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hellfirenacht · 3 months ago

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Fic Summary: Eddie had a casual thing going, but when that ends he realizes he has more options than he thought. SMUT

Tags: Eddie Munson x Reader, fem!reader, slightly-experienced!Eddie, virgin!Reader but don't make it weird, friends to lovers, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, porn with plot, or maybe plot with porn, drug use (weed), two idiots figuring things out, slightly ambiguous ending, no use of y/n, Reader is not described

Notes: No beta, what am I a fish?

Word Count: 7.8k words

Master List

Eddie had known he was being used, he wasn’t an idiot despite the fact that she thought he was. He knew from the second that she asked him to meet her behind the school what she wanted, and for once he gave in.

It had happened twice before, and with both of those girls he shot them down immediately and walked away. Aside from not being interested, those girls were too young for him anyway.

It was obvious that Heather wanted more than a dime bag when she sat at the picnic table. Eddie didn’t do subtle, and neither did she. He had been ready to turn her down and walk away but he didn’t. He should have, but he didn’t.

Maybe it was because she actually talked to him before the exchange. Buttered him up with questions about his band and his pins. Maybe it was the way she sat on top of the table and had her skirt hiked up to a dangerous level.

The most likely reason is that she wasn’t a kid and Eddie was just a guy. An 18 year old and a 20 year old hooking up wasn’t a crime.

It lasted longer than he thought it would.

Three months this went on, sneaking around and never being seen together. It had been fun at first, a little dangerous. For a while it made him feel like being a freak wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Hearing someone scream his name in pleasure was a lot better than out of anger.

The first month was the best.

The second month, things were getting strained. Rick always says that pleasure was the business, but in Eddie’s case the pleasure was ruining his business. He couldn’t keep cutting deals with her, and he was barely making enough to buy more from Rick. Plus condoms were way more expensive than he thought. Eddie would cheap out on a lot of things, but condoms and guitar strings were not it.

Heather was also getting bored by the third month. She stopped asking him questions and stopped talking to him. She didn’t even stay to cuddle, or she’d kick him out of her place after getting what she wanted. Sometimes even before he got his.

The sex was fun until it wasn’t. It became mechanical, uninteresting. Screams of pleasure now sounded shrill and fake like some of the bad pornos he’d sneak from the local novelty shop. Eddie found himself enjoying the company of his right hand more than Heather as the end of the third month came to a close.

It was a relief when Heather and Jacob were seen walking down the halls hand in hand passing Eddie’s locker that day. No words were needed, just a look from Heather that made it clear that it was over.

That was fine. He hadn’t been in love with her or anything, but it stung. Girls didn’t want Eddie Munson, they wanted the Freak, the Drug Dealer, the Guitar Player.

Okay fine, girls didn’t even want those things from him most of the time. Any girl that attempted to flirt with him was either clearly making fun of him, or just wanted bragging rights. Even those girls were so few and far between.

Eddie was never looking to be anyone’s boyfriend. He has other priorities; his band, his club, his friends, his van, his Uncle. All of that came before things like romance or dating.

Sex, however, fluctuated on that list. He was a healthy young man after all.

Wayne had just left for work, and Eddie had closed the curtains and turned off the lights in the living room before popping in his favorite VHS into the player.

It didn’t do anything for him.

Eddie waited for the excitement to build inside of him but the longer he watched the less interested he became. The moaning sounded too forced, and the girls just weren’t doing it for him like before.

But he had nothing else to do so he kept watching, not even paying attention. His eyes glazed over and he found himself thinking of anything other than what was supposed to be his distraction for the evening.

He wished he had a joint, but Heather had taken his last one. Rick was out of town for the next few days.

The only thing that snapped him out of his haze was the sound of the door slamming open, and you bargain in like you owned the place.

“Jesus!” Eddie jumped and grabbed a pillow and held it over his crotch, which wasn’t even necessary as his pants were still fully up and he was barely half-hard. Eddie panicked and scrambled for the remote, pushing every wrong button to try and turn off the stupid porno.

“Bad time?” you asked dryly, walking over and looking point blank at the tv where some blond chick was bent over a table while being pounded. From this angle it was hard to tell if it was in her pussy or her ass.

“Don’t you ever fucking knock?!” Eddie asked as he finally managed to turn the tv off, plunging the room into darkness.

“Not when it’s important.” You said, still looking at the now blank tv. “Are your pants up yet?”

Eddie set aside the pillow and turned on a lamp. “They were never off. It wasn’t doing anything for me.” He was being more honest than he intended. You two were friends, good friends even. Eddie would consider everyone in Hellfire a good friend. Despite his lapse in judgement with Heather, Eddie didn’t really do casual.

Eddie liked passion, he liked knowing that he was alive. He wanted to feel wanted. Maybe that’s why he spent those three months with Heather. At least she tried to make him feel wanted for a moment before she got bored.

You turned around to look at him with a disappointed frown.

“What? Can’t a man enjoy an evening alone with his porno collection?” Eddie asked. It wasn’t like you to be judgemental about sex, he knew for a fact that you had your own small collection of dirty pictures and romance books.

You took a deep breath and sat next to him on the couch, turning to face him. Eddie stiffened a little, noting the irony that every part of him was now a bit more stiff except for the part that he had wanted to earlier.

“Eddie... where have you been?” you asked carefully.

Eddie was surprised at the question and a little confused. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been here or at school or-”

“I mean, yeah.” you interrupted. “You’ve still been at school and running Hellfire, and at the Hideout but...” You stopped and furrowed your eyebrows as if you were unsure how to really finish your sentence.

“But...?” Eddie crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s like you aren’t around. We all keep trying to hang out with you and you keep blowing us off. You stopped hanging out after band practice with Jeff, Doug keeps trying to get you to hang out to talk about the new D&D expansion, and every time I ask you to hang out you say you’re busy.” You finally manage to say.

Eddie flinched, and rested a foot on the coffee table. “I’m allowed to have a life outside of school, you know.” He was being defensive, and he knew it.

“Yes, and that’s fine!” you said quickly. “You’re allowed to have other things going but I- we miss you.”

Shit. Eddie felt like a heel at those words. He hadn’t meant to blow his friends off for Heather, it just happened. He figured as long as he was still running the game and showing up for practice then everything would be fine.

Eddie had wanted to feel wanted, but had turned his back on the people who actually wanted to be around him.

Damn Heather and her short skirts.

No, that wasn’t completely fair. She had been honest about what she wanted. Heather wanted sex and cheap weed. Eddie, as much as he would never want to admit to it, had craved something deeper. Not with Heather, per say, but just in general.

Eddie was never looking to be someone’s boyfriend, but for a while it was nice to act like one. It was a complicated feeling.

“Sorry.” He said, more to the discarded pillow than to you. “Things have been weird these past few months. My schedule has just cleared up though so I’ll be around more.”

There was silence from you for a long while, and Eddie was worried that his apology wouldn’t be enough.

“Did she dump you?”

Eddie froze in place and he felt all the blood drain from his face. How had you known...?

“Wh.. what?” Eddie could only manage to force out as his mind scrambled for anything to say to either explain or get out of this conversation.

“Heather. I uh, I saw you two in the forest on accident.” you said, messing with a rip in the couch.

Eddie grabbed the pillow again and covered his face with a groan. “How much did you see?” he asked.

“Enough to know that she’s willing to be shirtless when it was barely 40 degrees outside.”

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie smacked his head on the pillow a few times as he heard you let out a small giggle.

“I’m pretty sure I heard her say that, too.” You said, catching the pillow he had tried to smack you with.

You grabbed the pillow and held into it now. “Did you like her?”

The question gave Eddie pause. “I don’t know.” He answered honestly. “I thought I could since she paid attention to me and at least tried to get to know me a little but...”

You put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a rub. “I get it.” you said quietly. “Sorry you got dumped.”

“I’m more pissed that I spent so much on weed and condoms.” Eddie admitted, feeling relieved that he had someone to talk to about this for now. “She cleaned me out of my stash, and Rick’s out of town.”

You gave him a shit-eating grin. “Who’s your best friend?” you asked.

“Jeff.” Eddie said immediately, not even thinking.

“Damn, that was cold.” you cackled, reaching into your pocket and pulling out the ugliest joint Eddie had ever seen. “I guess you don’t want to share then, so I’ll just keep this to myself-”

“Shit- wait- you-” Eddie stumbled over his words. “You! You’re my best friend. Right now.”

“Just right now?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Right now and alternating Fridays.” He promised.

“Good enough.” You decided as you handed over the joint.

He took it and stared at the slightly crumpled paper in his hand. “Who rolled this?”

“I did.”

“This is... shit.” he said. “Hold on, I at least still have some papers.” Eddie said and you rolled your eyes and he hopped up to run to his room.

“It wouldn’t be shit if I had my normal guy to roll for me!” you called after him.

“You had three months to learn!” He yelled back, rummaging through his drawers.

“I did, and apparently it’s not good enough for you!”

Eddie’s laugh echoed through the trailer and he came out, turning on a lamp as he did, and it felt good to actually laugh again. He began quickly disassembling your joint and reassembling it with fresh papers.

“I came all this way with a joint as a peace offering to make sure we were still friends and it wasn’t good enough.” You sighed dramatically, leaning against his shoulder with all of your weight.

Eddie’s head snapped up to look at you, but his hair was in the way. He nudged you off and turned to look at you. “You thought we weren’t friends?”

“You stopped talking to me outside of school.” you said. “We barely talked during Hellfire, and you’d always run off the second you were done with your gigs at the Hideout. I thought I’d done something wrong until I saw...”

Eddie let out a deep sigh and went back to rolling the joint. “Sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t just you, I was blowing off everyone-”

“While Heather was blowing you.” you nodded, leaning against him again. Eddie winced but did not argue. He licked the paper and finished the joint.

“Let’s go outside.” Eddie said. “Wayne’s been on my case about smoking inside.”

The two of you made your way outside the trailer, and further away from the park where no one would bother you or smell what you were doing. Just because it was a trailer park, it didn’t mean that some of the neighbors wouldn’t call the police for something so stupid.

The chill of late winter had turned into a mild spring, and there were patches of grass that weren’t as brown as the others, and a few were even green. Eddie led you to a nicer patch of grass that was down wind and lit the joint, taking a hit. It wasn’t the best weed, but it was free and he had no right to complain when you were sharing with him.

It was comfortable standing outside with you. Despite not having seen you in what felt like years, conversation flowed easily between the two of you as the joint was passed back and forth until it was no more than ashes under Eddie’s sneaker. You caught him up on any gossip you knew, while Eddie pretended not to care about how two cheerleaders were caught kissing and the scandal it caused.

The two of you drifted back to the trailer, collapsing on the couch. You leaned against his shoulder again and Eddie stared at the black reflected glass of the TV. Well, you two were high and he figured some background noise would be entertaining. Without thinking, he reached out and turned it back on.

The two of you were back on the site of the porno that Eddie had been half-heartedly watching earlier. The VHS had still been going, even if the TV was off. Eddie scrambled to find the right button to turn it off, forgetting in his haze that the tape player didn’t have a remote and he’d have to walk over and manually turn it off.

You, however, burst into a mess of giggles at the sight of the actress bouncing on her coworkers dick like it was her job.

Well, wait, it was her job.

“No, no, leave it!” You said as Eddie made a move to get up. “I wanna see what you’re jerking it to.”

You had always been open when it came to things like sex, but the high seemed to remove your filter entirely. Eddie leaned back on the couch again, so thrown off by the request that he couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

“So, is there a plot?” you asked, giggling harder every time there was a close up of the man’s balls. “Is she a poor young woman who couldn’t pay the plumber? A mishap with the pizza man when she forgot her wallet?”

