declined the invite to hurt me. He saw an opportunity to get out of going and took it. I know I shouldn't be sad about it, but I'll get over it." 

"Come with us," Charles mentioned. 

"What?" Your eyes snapped up to his in disbelief, thinking he was playing around. Instead, you found a genuine smile. 

"Oh yes! You can hang out with me! It'll be so fun!" Alex exclaimed with a big smile plastered on her face. 

"Are you guys sure? I don't want to overstep." 

"Trust me. It'll be fine." Charles waved off your concern, not showing a hint of worry. 

Leading up to the premiere, you were super happy. No more the gloomy state you were in. Max noticed it, of course, he noticed mostly everything about you. He was curious about the sudden mood change, but didn't chalk it up to anything. Maybe it was just one of those weeks. If it were anything important, he would be the first one you told. 

He didn't ask about it until the night before the premiere. He was lounging on the bed with the cats while you were in the walk-in closet trying to find something to wear. Not like you were going to be photographed, but there might be a picture or two that would be circulated. This was a big deal to you, and you wanted to look as good as you were going to feel. 

"Schatje, are you almost done? I want to relax and I can't do that without you right here in my arms." He yelled out, borderline whining that you weren't in bed with him. 

"Yeah, just give me a few minutes." 

"The race isn't for a few more days, you don't need to look for an outfit right now. Plus, in case you didn't know, it's in the city we live in. No need to rush." He tried again, but to no avail, you didn't come to bed. 

"Not for the race bubs. It's for tomorrow." 

"Going out with the girls?" He wondered, thinking he had forgotten that you mentioned it to him. 

"Yeah, you can say that. Alex and Charles invited me to the F1 movie screening." Hearing that, he got off the bed and made his way to the closest, confused. Did he hear you right? 

"The what?" 

"Remember the private screening for the drivers and crew. Well, since you weren't going, Charles invited me." You shrugged, not making a big deal. It wasn't a big deal anymore, now that you were going. 

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go?" 

"Because you said you weren't going to go before I even had the chance. Even so, you know I've been excited for it, of course, I would want to go." You sighed, looking at him standing in the doorway. It was foolish to think he wouldn't find out, but you didn't know he would make something out of it. 

"I'm sorry, you get excited for practically every movie. I wasn't thinking." He frowned, pulling you into his arms. You knew he felt bad, but there was nothing to hold against him. 

"Don't stress it. I know you don't like media stuff, and you aren't that interested in the movie." 

"Let me take you tomorrow." At this, you chuckled at his sudden urge to wanting to go. He was doing this because he felt bad. You didn't want to force him to go if he really didn't want to, and you know he didn't. 

"Don't be silly. How often do they let you decline something work-related? Plus, I'm going with Charles and Alex." 

"I know you're excited for it, and that's all I need. I'm taking you." The comment came out more as a statement. It was final. He was going to take you no matter how hard you tried to convince him. 

"It's the night before, what are you going to tell the team?" 

"Im Max Verstappen, 4 time world champion. What are they going to do? Decline me?" He had that famous Max Verstappen smugness in his tone. One that would eat everyone up. 

"And your fans say you're humble." You rolled your eyes, and he couldn't help but chuckle. 

Like it was planned all along, you and Max were making your way up the steps of the theater. Cameras flashed from all around you, but you didn't care about any of that. The only thing you cared about was watching the movie. 

"Max! Looks like you made it!" You looked up to the Red Bull social media, Jessica already with a phone fired up in her hand. 

"I did." He said with a slight smile, his way of telling her it was okay to film. 

"Are you excited to see the movie?" She said, holding up the camera to get it all on record.

"My girls' excited about it, so that means I am too." At this comment, you could feel the heat rise to your face, and you tried to look anywhere but the camera. You felt Max's eyes peering down at you, and from he corner of your eyes, you saw Jessica smirking while filming you. Whether it was the bluntness of Max or the numbers it will do on social media, she loved the comment either way. 