“Uh, no plot.” Eddie said, his head swirling with the weed and the surreal situation he’d found himself in. Tonight he was supposed to be watching this alone as a pity party, not with his friend laughing about what got his dick hard.

Shit, was his dick getting hard?

“It’s just a bunch of scenes from others in the series.” He clarified, coughing. Eddie glanced at the opposite corner of the couch, groaning internally at how far away the pillow was.

“A ‘best of’ clip show? Not my usual style, but I see the appeal.” and despite your giggles, you still didn’t have any real judgement in your voice.

“Yeah? And what are you getting off to?” he asked, deciding if he can’t beat it ‘em, join ‘em.

“I like my porn with a little more plot.” you said, still staring at the tv. “It’s not enough to know that two people are getting it on, I need to know why they’re fucking to really get into it.”

“So porn never does it for you?”

“No, I’ll still get off to these videos, it’s just not as satisfying. It’s just easier to get off knowing that the woman is going to be able to pay for the pizza.”

This time it was Eddie’s turn to burst into laughter, which only made the two of you laugh harder. You slipped from his shoulder, face landing on his thigh was a small thud and another round of muffled giggles from you. Eddie was just thankful you didn’t slide face first into his boner, for a number of reasons.

When you made no move to get up, Eddie rested a hand on your shoulder, enjoying the weight of you with his mild high.

You pointed to the tv, where the current actress was bouncing at a different angle. “Did she do that?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, honestly. Fuck it, what was there to lose now? “She was more shrill though.”

“What about that?” You asked, when the position changed to doggy style.

“Did that, too.” Eddie sighed, watching the film. Watching this made him think that maybe, perhaps, Heather had been putting on a performance with him. “Usually in the van.”

“The van?!” You gasped, scandalized. “Eddie, we use that van!”

“We did that in the front seat, too.” he motioned to the new position on screen. “It... wasn’t good.”

And so, that became the new topic of conversation between the two of you. Every new position that was being shown on screen, you asked about and Eddie answered honestly. His boner kept fluctuating between half-hard and full mast as the two of you chatted.

“Was she your first?” you asked, when the conversation died down. Your voice was quieter now, almost hesitant? Eddie couldn’t be sure.

Eddie was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah.” he finally said. “I mean, I had a blowjob before last summer but... yeah. She was my first.”

You didn’t say anything to that, and Eddie wondered if you had fallen asleep. “Who made the first move?”

“She did. She was just in it for cheap weed and sex.” He wasn’t proud of it. “And it’s not like she was a kid or anything, she’s eighteen.”

“I know, I know,” you waved your hand. “You aren’t a creep.”

“It’s not like I’m drowning in options here in Hawkins.” Eddie said, feeling like he needed to defend himself, despite knowing you weren’t judging him. “Everyone at school is too young, and my reputation doesn’t really get me many dates.”

“You could have asked me.”

The words were so quiet, they were almost drowned out by the obnoxious dirty talk that the man on screen was doing to the woman. Eddie froze for what must have felt like a minute, trying to convince myself that you had said what he thought he heard.

“What?”

“If you just were looking to fool around, you could have.... Asked me." The last two words were even quieter, but unmistakable.

Why did Eddie’s dick suddenly feel harder than it had in days? Why was he now just noticing that the woman on screen had damn near the exact same body type as you? Why was he now imagining trying the position on screen with you?

You must have taken his stunned silence as awkwardness and so you pointed as the scene changed again. “Did she do that?” You asked as the woman started blowing the man.

“No.” Eddie said, and that got you moving. You sat up and turned to look at him, your face a bit too close to his.

“Really? No blowjob?” You looked scandalized and that amused him.

“She wasn’t really into oral.” Eddie shrugged. “I didn’t go down on her either.”

“You don’t do that?”

“No! Wait- yes-” Eddie was thrown off for the hundredth time today by your line of questioning. “I would have. I wanted to.”

“And she said no?!” This seemed to be the most offensive thing Eddie could have said to you. “She’s seen your tongue and the fact that you never shut up and said no?!” You were practically gaping at him.

“She wasn’t into oral.” Eddie repeted, glancing at your lips for the briefest moment before meeting your eyes again.

You could have asked me. What would your lips look like wrapped around his-

Jesus Christ, what was he doing?

You could have asked me.

You were an option this whole time?!

Time seemed to stay still between the two of you. Your face looked warm, and Eddie had a bad feeling his wasn’t much different. He swallowed, trying to decide if he was allowed to be thinking the thoughts that were now rushing through his brain of you and the porno and all your damn questions.

“Why the curiosity about everything?” Eddie blurted out the first question that came to his mind. “Wait, have you-?”

It was now your turn to be thrown off and you looked down. He really hoped his jeans were hiding his boner and that you weren’t looking too closely.

“Like you said, freaks don’t have a lot of options around here.” You shrugged, trying to play it off. “No one’s really looking to date the local burnout.”

“You could have asked me.” Eddie didn’t really know it was true until the words came out of his mouth. Maybe it was the weed, or the boner, or the porn, or the fact that your hand was resting on his thigh- yeah, you were quickly climbing up to the top of the People Eddie Munson Would Realistically Date list.

Fine, you were the only one on the list right now. But fuck, quality over quantity, right?

“You didn’t seem interested in dating.” you said, and he didn’t miss the way your eye flicked down to his lips for the briefest second.

Why the fuck was the tape still playing? Shouldn’t a moment like this deserve a better soundtrack than fake porn moans?!

“I don’t know if I’m really boyfriend material.” Eddie admitted. “I’m kind of a mess.”

“So am I.” you said in a half laugh.

Yeah, of everyone else in Hawkins you probably understood him the most. You had been a good enough student in school until you weren’t, and had dropped out when offered an extra year of high school. Eddie almost did the same, once, before Wayne convinced him otherwise.

What did Eddie even have left to lose? This night was weird enough.

The first kiss was fast, but firm. A press of his lips to yours for just a moment before pulling back. That movement seemed to sober you both up, realizing what you were doing. Your eyes were less hazy, far more focused and aware than before.

You mimicked the kiss, letting your lips linger just a bit longer than his before pulling back as well.

Neither of you pulled back from the third kiss.

With some awkward adjusting and shifting, you were moved to straddle Eddie’s lap, and his hands rested on your hips as tongue was added to the mix. He could taste the weed on you, reminiscent of Heather but without the cherry flavored lip gloss. Your hands rested on his shoulder, slowly rubbing down his chest and then back up which felt good. Then your fingers slid into the back of his hair and that felt really good.

Why hadn’t he just asked you?

Your hips shifted and pressed against the straining bulge in his jeans. “Is that for me or her?” you asked against his lips, motioning your head just slightly towards the tv.

“You.” Eddie didn’t hesitate for a moment, before sliding his tongue into your mouth before you could ask any more dumb or distracting questions.

One of his hands slid up and under your stomach, feeling the warmth of your skin there. He felt the way your stomach flexed slightly, as if he had accidentally tickled you and pressed his hand more firmly down. His hand crept up on instinct before stopping himself just before your chest.

Shit, you had just said you were a virgin, right? How far should he be asking to go-

The thought barely crossed his mind as one of your hands slid down his arm and pushed up on his elbow, elevating his hand those much wanted few inches so that his palm was now resting on top of your bra. Eddie groaned and gave your covered breast a squeeze, which you arched into.

Eddie’s fingers traced over your bra, squeezing occasionally as he tested out your reactions. His hands followed the path of your bra strap to the clasp and he pinched so that it came undone.

“Oh good, I don’t have to teach you that.” You laughed softly against his lips before pulling back to slide off your shirt. It only got a little tangled with your loose bra before falling to the floor.

Boobs.

Eddie was a simple man, and the sight of your chest out and free and bare was the most beautiful thing he’d seen all night. There had been plenty of tits on screen this evening, but nothing would compare to the real thing right in front of his face.

They jiggled as you laughed. “My eyes are up here- oh.” Eddie knew where your eyes were, but they were not his focus as he dove in and immediately latched onto one of your nipples while rolling the other.

You arched into his mouth, and tangled your fingers into his hair more. He groaned as you tugged at the roots at the base of his neck, and flicked his tongue against your hardened nipple. As he played with your tits, your hips started rocking against his crotch and Eddie tried to adjust himself so that you’d be rubbing against his cock.

“Knew you’d be good with your tongue.” You sighed, as he swapped to your other breast. You leaned down and grabbed the back of his shirt and gave it a tug. Eddie was quick to pull it off and toss it aside in record time so that he could get back to playing with your breasts.

He probably could have stayed there for hours if you hadn’t pulled him back up into a kiss, letting your tongue flick out to tease his before sliding your lips down to his neck. You pushed his hair out of the way, and Eddie tilted his head back against the couch, one hand moving backup to your breast.

“Hickies?” You breathed into his ear, which resulted in a full body shudder from him.

“Only if I can leave them on you too- fuck-” he had barely agreed before your lips had latched onto the side of his neck and began sucking hard. If he had any thoughts outside of how good it felt, he might have wondered if he’d be able to cover the forming bruise with his hair. That Monday he would be walking around the school with a low ponytail, where rumors would fly between him getting lucky or having been attacked by leeches.

“Jesus Christ...” he breathed out as you attacked the side of his neck, alternating between soft pecks, hot open mouthed kisses, and an assortment of hickies. “Thought you were a virgin.”

You pulled back, giving him an incredulous look; it was one you often gave him during d&d. “Don’t make this weird, Eddie.” you said. “I’ve made out before.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly and to try and salvage the mood he leaned in and nipped at your neck. “I won’t make it weird.”

“Save that for next time.” Your voice hitched and your hands gripped his arms as he started mimicking the way you had been kissing his neck. When he felt you shudder or grip his arm tighter, he focused on that spot until you started rocking your hips again.

Eddie slipped one hand down your side, resting at the top of your shorts and rubbing his thumb against the button. You reacted by reaching down and unbuttoning it yourself to give him the go ahead.

With you unzipped now, Eddie slid his hand into your shorts but didn’t get very far. The material wasn’t stretching enough and the angle was awkward for his wrist.

“Might need a different position for that.” you laughed as he removed his hand.

“Should we go to my room?” Eddie looked up at you, hoping that question didn’t backfire on him.

“You should turn the porno off, first.” you climbed off of him and grabbed your discarded clothes. “I don’t think Wayne wants to walk in on that.”

In the midst of making out, the tape had FINALLY stopped rolling, and was running through the end credits. Rewinding could wait, Eddie quickly ejected the tape and shoved it back in it’s generic looking sleeve. When he turned, you were already heading towards his bedroom, topless.

He had never seen a back that looked so sexy in his life.

You had dropped your clothes at the side of the bed, and when Eddie tossed the tape aside you grabbed him by the belt and pulled him close, barely giving him time to close the door. You were kissing him again, deeper and more passionately this time as the two of you scrambled to push down each other's pants.

Eddie pushed you onto the bed, and he had to stop himself from cumming in his boxers at the sight of you panting and in your underwear in his sheets. You were looking up at him as if he were the only person in the world that mattered right now, and there was a clear damp spot on your panties.

Heather had never been to Eddie’s trailer except once, when he had to grab a special purchase from his room. She had refused to come in, as if being seen at Forest Hills was an embarrassment. All of their time had been in his van parked in secluded spots, in the forest behind the school, or at her home.

Seeing you in his bed, wanting him, was too much to take.

He was on top of you again, kissing your neck as his fingers pulled down your panties. You kicked them aside as he started kissing down your body again.

“Please tell me I can go down on you.” Eddie’s head was hovering right over your hips, looking up at you.

Your legs spread at the plea, and you didn’t waste time with words as you pushed his head down to where he desperately wanted to be.

It took one lick of your slit for Eddie to be pissed at himself. He could have been doing this the whole time?! His arms wrapped around your thighs and his tongue dove in to explore every part of your pussy. You squirmed against his face, gasping and gripping his hair.