"We are glad to have you both." She smiled before ending the video and putting her phone down, thanking you both for the content. 

"Well, well, well, look who decided to show up." Charles' voice came in right from behind you guys with Alex on his arm. 

"Did she tell you about the situation?" Max groaned, not liking Charles' smug look. 

"I knew, I just got the confession out of her." Alex shrugged like it was nothing. 

"Well, all that matters is I'm going to have the chance to see the movie a whole month early. Speaking of you guys should hurry up and do press so we can get to the actual movie." You pushed the two drivers away in the direction of where the rest of them were. 

"You practically begged me to come, now you're getting rid of me?" Max couldn't help but tease. 

With a raised eyebrow, you looked at him in disbelief, "If I remember correctly, you begged me to let you take me." 

"Same thing." 

"Will you just go? I'll meet you inside." Rolling your eyes yet again, this pulled a laugh out of him.  

"Save me a seat?" 

"Least I could do." You smiled before he pulled you in for a kiss. 

[piastappies]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 GORGEOUS! ᡣ𐭩ᯓ

pairing. oscar piastri x leclerc!reader

summary. the youngest leclerc was known to be an outgoing, extroverted menace, but suddenly when she meets the new mclaren driver, she does something she never does — gets embarrassing.

notes. a fair warning for the google translated french.im sorry if it sucks 😭😭 its my first time doing something like this and i really hope u like it :3 ALSO??? OSCAR WIN IN BAKU WAS SO BEAUTIFUL THE OVERTAKE?? THE DEFENDING?? a great day for piastrination!!!!! (can you tell i totally dig x leclerc!reader??) send requests for more smaus pls :)

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, arthur_leclerc and 127 621 others.

yourusername spreading the rbr agenda on the streets of kyoto, because your girl finally graduated journalism and engineering with honours!

view all comments!

arthur_leclerc charles just saw the jacket and had an aneurysm LMAO

user1 someone check on leclerc pls

charles_leclerc cant believe my OWN baby sister wears that in public

yourusername ill take it off once ferrari releases their own energy drink 👍

alexandrasaintmleux gorgeous as usual ❤️

yourusername please dump my brother and date me instead

yourusername please i beg you

yourusername JUST ONE CHANCE 😭😭😣😣😣😭😭

user2 yn is one of us

maxverstappen1 looking good in blue! 💙

loved by author!

yourbff girl land that job or you gon go broke soon with that red bull addiction 👎👎👎

user3 atp yn is sponsoring the team 😭

yourbff you bet she is, girl

user4 double major in such different things pop off queen

user5 need to see her in paddock cos i know the girl is bout to argue with ferrari engineers

yourusername bin*tto left ferrari cos he knew i would drag him down 😁😁😁

user6 love how we had to go thru the 2023 drought without the baby leclerc and now shes baaaack

user7 fr i missed the times when ferrari wasnt the only thing making charles miserable

user7 congratulations on graduating queen!!!! cant wait for the new vid or to see u at one of the races 🥺

user8 im sorry im really new to f1 stuff who is she and why are the drivers here? 😭

user9 this is charlies sister yn!! but she has her youtube channel where she used to post a lot of diff stuff! shes been living in japan for the past four years of her undergrad degrees but due to the workload she had a hiatus for a year 💔💔 u should check out her channel its so cool

arthur_leclerc

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 320 612 others.

arthur_leclerc good day in monaco today, changing professions to a photographer rn, what u think of that?

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user10 arthur you had one job to bring your sister to paddock…

user11 its just friday girl calm down

yourusername please restrain yourself from posting pictures of that ugly face you see in the mirror

yourusername …WHO IS IN THE SECOND SLIDE

yourusername ARTHUR ANSWER ME

yourusername my ovaries are quacking rn ARTHUR ANSWER ME

user12 not yn simping over oscar AND calling arthur ugly 😭😭😭

user13 shes so me tbh

charles_leclerc such a handsome man on the third slide 🔥🔥🔥

olliebearman why is yn tweaking like that 😭

yourusername cos he’s so pretty

oscarpiastri you were supposed to send me the picture not POST IT

user14 this is the guy yourusername 🔥‼️‼️

yourusername omg hes SO gorgeous

oscarpiastri thank you…?

arthur_leclerc yourusername please stop embarrassing the family name

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 101 892 others.

yourusername a quick pit stop in paris before the monaco course is broken!!!!!! (source: trust me bro 🙂‍↕️) drinking for my pookie dookiest brother to secure that pole and p1 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

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yourusername dont let the caption fool you, i am NOT stopping drinking vodka red bull to make sure rbr doesn’t lose their biggest sponsor (me)

maxverstappen1 ty for your service 🫡🫡

yourusername no prob pookie, lecfosi by association but a red bull girlie at heart 😌😌

yourusername big thanks to the autocorrect ❤️❤️❤️ youre the real one babe 🔥🔥🔥

user15 wait till she realises oscar is in the likes…

user16 ohh the girl is gonna be so messy 😭😭😭

user16 im all for it tho 🔥

lilymhe WHAT A GORGEOUS GORGEOUS GIRL

alexandrasaintmleux face card is never denied!

user17 oscar in the likes 🥹🥹

yourusername WHO IS IN THE LIKES??????

yourusername NOO OH MY GOD HES HERE

yourusername HI YOURE SUPER CUTE oscarpiastri

user18 SHE TAGGED HIM LOL

user19 she really want that dick…

yourusername i just think hes cute that is NOT a crime

oscarpiastri i think you’re really cute too :)

yourusername HXJSKSJJDBDJSJS

yourusername sorry a red bull ran across my screen 😭

arthur_leclerc yourbff please tell her she’s not as slick as she thinks she is

twitter

user20 what do you expect 😭😭 she probably partied all night before getting to monaco

user21 LMAOO RIGHT??? but if you watched her vids you know that the girl LOVES an opportunity for a party

user22 yn stronger than me because i’d kiss him on the spot

user23 alr weirdo… they JUST met

user24 he is probably weirded out like imagine meeting a girl who SIMPS over you in the insta comments… she needs to chill

user25 he won’t pick you 👎👎

user26 gtfo if he was weirded out he wouldnt be in the likes of her post or sayin he thinks shes cute lol

user27 the real gentleman out there 🥹🥹

user28 i need them together asap

user29 super delulu but i totally dig the golden retriever gf x polite black cat bf

user30 OMGGG I TOTALLY SEE THE VISION

user31 pls they just met and he was just being polite 👎 stop trying to get into their lives

yourusername

liked by scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc and 428 621 others.

yourusername HE DID IT!!!! I TOLD YALL THAT HE WOULD DO IT!!! MY BROTHER WINS IN MONACO. DONT HIT US UP FOR THE NEXT WEEK OR TWO!!! ITS CELEBRATION TIME!!!! aussi, charlie, il n'y a pas beaucoup de mots capables d'exprimer à quel point je suis fier de toi. vous l'avez fait et personne ne peut vous l'enlever.

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priniya translation! also, charlie — there isn’t an amount of words able to express how proud i am of you. you did it and no one can take it away from you.

user32 girlie might tell everyone she’s a red bull girl, but like the king sebastian once said, everyone is a ferrari fan even when they say they’re not or something like that 🔥🔥🔥

user33 CONGRATULATIONS CHARLES!!! FINALLY WON!!!

carlossainz55 ay cropped my ‘carlos p3’ out 😖😖

yourusername this is a celebration post for my pookiest brother you are IRRELEVANT rn

carlossainz55 that was harsh

yourusername win YOUR home race and i’ll post one 4 u 👍👍

charles_leclerc je t’aime mon lutin ❤️

yourusername je t’aime mon coco 🫶🫶🫶

oscarpiastri congratulations to the man of the day, such an honour to stand next to you on the podium xx

arthur_leclerc man you gotta stop commenting on her posts, she’s going insane rn

oscarpiastri i’m sorry…?