“Fuck- Eddie....!” you gasped, in a way that only encouraged him.

Eddie was quick to find a rhythm with his tongue that you seemed to like by the way you were letting out quiet whines. You weren’t nearly as loud as she had been, and so every gasp and sigh of his name was a victory to him. He spread your lips to get a better look at you and found himself grinding against his mattress at the site. You were wet, there was no question about that and it wasn’t just from his tongue either.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” your voice was breathless, and the corners of your mouth were turned up.

“I don’t have a camera.” Eddie nipped at your thigh making you jump. “...I might get one now though.”

“Not on your life. There’s no way I’m gonna let pictures of me like that be dropped off to an hour-photo.”

“What if I got a polaroid instead? Instant development.”

Eddie felt a special kind of high, the kind that only came when he was running a really good session or when he was playing with his band during a really good set. He didn’t know that sex could be more than just mindlessly horny- he was having fun.

No one told him that this was an option, dammit.

“Put a pin in that.” you laughed.

“I have something else I’d rather put in you.” Eddie said as his finger started to ease into you.

“Fuck.... if this didn’t feel so good I’d kick you out of bed.” you laughed breathlessly.

“Kick me out of my own bed?” Eddie looked at you amused as he started rocking his finger in and out.

“Wouldn’t even feel bad about ih--ohh- oh god-” You stopped talking, your sounds now turned into louder gasps and whines as Eddie curled his finger up and found that sweet spot.

“Found your off switch.” he said with a shit eating smirk as he started massaging your g-spot.

“Fuck... you....” you whimpered, your heart clearly not in it. Your legs were squirming as he stroked your inner walls, as if you couldn’t decide if you wanted to push him away or beg for more.

“We’ll get to that.” Eddie said and decided to put his tongue to better use as he leaned back in to wrap his lips around your clit and start licking again.

Eddie lost himself between your legs, and he had no idea how long he was down there. He always had an oral fixation, and was quick to decide this was now one of his favorite things to do with his mouth.

You were getting louder, which only spurred him on more. His tongue worked fast against your clit while he kept a more steady pace with his finger. When he decided you were as wet as you were going to get he carefully started to push in a second digit which slid in easier than expected. He was rewarded with his name being moaned, and your walls clenching around his fingers.

One of your thighs started trembling, which had to be a good sign. Your fingers tightened in his hair and your core was starting to tense up.

Eddie didn’t expect you to actually start begging.

“Fuck- please don’t stop.” you gasped out. “Please, Eddie I’m so close please, please please-”

Eddie had no plans to stop, and he would have happily stayed there all night if you let him. He didn’t stop his pace, keeping everything exactly as what he was doing because if it was working he didn’t want to risk you losing the orgasm he was working so hard to build.

You came with a strangled cry, and he felt the way your walls throbbed and squeezed around his fingers. He sucked on your clit until you had to push him away from over-sensitivity.

You were left breathless on the bed, your body completely melted into his sheets. Eddie wiped his mouth and moved up to kiss up your neck to your lips again. You had tasted so good, he had to share.

When he finally pulled back, he was looking down at you with what had to be a goofy smile. Those past three months were becoming less and less appealing in hindsight.

“You really never did that before?” you asked, tracing the puppet strings on his arm.

“I’m a quick learner when I’m excited.” he replied, and you pulled him close to kiss his neck again. The kisses were softer this time, as if an apology for the myriad of hickies he was sure was on his neck now.

Legs wrapped around his hips and pulled him closer. Your hands trailed along his chest, and Eddie settled between your legs. He rocked his hips, enjoying the feeling of his cock rubbing up against your pussy.

You pulled him back into a kiss, which was happily returned. Eddie was more than willing to give you all the time you needed to recover, though he would be lying if he wasn’t already thinking about other positions to get his mouth on you.

Eddie grunted as you suddenly pushed and rolled the two of you over, and you were now straddling his hips, grinding against his cock.

“Fuck” he groaned, grabbing your thighs. He watched the way your hips rolled hypnotically and he bit the inside of his cheek to not cum.

“Your turn.” You purred, your nails scratching down his chest in a way that made his eyes roll back and his hips buck slightly. His turn? Had Eddie ever had a turn? He was so used to being the one in charge lately, in Hellfire or band practice or sex- “Do you have any condoms?”

Eddie’s brain exploded. Violently. When he came to his mind raced for where he hed put the small box of condoms.

“Dresser-” he finally managed to choke out. “Should be on the dresser.”

You slid off him and walked over to the dresser, which was covered in discarded clothes, a cigarette tray and more than a few empty beer cans. He made a mental note to try and clean up more next time.

He really hoped there would be a next time.

The sight of your ass swaying and slightly bent over his dresser was one that he would engrain into his memory forever. He could name about a half-dozen W.A.S.P. songs that suddenly felt very relatable.

You turned around with the condom box, giving him a look that worried him. You turned the open box over and nothing fell out.

“Oh, fuck me.” Eddie groaned, sitting up on his elbow.

“Yeah, that’s not happening without a condom.” you said dryly. “Guess she really wiped you out, huh?”

Eddie fell back on the bed with a groan. “Yeah, I guess so.”

You tossed the box to the side and crawled onto the bed again, spreading his legs and settling yourself between them. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna leave you high and dry.” you said, placing a kiss to his hip bone.

He looked down at you, feeling his cock twitch at the way you licked your lips.

“Shit- you don’t have to-”

“Eddie, when have I ever done something I didn’t want to do?” you asked as your hand wrapped around his shaft.

“G-good point.” he choked out. Your hands were softer than he had expected and you gave his cock a slow stroke aided by your wetness that was still on his shaft.

“Just let me know what feels good.” you said, leaning in and licking him from base to tip. Eddie was torn between closing his eyes and laying back and staring at you intently as you played with his cock experimentally.

You leaned over him, using his thigh for a bit of leverage as you wrapped your lips around his tip and let your tongue slide over the sensitive skin of his head. He let out a low groan, trying not to thrust up into your mouth. You were being a tease whether you meant to or not with the way you were taking your time licking and sucking him.

“I can’t promise I can let you fuck my throat, but I’ll do what I can.” you said when you pulled back after a few minutes. Eddie couldn’t stop himself from laughing at how casually you said it, as if you were talking about fixing his amp for the hundredth time. “Something funny, Eddie?”

“You just said that so casually.” he giggled, remembering that he was also high from earlier. His laughter was contagious, and soon you were giggling again to.

His cock was only half-hard by the time you two were done giggling, but that quickly changed when you leaned in and wrapped your lips around him again. You slid him about half-way into your mouth before stopping, and wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.

Eddie Munson had been given one blowjob before the previous summer by a girl he met a town over at a small show he had been playing with Corroded Coffin. That night he had felt like a rockstar getting blown by a groupie, and hide rode that high for months.

You, admittedly, were not nearly as experienced as that girl had been but he didn’t care. Seeing you, one of his best friends, blowing him sent a thrill up his spine more exciting than the fantasy he had lived out. This was different and he was far too gone to try and figure out why. He just wanted to keep you here with your enthusiastic mouth on his throbbing cock. The way you were humming around his cock and looking up at him occasionally made it clear that you really wanted him to feel good.

No one told him that someone just wanting to make him feel good was a fucking option.

You sucked his cock as if this was the one thing you had wanted to do all day. Your head moved up and down enthusiastically and your tongue was everywhere. For the first few minutes you would occasionally come up to breathe before finding your rhythm and learning to breath through your nose.

Eddie’s orgasm came far quicker than he would have liked. He was still so worked up from eating you out and learning a lot about how he enjoyed sex that it only took about ten minutes before he was pushing on your shoulder to warn you that he was going to blow.

He should be embarrassed. Eddie was gasping and letting our sounds that were damn near whining as you pulled away. You were panting, your lips a touch swollen and eyes glazed over as you jerked his cock.

Eddie’s hand wrapped around yours, guiding it to the pace he needed to spill all over himself and his stomach. He really hoped that next time he’d be able to cum on your tits or in your mouth. Please, let that fucking be an option-

You grabbed his discarded shirt and cleaned him up, and Eddie made a note to do laundry soon. You wiped your mouth and collapsed next to him, and he reached for you.

He wished he hadn’t been so surprised when you easily cuddled up against him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I knew your tongue would be good. She really fucking missed out.” you said, your arm laying across his chest.

“I studied only the best techniques.” Eddie said, holding you just a bit tighter. Cuddling after sex (or whatever it was the two of you had done) felt just as good as getting off. Well, maybe second only to getting you off.

“How much porn do you watch?” you laughed.

“I have three tapes and a stash of magazines.” Eddie said honestly, because why would he need to hide that from someone he was so close to. Heather had once glimpsed one of the tamer issues of Heavy Metal that he had in his van and had rolled her eyes in disgust.

“We’ll have to swap material sometime.” you suggested, looking up at him. “Or we can do a movie night like we used to. Just more hands on.”

“So there’s really gonna be a next time?” Eddie asked.

“I mean, I’d like there to be. I would really like there to be.” There was a slight waiver in your voice, the kind that he knew when you were considering a risky move in D&D.

“It’ll probably be a while before I can afford condoms.” He admitted. “I’m kinda wiped for cash until Rick comes back.”

“Oh no. You’ll have to use your mouth on me again. How awful. However shall we go on?” you sighed in a dramatic fashion. “Oh well, if I must sit upon your face next time then so be it!”

Eddie could live with that. He was more than okay with that.

“Well, if you’re sure you’re fine with that, then I’ll just have to grin and bear it.” He said, matching your tone of dramatic exasperation.

The two of you laid there for a moment in silence, coming down from the highs of orgasms and weed.

“This isn’t going to make things weird, right?” you asked after a few minutes. “I don’t want this to be... I don’t know. I liked doing this with you, and I don’t want this to fuck up what we have.”

Eddie had been so lost in the strangeness of the evening, he hadn’t really stopped to consider the consequences of what would happen after. “I won’t make it weird.” he promised. “I’m not about to start being nice to you during the game just because you blew me.”

“Good, I’d be mad if you did.” you shook your head. “We don’t need to label this but.. If we’re gonna be doing this more, just know that I’m only going to be doing this with you.”

“I don’t exactly have a lot of people around here banging on my door to get a piece of this.” Eddie motioned to his dick. “Even if I did, I'd rather just be messing around with one person.”

You grabbed his flaccid dick and gave it a wiggle, laughing at the way it moved. Eddie felt that he should maybe be offended at you laughing at his cock, but he fought himself laughing at the weird feeling.

“Little Eddie isn’t going near anyone else.” he said as you kept wiggling it.

You dropped his cock finally, which had started to wake up again from the attention.

“Nevermind, I’m never touching it again after you called your dick that.” you cackled.

Eddie rolled over and hovered over you. “I can live with that as long as I get to go down on you again.”

“Oh my God-”

“Just Eddie is fine.”

You half-heartedly pushed him, your eyes alight as you looked up at him.

“So... when does your uncle come home?” you asked.

“Not until about six or seven.” He looked down at you, his cock already coming back to life again.

“Wanna go again?”

“Only if we can cuddle after.”

“Deal.”

By the time the two of you had passed out in his bed, Eddie had realized that maybe there was more to life than just the bullshit hand he had been dealt. And as you lay next to him, wearing one of his shirts while asleep next to him, he started thinking...

When given an option, he would prefer you as his first choice.

Author Notes: I might write a sequel later if I feel like it but we'll see lmao. This wasn't originally Eddie x Reader, it was just a character study but then I got horny lmao.