yourusername NO DONT BE SORRY DONT LISTEN TO HIM IM COMPLETELY SANE

yourusername oscarpiastri please keep interacting with me i’m gonna die if you listen to arthur

oscarpiastri i guess i gotta text you now and then to make sure you don’t die

yourusername please do that

user34 do they know we can see that??

user35 idc im eating this up

user36 oscaryn truthers rise and shine

user37 atp i cant tell if hes interested or if hes doing that for his own entertainment

user38 probably both

user39 i LOVE how a celebration post for charles turned into an opportunity to flirt with oscar 😭😭

user40 she is NOT stronger than me because if i had a chance i’d took it

user41 setting her priorities straight

oscarpiastri

liked by landonorris, yourusername and 792 721 others.

oscarpiastri a quick but very much needed pit stop before zandvoort

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user42 someone check on yn ASAP

user43 yn one of us once again because we couldn’t bag oscar either 😭

user44 can yall stop talking abt that girl FOR ONCE no one gaf

landonorris looking good mate

liked by the author!

yourusername pls tell me you found more of these beautiful seashells and brought some back for me

oscarpiastri we did actually! y immediately thought abt you and picked the pretty ones

yourusername GOD. i love her give her a big hug from me

oscarpiastri will do maam 🫡🫡

user45 so it’s not yn in the pics?? NOOOOO

user46 my life is ruined rn

user47 throwing oscaryn into a memory box because oscar and his gf looks really cute together

charles_leclerc hope you had a great summer mate

oscarpiastri the best 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

user48 what if they r just trolling us because this caption looks really similar to the one yn posted before monaco???

user49 OMGGG YOURE ONTO SOMETHING

user50 hopefully on the way to the psych ward because this is some delulu shit

user51 soft launch over the summer 🥹🥹 hes so cute

user52 whoever his girl is, i just hope they’re happy and yall should too!

yourusername also plsplspls can y send me the id to the top?? it looks so cute from the back

user53 girl he wont choose you stop trying so hard 😭😭

user54 they can be friends ? lol

user55 does someone knows who the girl is???? i need to know its not yn 😭😭

user56 georgerussell63 tell us what you know 🫵🫵

georgerussell63 🤐🤐🤐

alex_albon he’s actually crying and gritting his teeth because he’d LOVE to tell

gossipracegirl

liked by georgerussell63, user57 and 87 621 others.

gossipracegirl a rumour has it that a driver for formula one with a number eighty one was seen getting cozy with one of his on-track rival’s little sister, while in a relationship. was it a drunken mistake or was it all planned?

tagged oscarpiastri yourusername

view all comments!

user58 something is really wrong with leclercs one is a homie hopper and second is a homewrecker LOL

user59 shouldve happened in monaco so the people could get detained for invading their priacy like wtf WHO CARES

user60 all she do is bring bad pr to oscar BOO👎👎👎

user61 nooo oscar pookie you were supposed to be free from drama 😭😭

user62 gr63 in the likes LMAOO

user63 not yn being a homewrecker girl i liked u sm 😭😭

user64 yall acting like she’s in the wrong ? it gotta be consensual if they looked that chill n happy

user65 no wonder why yn has been streaming olivia rodrigo RELIGIOUSLY

user66 isnt that some type of incest atp?

user67 LMAOO imagine making out with your brother’s adopted son

yourusername

liked by pascale_leclerc, oscarpiastri and 273 811 others.

yourusername YALL THOUGHT. it was me all along :P i was giggling n kicking my feet pretending i know osco’s gf while it was ME. summer break vlog with osco coming up sooner than u think so please stop calling me a homewrecker 😖😖😖

also, girls don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, being yourself is what gets you an amazing guy even if your brother thinks youre embarrassing <3

tagged oscarpiastri

view all comments!