Tag List: @sheneedsrocknroll92 @ghcstpyre @wheels-of-despair @crocwork-clockodile @cyanfairywren @justalotoffanfiction @ihaventgotaclue-really

#nacht fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n

2K notes · View notes

diamonddaze01 · 6 months ago

Text

Full Throttle (i)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 20.6K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOOOOOW BURN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // eventual smut.

PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record

summary: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

a/n: this one is gonna be long. buckle in. this is dedicated to kae @ylangelegy , who was the one who pushed me to write this in the first place, and also graciously beta read this // this is also dedicated to alta @haologram , who watched me lose my mind over this for so long and gave me so much love and support as i wrote this. // huge thanks to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading and giving me their thoughts, especially about when things were too technical // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

read part 2 here! <3

FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit

The Australian Grand Prix had come to an end, but the buzz from the race still lingered in the air. The paddock had started to quiet down, though the echo of cheers and the scent of champagne were still fresh. Jeonghan stood at the edge of the pit lane, watching as the last of the mechanics began to clean up, the high of the win beginning to settle into a low hum of satisfaction.

His fingers absentmindedly brushed over his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him after the chaos of the race. But his mind wasn’t on the mechanics or the trophy waiting for him. No, it was on you.

You had walked away with that smug grin of yours, and even now, hours later, the image of you—cool, collected, and far too clever for your own good—lingered in his thoughts. The way you’d turned the tables on him, effortlessly making him feel like the one caught off guard. For once, it hadn’t been about the race or the rumors swirling around his personal life—it had been about you and the way you knew how to press all his buttons without breaking a sweat.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. "I should’ve asked her to dinner."

But there was no time for that now. The press was waiting. The fans, too. He needed to play the role of the cool, collected champion for the cameras, the last thing he needed was another round of gossip, another round of teasing from the people who loved to stir the pot. And yet, the thought of you, the way you’d made him feel a mix of frustration and something else entirely, was almost too tempting to ignore.

The crew cheered as he finally made his way back to the motorhome, the world still swirling in a whirlwind of victory and flashing cameras. But inside, it was quieter. More personal.

"Jeonghan!" His manager greeted him with a smile, the kind of smile that signaled the end of a long race and the beginning of yet another whirlwind of interviews, photos, and meetings. But Jeonghan only half-listened as his manager spoke, his mind flickering back to the conversation earlier.

"You sure know how to keep things interesting, don't you?" His manager chuckled, noticing the distraction in his eyes. "The headlines are still buzzing. You planning on setting the record straight anytime soon?"

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let them talk," he muttered, flashing a grin. "It’s part of the game."

But that wasn’t what was on his mind. It was you. The way you’d baited him, just enough to make him feel the heat of the moment. He had never been this distracted by anyone—or anything—before.

"You have a minute?" a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. It was his publicist, holding a phone in one hand, the other gesturing toward the press conference set up for him in the next room.

Jeonghan looked at her, then glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see you again. But you were gone, just like that. He gave a small sigh, almost imperceptible to anyone watching.

"Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this," he muttered, before stepping forward. Jeonghan’s footsteps echoed through the motorhome hallway, the thrum of victory still running through his veins, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the way you’d looked at him—those piercing eyes, full of challenge. He'd seen that expression before, but this time felt different. You weren’t just some reporter stirring up a bit of drama—you were someone who knew exactly how to get under his skin.

His publicist was waiting outside the press room, ready to brief him on the upcoming interviews and meetings. "You’ve got a full schedule, Jeonghan," she said, giving him the rundown with practiced precision. But Jeonghan barely heard her, his mind still distracted by the way you’d turned the tables.

"Hey," he cut in, slowing to a stop in front of her. "What do you know about Y/N?" he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The publicist blinked in surprise, and beside her, his manager gave a short laugh. "Y/N? You mean the reporter?" the manager asked, voice dripping with amusement. "The one you’ve had run-ins with over the past couple of seasons?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Run-ins?" he repeated, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "What exactly are you implying?"

The publicist shrugged, exchanging a look with the manager. "She’s been covering F1 for a while, pretty sharp with her articles," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Some of them have definitely gotten attention, especially that one a few weeks ago... the one about you and the whole ‘mysterious love life’ thing." Her eyes flicked to his manager, who made a face at the mention of that piece.

Jeonghan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d tried to forget about that article, but your earlier conversation (read as: challenge) had baffled him. "I shouldn’t have said anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But you know she always gets a rise out of me, don’t you?"

The manager snickered. "Oh, we know. It’s not every day we get to watch you struggle to keep your cool. She’s got a way with words, that one." He winked. "But hey, I get it. She’s a great reporter—sharp, clever—and always knows where to find the juiciest stories. You just might want to be a little more careful with what you say around her next time."

Jeonghan smirked. "Careful? Since when have I ever been careful?"

His publicist gave a pointed look, clearly not impressed. "That’s not the problem, Jeonghan. It’s that you tend to forget she knows exactly what buttons to push."

Jeonghan chuckled, his eyes glinting with a new energy. "Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m not so easily rattled." His mind wandered back to the way you’d smirked and walked off, leaving him standing there feeling like he'd just been served a dish of his own medicine.

"Don’t underestimate her," the manager added, half-joking. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know, no one gets a rise out of you like that without knowing exactly what they’re doing."

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose you’re right. But maybe..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. "...Maybe it’s time I gave her a taste of her own medicine."

The publicist and manager exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. They knew that look—the one Jeonghan got whenever he was plotting something, usually with a dash of mischief and just the right amount of charm to make it impossible for anyone to say no. The same charm that had gotten him into trouble more times than they cared to count.

"You’ve got your interviews now, Jeonghan," his publicist reminded him gently, pulling him back to reality. "We can revisit this later. Just keep your head in the game for now."

He nodded, though his mind was still fixated on you. "Yeah, yeah. Later."

As he entered the press room, he was immediately hit with a barrage of questions. The usual ones about his win, his performance, and his plans for the rest of the season. But even as he answered, his thoughts lingered on you and that damn article. You were always one step ahead, always stirring the pot just enough to keep things interesting. But now, it seemed you had caught his attention for real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was going to have some fun with this.

FORMULA 1 MSC CRUISES JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Suzuka Ciruit

The neon lights of Tokyo cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the bustling streets, the city alive with energy even late into the night. After a long day of prepping for the upcoming race, you’d decided to wind down with a quiet drink in a tucked-away bar that promised a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the paddock.

The bar was small and intimate, the kind of place that felt like a secret only locals knew about. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, and you found a seat near the corner, ready to savor your drink in peace.

But of course, peace wasn’t in the cards tonight.

“Y/N?”

The familiar voice made you freeze mid-sip. Turning your head, you found none other than Yoon Jeonghan standing a few feet away, his face lit with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement. He wasn’t in his Ferrari team gear for once—just a sleek black jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly casual in a way that somehow made him even more irritatingly attractive.

“Jeonghan,” you replied evenly, setting your drink down. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside you without an invitation. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Taking a break from the madness.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

“And what type is that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into that trademark smirk. “The type who drinks whiskey alone in a bar and pretends they’re not thinking about work.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m not thinking about work. I’m thinking about how nice it is to not deal with questions about lap times and tire strategies for five minutes.”

Jeonghan chuckled, signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Fair enough. Though, if memory serves, you’re usually the one asking those questions.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shot back. “And if memory serves, you’re usually the one avoiding them.”

“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.

For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”

“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”

“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”

“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”

“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.

You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”

“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”

You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”

He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”

With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”

Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets.

Damn him.

The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.

"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"

His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."

"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."

You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"

His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"

You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."

"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."

Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?

Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:

"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."

It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.

He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar.

You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.

You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.

"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."

You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."

He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"

"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."

"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."

"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.

"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."

"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."

You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."

He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor.

When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri.

The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped.

Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.

The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.

As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.

His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.

He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.

Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.

A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.

By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.

“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”

He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.

“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”

With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.

The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.

“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”

Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”

Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.

“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.

Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.

Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."

His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.

Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.

“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.

Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.

“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”

“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”

Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”

Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”

Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.

“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.

“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.

“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”

Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”

But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.

“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”

“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”

But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.

“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”

Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”

Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”

But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head.

You’ve got a crush.

He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.

He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.

No, it was you.

Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.

And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.

Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.

“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.

He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.

“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.

“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”

“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”

You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”

He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”

“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”

“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”

His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”

Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“There you are!”

Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”

“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.

Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”

Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.

“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.

FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco

The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.

Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.

You.

You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.

Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.

Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.

Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.

When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.

You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”

“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.

You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”

The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.

Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”

For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.

When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.

“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”

The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort.

"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."

You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"

He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."

It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.

You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.

"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.

You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."

You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”

His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.

For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.

“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”

His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”

There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.

You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.

But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”

He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.

Just another driver.

The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.

Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.

And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed.

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly.

Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.

The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you.

He clicks it immediately.

The headline strikes first:

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.

Mingyu?

Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”

That’s it.

No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.

Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.

But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.

He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his��secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.

By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.

As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”

He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.

The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.

He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.

What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?

He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.

The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.

The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.

What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.

He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.

It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.

The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.

In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.

It stings more than it should.

Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.

The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.

When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.

He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.

FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve

The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen.

You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.

The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.

As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

And then, it happens.

The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.

“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.

He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.

And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.

You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.

But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.

FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024 Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.

But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.

You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.

When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third.

Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.

You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.

"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.

"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"

You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”

The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.

"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"

Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."

His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."

His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.

“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”

For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.

He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.

Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.

For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.

The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.

Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.

By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.

The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.

You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.

And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:

Dear Y/N, In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers. We look forward to your continued coverage. Best regards, Ferrari PR Team

It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.

At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.

So, you agree.

The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.

You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.

It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.

Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.

But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.

Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air.

There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside.

The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay.

Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.”

A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration.

Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife.

“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury.

The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out.

The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him.

When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after.

But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet.

You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him.

Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching.

Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.

“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak.

Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.”

You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless.

“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?"

“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.”

A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been."

Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised."

A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore.

He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.”

“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you.

“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.”

The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes.

“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought—

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded.

You don't finish the sentence.

Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.

The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—

He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.

“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.

You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.

Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”

It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.

But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.

“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”

You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.

But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.

“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.

For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.

And for now, that’s enough.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring

The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.

You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.

“Back again?”

The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.

“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”

He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”

“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”

He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.

Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.

“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.

You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.

As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit

Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He’s back.

The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.

He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.

“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.

He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.

You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.

Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.

Jealousy.

The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.

You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.

You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”

Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”

There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”

The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.

Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”

His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.

Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.

The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.

When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.

Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.

The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:

I’m sorry.

You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.

You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.

He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.

The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.

The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.

Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.

Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.

The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.

There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.

You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note—just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.

“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.

He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”

You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”

“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.

“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.

He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”

Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.

“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”

His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”

You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”

“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”

Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”

Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”

You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”

He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”

For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”

“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”

“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.

He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.

The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.

You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.

You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”

He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.

“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”

“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?

He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”

You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.

“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.

The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.

“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”

Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”

Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”

He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”

There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.

“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”

Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”

You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.

As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.

The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.

You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.

Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.

You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.

He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.

You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.

“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.

You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.

Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”

“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”

Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”

That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”

“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.

You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”

You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”

His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”

He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.

The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.

Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens

The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.

But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”

Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.

“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.

He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.

FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.

By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.

Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.

But then came the penalty.

A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.

In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.

It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.

He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.

You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.

His gaze lingered.

It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”

For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.

Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”

Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”

His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”

You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”

The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.

As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

P10 to P1.

It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.

The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.

As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.

Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.

He took the corners flat out.

By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.

But then came the rain.

It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.

“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.

“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.

By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.

Your words came back to him.

"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"

His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.

"A more than fair chance to close the gap."

He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”

By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.

The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.

Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa

It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat. But what caught him off guard was the final line.

"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."

Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.

The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room.

Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.

Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.

“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”

Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”

Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.

“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”

Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.

The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.

The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”

He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”

You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”

“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”

You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”

Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”

His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.

Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”

Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.

He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.

You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”

“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.

“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.

Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”

You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”

“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”

“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—

“Jeonghan!”

A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”

Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”

He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.

The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.

Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”

Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”

The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Jeonghan!”

The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.

Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”

Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.

“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”

Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.

another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.

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thechaoticcherub · 5 months ago

Text

Cherub

Pairing: Priest!Joel Miller x reader

Summary: Reader is a student teacher at the Catholic nursery school attached to the church she attended growing up. While becoming disillusioned with being a teacher she runs into the church's priest that she has known since he taught her confirmation classes.

Warnings: 18+ please, large age gap, power dynamics, dubcon(?), priests, catholicism, lots of religious imagery, i mean i am GOING TO HELL, blatant blasphemy, violation of holy spaces, joel is a PERVERT, some mentions of him being interested in reader as a underage teenager(no actual underage anything), masturbation, sexual shame, humiliation, embarrassment, innocence kink, virgin reader, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, light choking(not even really choking), rough sex, pussy pronouns, no use of y/n, religious trauma, i really gotta underscore how much I violate holy things from christianity, smoking, cigarettes, cum play, lots of pet names, no daddy kink but lots of calling him Father

Notes: Okay please bless me lord for I have SINNED. this is FILTH even thought there isn't like constant smut it might be the dirtiest thing i've written? I'm so sorry to Catholics everywhere. And I'm sorry if I fucked up terminology. I tried to do lots of research but you know, liturgical shit is hard to understand. also yeah, i get how much this is more writer insert than reader considering the title. Ahem. I'm sorry this is again not really edited or beta read. sorry. Well I hope you enjoy!

OH! also: I have a playlist for this if anyone would be interested, let me know!

Word Count: 6.4 K

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It had been a long week at Holy Trinity Catholic Nursery School and you were exhausted, when you had first started your student teaching unit you had been beyond excited to be back at the church you grew up going to. You were familiar with the facilities including the big, beautiful sanctuary and the priest who still presided over the Parish was the priest who had done confirmation with you. Father Joel Miller had always been a slightly off-beat, interesting, yet intimidating choice for priest of a Catholic church. He was known for smoking Marlboro Reds in his office, having a scruffy unshaven face, giving short homilies in his gruff Texan accent and seeming more like a cowboy than a priest.

There was something about him though that had always sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t tell if it was a good shiver, or something sinister. He was handsome, that was a known fact around the church when you were growing up, the other girls in your confirmation class giggled about it and even now your co-workers at the nursery school often made jokes or teasing comments to each other. He had to be in his mid-fifties now with greying stubble and hair and lines around his eyes and forehead but yes, you did still find him attractive, but it didn’t shake the sense that your tingling sense of something might not have been entirely positive.

Maybe it was the simple fact that his eyes always had lingered on you for longer than you felt necessary. Even when you were a young teenager in his confirmation classes, learning prayers, handing in your sermon notes, sitting in mass every Sunday, you felt his eyes on you. You never understood what it was about you that made him look for so long but he had. Now that you were working on becoming a teacher like you had always hoped, you found that when he came to visit the classrooms, he spent his time asking you questions about the classroom instead of the lead teachers. That was easy to brush off as maybe he felt like he was helping you learn, but when you brought the children to the main church for their daily prayers his eyes would spark on you and he would come to you first when he gave a blessing to everyone. His hand resting on your forehead as he spoke his short blessing before drawing the sign of the cross on your forehead with his thumb, his eyes stuck on yours as if he would never look away. Eventually he always did, moving on to each individual child and adult from your classroom, but he didn’t linger with any of them the way he lingered with you.

Now, as the day was coming to a close you had snuck away from the classroom to try and escape the exhaustion that was working with children day in and day out. You had always wanted to be a Nursery school teacher but now that you were experiencing a classroom you understood why burnout was so common. You had made up a bad excuse and snuck down the cool hallway, away from the school portion of the building, to the candle lit nave, you weaved your way through the pews over to the side aisle lined with stone arches. You took a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of the cutesy dress you wore because of your ridiculous desire to be the next Ms Frizzle. In your opinion, just under the arches to the side of the pews was the best place to sneak away to and smoke without being in too much danger of being caught. The incense that was regularly burned covered up most of the smell, you could enjoy the view of the sanctuary and the altar while you smoked and it was usually deserted. You tucked yourself under one of the arches, your back pressed into the cool stone and lit up. Taking a long inhale you relished in the fact that you weren’t surrounded by screaming preschoolers. It was allowing yourself these couple minutes away from the chaos of the end of the day that made this week bearable. You smoked and tapped the ash off onto the stone floor, rubbing it into the cracks with your foot as you went.

“You ain’t sposed to be smokin’ in here, young lady.” The voice came from a few yards away by the priest’s door that opened into the sanctuary by the altar, you jumped and turned to face the man whose voice it was. Father Miller was watching you as he walked across the sanctuary, first past the altar and then the pulpit and down through the central gap between the altar rails. You felt frozen in place, you had smoked here multiple times and no one had ever come in and of course now, it was Father Miller who had found you here. He stood in front of the first pew and crossed his arms over his chest, still watching you.

“Shit,” you said, unsure of what to do with the lit cigarette. Usually when you were done smoking you’d put it out on the floor and rub out the mark and shove the butt into the pack to get rid of later. Now he was there and the smoke from your cigarette filtered up above you, curling against the stone arch and then dispersing.

“Got a fresh mouth on you too,” He added with a laugh. “Never knew that about you before,” he crossed in front of the pew, walking towards you. You felt like a small animal caught in a trap and he was some kind of giant predator stalking towards you. He was wearing all black, his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his clerical collar was bright white against the black of the shirt.

“I’m sorry, Father, I…didn’t think-” You broke off because really you didn’t think you would be caught, not that you didn’t think it would be a problem or anything. Joel’s eyes widened a little as he waited for you to finish your sentence, he turned at the end of the pew to walk along the side aisle to the first arch where you were still trapped. His finger grazed alone the wood of the pew,

“You didn’t think…?” He prompted when your voice faltered. You shrugged,

“I don’t have an excuse, Father.” You admitted. Father Miller walked right up to you in your alcove that you thought would be so secret and stood in front of you. You remembered how intimidated by him you had always been, suddenly you felt fifteen again, having to recite scripture and prayers correctly in your weekly confirmation classes. Your heart thudded in your chest as he looked down at you, he was tall, broad and as he stood so close to you, popping any sort of personal space bubble you thought you had, you realized you could smell him. Tobacco, cool mint, fresh sweat and then underneath it all, an acrid heat, almost metallic. It mingled into something not unpleasant but it did mean he was too close.

“Go ahead and smoke that, kid.” Joel’s eyes moved from yours down towards the cigarette dangling in your fingers and he nodded slowly, encouraging you.

“I-I shouldn’t…” You stuttered, still looking up at him, almost transfixed on his face, still frozen there half with fear, half just trapped in his gaze.

“No, you shouldn’t…but you already are, cherub, may as well finish.” Joel said and you watched as a sly smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. Cherub. Not typically did a priest use any sort of nickname for a parishioner, let alone a pet name like that. If anything they would say “my child” if in confession. Cherub sent that familiar shiver down your spine, a memory surfaced of that word on his lips years before. It had been to you then too,

“Say a hail mary and you will be absolved, cherub.” You must have confessed something to him or done something wrong in class. Your heart sped at the memory and your eyes flicked up to meet his. He was telling you to smoke, daring you to and there was no reason not to anymore. It wasn’t like he didn’t smoke in the church, Mr. Marlboro Reds in his office. So you held his gaze as best you could and lifted the cigarette back to your lips and inhaled. You blew the smoke away from him and he watched you, like he had so many times before.

“Aint you supposed to be with the kids?” He asked, still standing to close, his scent still wafting over you, still just watching you smoke.

“Yes,” You said softly, “But I needed…a minute away,” You didn’t even want to admit how much you needed to get away from your job, your responsibilities but the words spilled out of you before you could stop them. You hurriedly brought the cigarette up to your lips again, as if to silence yourself.

“A minute away…” Joel repeated, “To pray?” He asked, his voice mocked you because even though you were in the church, you weren’t lighting a candle or on your knees asking for peace. You were smoking and feeling bad for yourself. You started to shake your head, the cigarette dangling from your lips now, before you could even complete the motion his hand was on your chin, halting your movement. His thick thumb dug into one side of your jaw, his pointer finger curled down the other side. Breath, and all thought was knocked out of you. All you could do was look up at the chiseled face above you. There was grey in the scruff on his cheeks and peppering his mustache and his chin was tilted up as his eyes looked down on you, examining your face. The old priest shouldn’t have been touching you like this, you knew that but your feet wouldn’t work, your stomach twisted and the shiver running up and down your spine still couldn’t make up its mind about whether it was a good shiver or a bad shiver. “I think you need’ta get on your knees to pray more often,” his voice had lowered slightly but the gruff resonance in it was enough to shake you. You thought for a half second he was about to force your to your knees now but instead he reached up with his other hand and plucked the dangling cigarette from your lips. He put it into his mouth, inhaled and then removed it, taking a step away from you,

“Thanks, cherub.” he said and then he turned on his nice leather shoes and walked back up through the pews.

You didn’t return to the church to smoke again. You did tell yourself you would go to mass more often. The thoughts you were having about that evening were completely unholy, and you needed to force them out of your mind. You needed to take the Eucharist and try and heal yourself from these sins of the flesh. For the first time in a long time you had been tempted, really tempted to do something you knew was wrong. When you were young you had touched yourself plenty but as you got older you became more and more disgusted by your actions and resisted it, knowing self love was sinful, but that interaction with Father Joel Miller had you thinking things that made your body heat up. The crawling shiver up your spine had been a warning, a warning about feelings that had bubbled up in your tummy and how it would be so easy for those feelings, those desires, wants, needs to take over. It was your own dirty mind that was allowing you to believe it was because of Father Joel looking at you that you got that creeping sensation. He was a priest, a little bit of an unorthodox priest, but a priest nonetheless and you were allowing dirty thoughts to change your opinion of him. So going to mass was a good idea.

You didn’t allow yourself to look at Father Miller during the service on Sunday, but his gruff voice speaking his homily reminded you vividly of the way he said “cherub”. The way he had told you that you needed to “get on your knees to pray.” You could barely pay attention to his words because simply his voice, that resounding, husky voice did something to you and warmth pooled deep in your belly. It felt like there was a persistent drip of warmth sliding lower down, lower to that place that remained mostly unexplored by you, by anyone. All because of his voice.

You felt like it vibrated through the floor of the church and up into your pew, making you pulse with your disgusting desires.

You kept your eyes down, on your hymnal, refusing to look up at Father Miller because there was a quiet part of you, in the back of your mind, that told you if you looked at him, you’d be meeting his gaze. That would do absolutely nothing to help control that heat that was pooling inside of you.

When you stood to go to the altar rails and receive the eucharist your legs were wobbly, damn this weakness. There was no reason to sexualize Father Miller’s kindness to you. He hadn’t gotten you in trouble for smoking in the church and in return you were allowing these debased thoughts to happen to you in church on your way to receive the very body and blood of Christ. While you walked up the aisle, the crucifix directly in front of you, a statue of the Virgin Mary staring into your soul, you could feel that drip of heat wetting your underwear. You tried your hardest to tell yourself it was nothing, it was just natural discharge, not what you knew it to be, your body’s reaction to Father Miller’s voice as he spoke holy words, prayers and talked of repentance during his Homily.

At the altar rail you knelt down on the cushion and clasped your hands in front of you to pray while you waited for your turn to receive communion. You knew you would have to look at Father Miller while he gave you the body of Christ but you were scared, you had forced yourself to avoid looking at him all throughout mass, you hadn’t met his gaze when you knew he was looking at you and you told yourself time and time again that his gaze meant nothing. But your attempts to curb your desires had been in vain something about his voice, about the memories of his hand on your chin, his body so close to you, his smell had caused you to leak arousal into your underwear. Your labia felt swollen against the tight cotton and you were ashamed to be kneeling in church like this, your face was burning much like you would be if you were to be struck down dead right now. You could hear him approaching, speaking to each parishioner as he placed the body of Christ on their tongue and blessed them. You would have to look up at him shortly, your eyes would have to meet his, you would have to take in that face that had been haunting you while he spoke his blessing to you. He was on the person to your right and now was the time to tilt your head up, you almost didn’t but as he moved over, you knew your place as a good Catholic and you looked up at your priest.

He was just as entrancing as he always had been, in off white vestments with gold stitching, his greying hair pushed back away from his face, a little long in the back, curling around his neck and his eyes, dark and hungry, staring down at you. Your vagina clenched around nothing and you burned with shame and the memory of his big hand at your chin and jaw.

Your eyes locked onto his and his gaze held yours, refusing to let you go, there was no choice in the matter, you would gaze up into his eyes until the end of time if he wanted it. He held the body of Christ out to you, your head upturned. At the time you didn’t understand just how reverent you looked, all you could think of was him and the vague worry that your juices might have been dripping down your leg.

“The body of Christ,” Father Miller’s voice changed ever so slightly when he spoke the words to you. You had been listening the whole time you had been kneeling and now his voice had lost the monotone pitch he had had. There was a lilt in his voice that was only for you.

“Amen,” You said, you opened your mouth, your tongue very slightly pushed out, resting on the edge of your bottom lip, your eyes still captured in his gaze. Something blazed there, behind his eyes and despite the heat in your cheeks and the heat that was making your wet and swollen vulva pulse with a need you had never felt before, that familiar shiver crawled up your spine. Joel placed the body of Christ on your tongue and maybe you imagined it, maybe it was a split second that felt like it stretched into eternity but you could have sworn the tip of his finger grazed the side of your tongue as he took his hand away. That tiniest touch of his thick, calloused finger against an intimate and sensitive part of yourself made your brow briefly furrow and that deep clench of your sex to take over your body again. You closed your mouth around the wafer that you believed to be the actual flesh of your Savior and your gaze remained on the man granting you that sacrament. You watched his lip twitch ever so slightly as, without taking those dark, burning brown eyes form yours, he took the chalice he was handed and held it before you.

“The blood of Christ,” he said, you could hear that lilt again, like he was mocking not only you but God himself as he held that chalice out.

“Amen,” you said and he brought the chalice to your mouth, tilting it back while cupping his hand under your chin in case it spilled over. The proximity of his hand to your chin buzzed something in you. Your eyes remained on him and his eyebrows raised slightly as he fed you the Blood of Christ. When he removed the chalice from your lips, a droplet of the wine dribbled out of the corner of your mouth. You were about to reach up and wipe it when his thumb beat you to it. In one quick motion, he swiped it away, the calloused thumb leaving a trail of heat on your face. You felt him tear his eyes away from you like a punch to the gut and you knew you had to continue on. You made the sign of the cross on yourself, collected every ounce of strength you had and got up from the altar rail. You could feel your slick soaking your underwear, and wetting your thighs as you walked. You knew you had to beg for forgiveness and the only place to do that was Confession.

You knew you had to confess. You hadn’t been able to resist your carnal desires, once you had returned to your apartment after mass on Sunday you had tried your hardest to relieve that mounting pressure between your thighs. You had delicately stroked your folds and experimented with pace and tried to find a rhythm that would relieve you but as if as punishment, you couldn’t. Now, you needed to confess and to make matters worse, the only person you could confess to was Father Miller. You came to confession on a Friday night after school had let out. The hours for confession were set and you knew he would be in the confessional, waiting for perishoners.

Friday was usually silent at the church, the staff had left for the weekend and most people didn’t confess on a Friday. You walked into the church and down the side aisle to where the confessional was. It was tucked into the side aisle just in front of the very altar rail you had knelt at and drenched your underwear earlier in the week. Your cheeks were bright red as you stepped into the booth and knelt down in front of the partition, there was a screen between you and him but you knew he was there. The smell of him lingered all around you. Tobacco, mint and the acrid metallic scent…what could that be? If you had to guess you’d say gunpowder but that made no sense to you. Your body reacted to his scent as if you were being touched by him again, your body clenched and your heart skipped a beat.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…” You actually had to think about it for a moment, you had confessed at your church in college but that was over a year ago…was that the last time you had confessed? “Over a year ago,” You mumbled. You paused, unsure if you should just start or if he would say something else.

“What are your sins, Cherub?” He knew it was you. He’d never say that to someone else. It would have been, “My child”. But no, cherub. You were taken aback by this breach in protocol and you didn’t speak for so long he cleared his throat, “We ain’t gettin’ any younger.” He said. “And your sins aint any closer to absolved,” You needed to speak and speak now, to get all this off of your chest so you could lay it to rest and forget it.

“I’ve…been plagued with unholy desires, Father.” You said. You could hear him shift in the box next to you and you leaned your head forward, your forehead pressed to the screen separating you. “I’ve been having these intense…” Embarrassment made your cheeks flush, you fiddled with the hem of the skirt you wore today and you knew you had to keep going, “Sexual fantasies,” You blurted it out and you heard him let out a long, slow breath. “I can’t stop them but the thoughts are so intense…and wrong,” You said. You listened to his breathing while your own breathing quickened because the heady scent of him was doing something to you again. Your knees were aching from where they were pressed into the kneeler and your whole body felt tight and tense.

“You been actin’ on these…fantasies?” He asked. Acting on them? Did an aborted masturbation attempt count as acting on them? In the eyes of the Lord, yes. You needed to admit it to him.

“Yes, Father…I…I believe I have.” You said it even as you could feel that blooming, dripping heat fill your belly.

“You believe you have, huh?” He asked, that mocking lilt colored his voice and another shiver crawled up your spine. While the shiver might have been caused by something unholy, it certainly was a good shiver.

“I’ve touched myself because of these fantasies,” You admitted softly, your fingers still twisting the end of your skirt. “I was never able to…finish but it’s still a sin.” You told him taking a deep breath through your nose, you wondered if he was leaning in towards the screen too. You pulled your head back to look, you could see bits of him through the latticed wood that created the screen that was supposedly there to protect anonymity.

“Yea, Cherub, it sure is a sin.” He spoke and the words, his voice was like an injection of heat straight to your core. You had already practically leaked all over the altar rails at communion but now you were going to drip down your thighs in confession. “And I know what your penance should be,” he said. You let out a relieved breath, maybe if you did the penance you would be absolved and God would take the lust from your body.

“Yes, Father. What should I do?” You asked. You heard Joel lean forward now, his voice was closer to the screen and the seat he was on creaked slightly.

“You gotta reach your fingers under your skirt and touch yourself again, right here, right now.” His low voice sounded even more gravely than usual and the words burned through you.

“F-Father?” You questioned, unsure if this could be possible. Your brain was already addled with lust, and this felt wrong but the temptation was so strong.

“The only way we can absolve you of these sins is to complete them.” He insisted and you knew how wrong he was. Those shivers you felt were warnings of him. But how could you resist this? His voice was like a drug and that scent and the way you remembered the feeling of his fingers on your jaw, the pad of his thumb on your chin at communion, the ridge of his finger on the side of your tongue. “I want you to tell me just how wet you are, kneeling there before God,” Joel’s voice came to you through your lust filled fog and before you could think further you reached your hand up under your skirt and into your underwear. Your fingers immediately slipped over your soaked lips and you let out a gasp at the realization you had been soaking your underwear during the entirety of the confession.

“Father, it’s…so wet.” You gasped, you heard movement again from his side of the confessional, the rustle of clothing and maybe the clinking of a belt being adjusted.

“Get those knees nice and wide and stroke your lips for me,” Father Miller said, and you knew he was close to you leaned into the wood lattice screen. You could practically feel his breath. You did as you were told, kneeling a little wider and stroking your lips. You let out a squeak of pleasure, “Nice n’ slow, darlin’” His voice floated through the screen and your fingers slowly, painfully slow stroked along your puffy lips.

“Oh God,” The words were ripped from you as the tips of your delicate fingers grazed your clitorus and your whole body throbbed.

“Jus’ your lips, pretty girl, don’t touch that clit of yours.” The filth words coming from your priest's mouth only spurred you on. You wanted to ignore him and touch your clit again, but how had he known you had touched it in the first place? “Stroke down to your hole, cherub,” it was horribly disgusting and lewd to hear him talk like that but it still stoked a terrible fire inside you. You reached your hand farther down, sinking your butt back towards your feet as you knelt. Your finger found your entrance, the source of your wetness and you found yourself longing to push your finger into yourself. As if he heard your very thought Joel chuckled,

“Dont even think about fingerin’ yourself, little girl.” He said. A moan of desperation that matched any of the vulgarity he had spewed to you fell from your lips. “Tell me, cherub, is that a virgin cunt you’ve got over there? Or is there somethin’ else you need to be confessin’ to your Father?” he asked. Your fingers were tracing a circle around your soaked hole, trying to listen to him and not let your finger enter your body.

“I’m a virgin, Father. Please…” You didn’t know what you were asking for with that please but it felt appropriate. Once you said that, there was a rush of movement and then the door to your side of the confessional was thrown open and Father Miller stood in front of you. You nearly toppled over from where you were kneeling, your hand still shoved into your underwear. He made a tsking sound,

“Oh my little Virgin Mary,” his voice crawled up your spine like the shiver. “I’ve always known you were my good girl,” He reached down to where you were kneeling and wrapped his arm around your upper arm, pulling you up to stand. You gasped and he pulled you out of the confessional, his body moving your weight like it was nothing. His hand tightened on your arm as he pulled you into his body and then it dropped to around your waist and his mouth was on yours, kissing you. It was anything but a chaste kiss, his tongue lavished your mouth, circling yours while his arms wrapped around your waist keeping you locked against his broad, strong body. When he pulled away from you, you were gasping for breath and he let out a dark chuckle

“Oh, I am going to eat you up, Cherub.” It was a threat, but it made you pulse with need. Joel took your upper arms in his hands again, fingers digging in, “Let’s pray,” he said and he started to pull you over a few feet to the altar rail. In a sharp movement he pushed you down, bent at the waist over the rail, your feet pressed into the kneeler, you squealed in surprise,

“Father!” You managed to squeak out.

“Let’s see this pretty cunt that’s causin’ you such problems, sweetheart.” Joel growled and with one hand shoved your skirt up and then ripped your undies down, exposing your soaked pussy to him. You whimper in shame and embarrassment. You were so close to the holy altar, staring up at the crucifix while your most private part was exposed to Father Joel Miller. He let out a laugh, as his hand came up to your ass, he grabbed the meat of it, digging his fingers in and spreading it enough to expose more of your pussy to him.

“Ohhh there she is,” He breathed, he let out a low whistle, “So swollen, so wet.” The fingers of his other hand stroked down your wet lips and in response you spread your legs a little more. “Is that what you want, Cherub?” he asked. You nodded vigorously, completely lost in lust. Joel stroked along your lips up to your clit and he started to flick slow circles around it. Your moans started to echo as he worked you up. “That’s it, enjoy that sin, darlin,” he breathed, leaning over your back to whisper into your ear. You could feel his black button up pressed into your back while his fingers continued to circle around your clit, sending burning pleasure coursing through you.

“P-please!” You begged, letting yourself go completely to the need for more. “God! Please!” You cried.

“Please, what?” Joel asked into your ear, you could feel his stubble and mustache against your ear. His scent washed over you, intoxicating you further.