georgerussell63 ty for not SLACKING OFF anymore i barely could hold it inside 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

yourusername you told HALF the grid be for real brother you DID NOT hold it inside

fransisca.gomes no way oscar bagged you before i could 😭😭😭😭

yourusername i’m always gonna be yours kiks no one could take you away from me <3

francisca.gomes <3

pierregasly really thought getting u a bf would mean you leave MY girl alone

yourusername thinking is not your best thing, stick to racing

user68 shit user48 YOU WERE RIGHT

user48 NEVER DOUBT ME BITCHES

user69 this text?? oh he is down bad for you girl

user70 i need all of those bitches who called yn a homewrecker to APOLOGISE like rn

oscarpiastri thank you for letting me be a part of your life like this

user71 i know the girl is GIGGLING rn

yourusername thank YOU for making a part of YOUR life

user72 get yourself a man who THANKS you for being with you

user73 oscar piastri is the MAN

user74 osco 🥹🥹

user75 theyre the cutest your honour

arthur_leclerc cant believe you two are actually together

arthur_leclerc what is WRONG with you oscarpiastri

user76 SO OPPOSITES DOES ATTRACT

charles_leclerc i feel like i should tear those adoption papers apart no?

user77 nicole and pascale in the likes omg the moms r proud 🥹

hattiepiastri i miss youuuu come back to aus soon

yourusername I MISS YOU TOO 😭😭 i’ll be back soon!!

lorenzotl ❤️❤️❤️

liked by the author!

lilymhe double date when?

yourusername mark your calendar, we’ll be there 🫶

user78 does it mean we lose our favorite rbr girlie? 😭😭😭😖😖

user79 mclaren YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM US 🫵

yourusername i am NOT wearing that ugly orange for a MAN (even if hes super gorgeous and sweet)

mclaren ☹️☹️☹️

landonorris it’s papaya

yourusername “it’s papaya” ☝️🤓

landonorris oscarpiastri please break up with her or you’re gonna be paying for my therapy

oscarpiastri send the bill mate, i’m in for the longest ride possible here

[fics-lovebot]

enhypen fic recs pt.5

main masterlist - pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 4

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

these are my personal favs, so pls reblog if you like any of my recs❤️

kiss me, he´s watching - ( @enhaflixer ) smut, fake bf!Heeseung x being stalked!reader - You kissed Heeseung to escape your stalker’s gaze—this is diffferentttt, i loved reading it sm, felt like a movie

cherry trees - ( @enhaflixer ) smut, angst, fluff, second chandce rom, arranged husband!Jungwon x trophy wife!reader - WHEWWWW this was intenssee, I LOVE WHEN MEN FUCK UP AND THEN GO INSANE :p. also, the whole plot felt real, like hard work was being put in to fix everything. deff one of my jungwon favs out there

change your ticket - ( @demusewriter ) so much fluff, Idol!Jungwon x Non-idol!reader. yESSSss, loved the yearning

the grinch that stole my… pants? - ( @mandukkul ) fluff, crack. bf!ni-ki x fIreader, established relationship. nahh this is so cute, reader is valid af

quacked up - ( @veilstqr ) downbad!ni-ki, fluff and crack x ni-ki being whipped and the members not letting him breathe. jungwon is so wrong for that lmao, poor niki

rich boy enha - ( @blairbliss ) fluff, rich!ot7, this is like my dream come true. rICH PRETTY MEN IN LOVE, THAT´S WHAT IM ABOUT

faces and sounds they make - ( @enhaflixer ) smut, ot7. YESSSSSSSSSSSSS, i have no words. this had me grinning like a gremling. yall know that one freaky sonic gif? yeah.