“Please, I want you inside of me, Father!” You cried, you hadn’t even realized that was what you would say when you opened your mouth but it came tumbling out anyway. His fingers moved from your clit to your entrance where you were clenching on nothing, your cunt was begging for it regardless of what you said. His middle finger circled around your hole, not entering you but noticing how tight you were. Joel pulled back enough to look down at your pussy again,

“You want me inside of your virgin pussy?” He asked, You nodded before letting your head hang down in shame, the shame of how much you needed it and how much you were willing to sacrifice for it. The temptation of him had been too much. You could feel his eyes on your fluttering sex while he started to ease his finger inside of you. He rocked his finger inside of you and you pressed yourself back against him.

“Oh cherub, I can see that you’re a virgin.” He said, those greedy, dark eyes on you, still, even now, sending shivers up your spine. His finger had barely made it halfway inside of you when he tugged his finger away. You gasped at the loss and pressed yourself back towards him.

“Father! No! Please!” You whined, wiggling your hips.

“If your virginity is gunna be mine, I sure as hell am gunna take it with my cock.” Joel’s molten voice sizzled inside of you and the realization washed over you that you weren’t going to try to stop him, and you were about to be filled with his cock right here in the middle of the church. You heard the buckle of his belt and the shift of clothes, still leaned over the altar railing, legs spread wide, ready to for him to fully know you.

Joel watched your pussy as he notched his thick cock against your hole, your inner lips were parting for him waiting for your cunt to accept him.

“Joel,” you gasped his name for the first time as you fully understood what was about to happen. “Is it going to hurt?”You asked.

“Well it ain’t goin’ to be a walk in the park at first, Cherub.” He said, and you could feel how thick his cock head felt at your entrance“But I think she’ll open up for me,” his voice had that mocking lilt to it again. Before you could say anything else he had started to push into you and the stretch was so much that the breath was completely knocked out of you. You lurched forward as his hips rocked into you.

“Oh, that looks so good…pretty cunt splittin’ open for me.” He said and you knew he was watching the place where your bodies connected. He pressed himself forward again, forcing his way inside of you, making a spot for his thick cock in your tight hole. You let out a whine and he gripped your hips tugging you back more. “Atta girl, you’re takin’ my cock so well. This pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?” he asked and all you could manage was a garbled moan in response. It did hurt some as he continued to ease himself in inch by thick inch but you were also completely drenched with slick that it was decently quick work to ease you open.

“Father! Oh, its…so big!” You pressed your hips back, hoping to open yourself more to him. When he was fully sheathed inside of you, he was still for so long that you felt like you might go crazy with the need for friction. “Please…father…fuck me.” You gasped and that seemed to spur Joel on, he started to pull his cock back before shoving it back in, setting a brutal pace. Joels breath started to grow ragged with his own pleasure,

“Is that what you want, little girl?” He asked as his hips snapped forward to fill you over and over. “You want my cock to fuck you?” He asked. You nodded, still dazed.

“I wanna hear you, Cherub. Confess to me, what do you want?” Joel bent forward over you, one hand snaking around you and grabbing your throat , fingers pressing into your jaw. You moaned, unable to form a proper sentence as he pulled you back by your neck, making you look up at the altar in front of you. “Come on, let‘s hear that confession,” he said as his cock ruthlessly pummeled against your cervix, splitting you open more and more with each thrust. His other hand, the one not forcing you to look at the image of your savior, trailed down your belly and underneath your skirt. His middle finger found your clit, stroking it in those quick, flicking circles. Your body tensed against the feeling, tightening around his cock. He groaned into your cheek while he held you up with his hand on your neck. “Come on, tell me you want me to fuck your pretty little cunt.” He said.

“Yes, yes, yes!” You cried, your eyes blurring with tears as you admitted it in front of him, and God all the same. “Yes, I want your cock to fuck me and I want to come!” You cried.

“You want to come?” He asked, “Is that it, Cherub? You wanna come while confessin’ your sins right here in front of the holy altar?” his voice was strained and you could feel his thrusts becoming messier, harder as he chased his own orgasm.

“Yes! Father! Please!” his finger stroked across your clit.

“Come on my cock, Cherub. Let go for me,” He spoke the word into her cheek, your head turned to the side, leaning back into him. Your orgasm burst over you like white light, heat and shivers down your spine. He stroked your clit through it while his hips pumped his thick cock in and out of you, pulling mewls of pleasure out of. Your eyes opened and you watched the statue of the Virgin Mary while his cock pummeled your cervix and he released ropes of his hot spend inside of you. He groaned into your cheek, your body still back against him. Joel’s teeth caught your jaw, biting you briefly.

As your breathing settled a little, Father Joel Miller pulled himself out of you. You felt his eyes on your completely destroyed pussy and his fingers briefly stroked at your entrance, gathering a generous amount of his sticky come onto his fingers before he lifted your underwear for you, covering you again.

“Turn around, Cherub.” he instructed and you did, your face burning with the shame of what had just happened. Joel grabbed your jaw with one of his hands, “Open,” he said and you did what you were told, your tongue pressed out just a tiny bit, resting against your bottom lip. He brought the finger coated in his come that had been dripping out of you to your tongue and swiped across it. The salty, heady taste mixed with the scent of Father Joel Miller, Tobacco, mint, fresh sweat and the acrid burning metallic gunpowder smell. Shivers ran up and down your spine as you stood in front of the holy altar, bleary eyed and red cheeked.

“God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

#joel miller x y/n #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #priest!joel #smut #pedro pascal #writing

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so-much-for-the-seashells · 1 year ago

Text

Taming the Supe

✨ Soldier Boy x Fem!Therapist!Reader ✨

Minors do ¡NOT! interact with this post. Thanks.

A/N: Let me be upfront and say that I actually haven’t seen the boys 😭 not my cup of tea as far as shows go. So this perception of SB might be very far off. But like, he’s hot and he keeps showing up on my feed so this is happening >:) and in my defense I did try to do a little bit of research on America’s Ass(hole), so hopefully that shows lol. From what I understand he’s a TERRIBLE person who just so happens to be extremely attractive, so slay. Oh, also, to any therapist reading this: I am so, SO sorry.

Icons by me! Any and all interaction is very much appreciated!

Also- I’m looking for a beta reader/ editor! If you think you’d be interested, dm me!

Content Warnings: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ 🌶️honestly that about sums it up. There’s SOME- A LITTLE- plot but it’s more plop if you catch my drift. This is toe-curling, eyes-rolling, name-screaming, tsunami-coming level shit, ya hear?? At least, that’s what I went for. ;)

Just note that SB is… very SB for the better half of it. And he has an INSANE breeding kink.

The ending’s real rushed cause honestly this was mainly written for the spice, but hopefully it’s enjoyable!

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Taming Soldier Boy was a feat that should have been impossible. In all regards.

He was a jackass- apple didn’t fall far from the tree as far as he and his dad were concerned. It wasn’t necessarily Ben’s fault; you cant help your blood. But because of said aforementioned father, Ben was brought up on misogynist ideals and the ideal that he was simultaneously both a disappointment and the bearer of a massive god-complex. The former applied to when he was around his father, the latter to when he was around literally anyone else.

Not only that, but he was separated from society for forty years, being tortured- sorry, “experimented on”- by a skeevy Russian organization that his own teammates had pawned him off too. Sure, he had committed massive, unforgivable atrocities, but quite frankly, the other supes on Payback weren’t much better. Maybe not as bad, but certainly not much better.

He re-walked upon the United States at the very young age of one hundred and three, coupled with PTSD, a god complex and more “back in my day” rants than your weird old uncle could ever hope to spew.

And now the thing is: it’s easy to make him look like he blends in. Trim the disheveled forty-year-old beard, give him some boyish bangs, throw him in a tight white shirt and a Giants jersey with grey sweats and all of a sudden you have a normal looking, abnormally attractive dude. Looks maybe thirty seven. Has a smile that has probably actually, literally charmed the pants off of someone.

But to make him act right? That’s the hard part.

That also where you came in.

You were a therapist with a damn good reputation. Shouldn’t have been involved with Supes in the slightest, but you owed Hughie Campbell a favor. Good kid who just so happened to have powers. So be it.

The kid had stumbled into your office a few years before Soldier Boy returned, and you had had multiple sessions before he dropped of the grid. You paid it no mind- you have a lot of clients, and therapy isn’t a good world to get attached to any of them.

But then one day, after one of Homelander’s many destructive “saves” of the city, you found yourself stuck in a burning building. By some miracle Hughie was in the same building, and he teleported you out and onto safer ground. Sure it was awkward being held up bridal style by a young dude who was ass-naked, but stranger things have happened.

Because of the save, you felt that you owed him, and told him as much. He was gracious, not wanting to take advantage of you, and you went back to not hearing anything from him.

That is, until just after the news article about Soldier Boy’s return broke out. It was definitely a headline that had caused you to raise a brow, but from what you knew America’s first supe was not what Vought made him out to be in the eyes of the public. He was an asshole who killed activists, and was most likely very racist. If anything, seeing the headline made you slightly wary for the good of the world. But you let it slide, figuring that if you already existed in a world where psychos like Homelander did you would probably be fine if there was one more.

Well, you were very much wrong.

A few days after the article broke out, Hughie called you. Asked if you would be okay to take you up on that favor. Of course, you said yes- you were only alive because of him. He had showed up to your house, and teleported you to a dinghy motel with no explanation, rendering you both in the same awkward situation as before. Him holding you bridal style, ass naked. If you had a nickel for every time he’s done that… you’d have ten cents, but it’s still oddly specific of it to happen twice.

“Listen,” he had said, setting you down. You had no choice but to do so, given that he was ass naked and it would be really awkward to see that. So you kept your eyes locked on his as he talked. “You know how Soldier Boy is back?”

“Mhm…” you nodded warily, knowing damn well that that was an ominous hook to your situation.

“Uh, he’s insane.”

“Sorry, he’s, like, he is? Presently?”

“Yeah… he’s in there and I think he would really benefit from a little therapy. His mind’s wired like a grandpa who has stories from every war.”

“Fuck, Hugh,” you cursed. He winced, his sweet eyes opened wide. “Sorry. It’s just.. are you kidding me?” Soldier Boy? It would probably take a team of specialists to figure out what’s going on in that head.

“Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you at least try?”

“Only for you.” It was really hard to have resolve with those puppy dog eyes staring at you.

“Thanks, y/n. Really.”

So you had walked in behind him; waiting as he threw on some sweats that were in a plastic bag outside of the motel room door.

You walked in together, only to see the most beautiful man you’d ever seen sitting on the bed, shoes still on.

Look. Everyone has fantasized about Soldier Boy at least once in their lives. The pinnacle of physical perfection, charisma oozing from his pores- it was hard not to. You were no exception- in your younger years there had certainly been more than a few nights where you were fucking yourself to pictures or videos of him, pathetically rutting on your clit and wishing it was his huge, gloved hands instead.

Of course, that was well before the article on the truth about him broke out. After that he had majorly lost his sex appeal.

However, seeing him in person immediately flashed you back to being younger and sexually frustrated, wondering how a man like that even existed. He was even better looking in person, piercing green eyes boring holes into you.

Thankfully it only took one douchey comment to snap you back to reality.

“So prostitutes are still a thing?” he asked, the question directed at Hughie. You immediately balled your hands into fists at your side, ready to tell this old-ass off, before remembering that you were there on professional business.

“No, no, she’s a therapist,” Hughie told him. “Y/n L/n, the best in the business.”

“You brought me a shrink?” he laughed incredulously. “Fuck you, I don’t have shell shock!”

He definitely had shell shock.

You didn’t bother waiting for Hughie to answer. “Listen, Mr. Boy, I’m only here ‘cause I owe this kid a favor. Would it really pain you so much to talk about yourself for an hour?” Your hands were planted on your hips.