between the shelves - ( @liuhsng ) fluff, strangers to lover, soulmate au, alpha!jake, omega!reader, alpha!enha. I LOVEDDD THISSSSSSS, jake´s so dreamy cool and collected, got me giggling and kicking my feet

perv!sunghoon - ( @urlovebot ) smut. MY JAW IS ON THE FLOOR. this is crrraazzzzyyyyyyyyyyyyy

the price of perfection - ( @woniedarlin ) angst, fluff, academic rival!jake, academic pressure. now now, i know i said i hate those academy rivals, work rivals, enemies to lovers tropes, and i do!, BUUTTT this one´s differente. They aren´t really rivals, she´s just jealouse and jake´s just vibing lmao, but they end up being what each other´s need

king of tears - ( @enhaflixer ) ANGST, fluff, smut. Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon, slow burn, second chance rom. WHAT COMES AFTER 7???? this is honestly amazing, i´ve never read a kdrama inspired fic like this one, so so good. and as the Angsty Fic Ambassador, i aprove tf out of this skdjfkjf, also SUNOO AND NIKI HAD ME CACKLING. After you´re done, read this one too

heavy little love - ( @hazelira ) fluff :´(. dad!heeseung, this is so wholesome, so beautiful. i also believe he´s such a boy dad idk idk.

i´ll never let that happen again - ( @semisasseater ) fluff, angst, protective bf!niki. this one´s for my delulu riki stans, ik you´ll like it :p

take me back! - ( @heeseung64 ) text au, suggestive. desperate ex!hee, bad bitch!reader as she should. sdfkjskj this ones funny af, i do like them a lil crazy anyway

the dollmaker - ( @faeyun ) smut, fluff lowk, husband!sunghoon, dark gothic heavy themes (read warnings). YUUUPPPP, this is an art piece right here. wowwww, author i love ur brain, i´ve never read anything like this!

wrong contact - ( @heeseung64 ) text au, best friend!enha. love love accidental confessiones sjdskjf had me giggling and kicking my feet like the delulu ass bitch i am

off the ice - ( @luvsicktyun ) angst, smut, fluff. hockey player!jake, pregnant!reader, college au, accidental pregnancy trope. this is gewddd, i love how this is written. reader feelings are so so valid and real, getting pregg after a ons by a man who´s future doesn´t seem to include being a father whatsoever is scary af, luckily this is sim jake we´re talking about

beneath the blue - ( @enjakey ) fluff, smut, the plot is EVERYTHING. marine engineer!Jake x marine biologist!Fem!Reade. HOW DOESNT THIS HAVE LIKE +30K NOTES??????? THIS IS A WHOLE MOVIE, ARE YOU KIDDING ME????? people really don´t appreciate lengthy, detailed, beautifully written fics with a thick-interesting-innovating plot anymore and that´s fucking sad. author, this is a MASTERPIECE

caught in my web - ( @fatalhoon ) fluff, crack. spiderman!jake, loser!jake, bsf!reader, school au. this is so cuuteeee and jake aint sleek at all lmao

just married - ( @bywons ) FLUFF, down bad!sunghoon (YOU ALREADY KNOW IM EATING TS UPPP), drunk!sunghoon, not him wanting to elope and get married after breakdancing at a friend´s wedding, i love this sm

hoodie thief - ( @tobiosbbyghorl ) smut, fluff, roomamate!sunghoon, he´s a total boobs guy (canon) so him losing it over them isn´t strange lmao, loved this

richman´s world - ( @okwonyo ) text au, fluff, ceo!jay. ahaha i´m gonna crash tf oUT bc wdym HE´S RICH AF AND GETS TURNED ON BY YOU SPENDING HIS MONEYYYDSLFLSKJFHSKJH and he´s dOWN BAD TOO????? you´re done.

let´s play - ( @fgumi ) crack, fluff. not heeseung getting humbled by his own gf on LOL lmao

loser in a hot man´s body - ( @fgumi ) fluff, school/college au, loser bf!hee (LETSFUCKINGGOOOO) x hot popular!gf. i LOVEEEEEEEEE a hot man with a quirky personality who´s down bad for his gf, i eat it up EVERY TIME

my kind of girl - ( @okwonyo ) scenarios of bf!enha getting on their knees for you. wait why ni-ki kinda,,, afhalksfjhlajfhlah, i love this