“Man, when did women get so feisty?” he asked, that 1950s accent oozing through his words.

“Once they came to their senses,” I say with sass.

“So what? All I have to do is talk to a pretty thing about me?”

“Pretty much,” you conceded, ignoring the “compliment” he payed you.

“Fine.” Great. He agreed. How wonderful.

“I’m going to get some food, I’ll be back in an hour. If you need anything at all, just text me,” Hughie told me. “Thanks again.”

“Sure,” you replied, leaning in by his ear. “I think you’re going to owe me after this.

“Yeah, you’re probably not wrong,” he agrees, patting you on the back before teleporting away to the store. Man, this power thing… never gets any less weird.

“Take a seat,” Soldier Boy patted his lap.

“Hilarious,” you rolled your eyes, sitting on the other bed. Look, if he hadn’t been the jackass you knew him to be you most definitely would’ve sat on his lap. But you knew better. At least in the moment. “So, tell me about yourself.”

“M’name’s Ben, and I’m a soldier. My daddy hated me, so became a superhero. Surprise, surprise, he still hated me. But I’m better, stronger than he ever was. Might go take a piss on his grave while I’m here.”

“Interesting,” you murmur, putting together a mental file. Name: Ben. No last name? Weird. Daddy issues- makes the god complex make sense. Hmm. “Did you ever have a mother in the picture?”

“No. Died when I was a boy.” Added to file.

“Okay, so then why take the serum?” You know why, but you want to see something.

“You deaf? I said it was cause my daddy hated me.”

“You took a untested, potentially dangerous serum just because of your daddy issues?” you ask, matching his rude tone.

“You- you know what? This is boring. How about you and I fuck instead of this, hm?” he asks. Him saying the word fuck turned you on more than it should, but his misogyny was a quick turnoff.

“I think I’m just going to text Hughie,” you said, moving to stand, wholly unimpressed.

“Wait, no- I did it cause I hated feeling weak. Feeling stupid. Thought it would turn me into someone, just turned me into a jackass machine,” he said honestly, his eyes big and sad.

“Okay,” you said simply, sitting back down. That’s much more like it. “So then what led you to murder innocent people?”

If this were a normal session you would have never asked such a thing. Ever. But this was anything but normal.

“What did you just say to me?” And there it was. A glimpse of that Soldier Boy quick temper. You probably shouldn’t have been making him mad, but you didn’t know how else to go about this given that you weren’t in your professional environment.

“You heard me,” you told him with your arms crossed, trying to bite back the fear caused by

“You’re playing with fire,” he warns, fists balled at his sides. “A question like that’s gonna cost ya.”

You roll your eyes, standing my ground. “Why. Did. You. Murder. Them?”

“Because they deserved it,” he yelled, standing up. You do your best not to flinch, but he was an imposing six-and-some feet tall.

“How? Did the Milk family deserve it? Did their son?” you yell, fighting off the fear in your voice.

He stops then, jaw clenching. “I was the good guy. The hero.” His voice breaks, ever so slightly. His green eyes burn holes into yours. You stare right back, just as intensely.

“So, imposter syndrome.”

“No!” he roared, the sound threatening to bring down the roof of the motel room.

“They were good people. Activists. Made a difference in their community.”

“That got what was coming to them.”

“What? A car being thrown at their house?”

“You…” he steps closer. You sit up in the bed, back against the headboard. “You don’t know me.”

I stand up then. Not nearly as tall as him, but in anger. “Yeah, but I know your actions.”

“Then you should think I’m a hero.”

“I don’t.” I say grimly, arms crossed.

“I’m Soldier Boy, for Christ’s sake,” he spat.

“Yeah, and I’m Y/N L/N. Who fucking cares.” Well this went from therapy to argument real fast.

He leans down then, by my ear. It’s all you can do not to back away as his hot breath fans the column of your neck. “Maybe you should.” His voice is gravelly, rough from anger but also from something else…

“Well I won’t.” You said, maintaining your ground.

“Wrong move, sweetheart,” he said, before crashing his lips to yours. You squeaked into the kiss, surprised, but he just took initiate to shove his tongue in your mouth, exploring with great fervor.

And you knew damn well how wrong this was. How unprofessional you had been; how bad it was that his tongue, this tongue of a murderer, was half down your throat. But in the moment you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because he was just that good of a kisser. Made you forget about the misogyny and his volatility. At least, for the time being.

He pulled away, smirking down at you.

“If we do this, you’re going to talk to me after. Act like you’re an adult,” you told him sternly, as if your underwear wasn’t soaked with arousal from the kiss.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled.

“I fucking mean it,” you reiterated, hands on his pecs.

“And I fucking said fine,” he retorted. “Ben,” he introduced as an after thought.

“Okay, cool. Ben.”

“That’s the name I better hear coming off those pretty lips in a couple minutes here,” his gaze darkened with lust, emerald green eyes darkened to the color of a forest cloaked in the dead of night..

“O-okay.” And there it is, the first time you gave into the stutter derived from your desire. This was dangerous, but once he kissed you again you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

When he pulled away he thumbed at your lower lip, and you immediately react led to his touch, mouth falling open around the digit. “Good girl,” he praised, and you hated the way you felt proud at his words. He pulled off his jersey and under shirt, urging you to do the same until you both stood before each other, topless. He crowded you against the bed until you fell back, calves draped over the edge. He made room for himself between your legs, kissing you furiously, and you let out little breathy sighs as he did so.

“Attagirl,” he breathed when you gasped his name as he bit along your collarbone. He continued his fiery trail, from the juncture of your earlobe and neck to your collar bone and then down your chest, and you knew damn well that you weren’t going to be able to cover up half of the marks he gave you. But you also couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

“You-you can come in me,” you mumbled as he kisses the valley between your breasts.

He chuckles darkly. “Oh, I’ll fill you up real good” he said, eliciting a gasp from you when he bites your nipple.

He continued his path of kisses down your body, and in the bottom of your eye you could already see dark marks on the tops of your breasts, making your head fuzzy.

He stopped at your pants, biting the juncture of your hip and and thigh.

“‘m gonna get you ready for me,” he explained, before ripping off your pants and underwear in one go. This is not a metaphor, he literally tore them of you. You whined in protest, but he dismissed you, saying “I’ll get you new ones.”

And even though you knew he most definitely wouldn’t, his breath on your clit stopped you from caring.

He gave you no warning before diving into your soaked pussy, and you all but screamed his name when he fid, your fingers grasping his hair for dear life. He groaned into your cunt but kept going, spurred on by your actions.

The thing was, you hadn’t expected him to be good at eating pussy. He was from, like, the forties, after all. You thought that most people then probably didn’t bother as no one really cared about women and probably their pleasure back then.

Well, Soldier Boy- Ben- was very different.

He worked at you methodically, licking long stripes before thrusting his tongue in an out of you, testing the waters. He kept eye contact, and you could feel the smugness in his gaze as he watched you come apart.

Eventually he switched so that he was sucking on your clit, which would’ve been enough to bring you over already but then he added one of his long, thick fingers to your pussy. You yelped his name, not ready for the stretch and on the edge.

“Don’t stop,” you urged, whining. “Please don’t stop, Ben.”

And he didn’t, adding a second finger and scissoring within you. If his fingers were already like this, his cock…

But you couldn’t think about that then, nor could you really think about anything at all because he started tracing tight patterns on your bud and added a third finger, stretching you so far that you had no choice but to come. He helped you ride out your high for longer than you thought possible, lapping up all of your release before standing up to full height.

“That good, Sweets?” he smirked, looking down at your fucked out self. You nodded dumbly, and he chuckled. “Thought so.”

Your release covered his facial hair, but he didn’t seem to care much, just wiped a little off with his forearm. He then kicked off his shoes and took off his pants and underwear, and that’s when you saw it.

You were already baffled by him- beyond hot, perfect physique, pussy-eating champion, etc.

But his cock? It was huge. And it was perfect, a word that shouldn’t be able to be used to describe the male genitalia.

“Ben- that’s not going to fit-,” you gasp, sounding like a cheap porno.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, and from his tone you could tell he was going to bottom out no matter what.

Oh, god.

He climbed over you, his large forearms on either side of your head as he rested over you in a plank. He put a pillow under your hips, and you knew you were in for it.

He rubbed his glorious dick over your hole, your clit, and through your folds, covering it in your slick, and you moaned his name.

“Good girl,” he praised, before finally lining up with your entrance. You were already clenching around nothing, but then he started pushing in.

If his fingers were big, his dick… even the tip had you a moaning mess.

“Oh, honey, you’re tighter than a virgin who’s never touched herself,” he groaned as he pushed in, you writhing beneath him. “‘n I just stretched you out, too.” The pillow under your hips let him get impossibly deep, and after an eternity he finally bottomed out, so large that you shouldn’t have been able to take him. But you did, and he hadn’t even done anything yet but you were a whimpering, whiny mess under him.

“I’m gonna move now,” he told you, before pulling almost all the way out and back in, slowly. You were writhing under him, but he was undeterred, and just kept going until you gave him easy access.

“Ben?” you asked, your voice sweet. And you didn’t know what possessed you to add the next part of your question, but you did. “Can you fuck me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he groaned, before rearing back again and slamming back into you. It was hard and it was rough, and it was exactly what you wanted even if you knew you weren’t gonna be able to sit right for a week.

You literally had a supe cock in you. You’d seen dildos of these, maybe even owned one, but nothing could do the real thing justice as you whined beneath it.

And if you thought it was already enough just taking him like this, once he started talking you were through.

“Yeah, take it,” he smirked, pounding into you at literal superhuman speed. “I’m going to destroy this cunt until we’re both leaking out of it, and then I’m going to keep going,” he promised against your collarbone, biting anywhere he pleased. You whimper against him, pussy clenching around his enormous length as it crashed in and out of your fluttering walls.

“You like that? Wanna be my little slut?” he grinned, rutting on your clit so you couldn’t answer. “You’d be a real good slut. Would just keep you at home all day, naked and always ready for me. Always full of me too,” he mused, his pace somehow getting rougher. Your mouth was dropped in a permanent ‘o’ as you reveled in the way his huge hands are squeezing your hips and pulling you against him, filing you to the base.

“No other boy can do it like me, sweetheart,” he said cockily. “Fill you up so good, make you mewl.” And as it turns out he was most definitively right about that. But then it was too hard to think about what’s right and wrong when-

“Ben- I- ‘m gonna-.”

“Aww baby, what’s the matter? ‘M I fucking you too good? You can’t talk?”

You moaned pathetically, pulling on his fluffy hair.

“I know, I know,” he said with a soft grunt. “Come for me, pretty thing. Come.” And you did. Hard, all consumingly. It hurt so good that you almost blacked out, but he kept going, doing his damnedest to overstimulate you.

“Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart. Ain’t even close,” he told you, pulling you off of him and sitting, legs swung over the edge of the bed, feet planted on the ground. He grabbed you, letting you straddle his lap before slamming you down on his length. At this angle he could get impossibly deeper, his dick easily reaching your cervix on every thrust. You screamed, holding onto him for dear life with your face buried in his neck.

“Gonna fill you until you’re full, and then some,” he promised, lifting you up and down, flexing that super strength. “Rub on that pretty clit for me, doll,” he asked. You tried, you really did, but you were just so sensitive.

“That’s okay, I’ll do everything for you, you just take it like a good slut,” he cooed, bringing a hand between the two of you and rutting on your clit without abandon. You came again with a wail of his name before he pistoned into you sloppily, finally spilling his own release into you. And it was messy, and you were far too full to keep going, but he doesn’t care, somehow still hard even though he had just painted your walls with his thick, sticky cum.

You were babbling at this point, raking your nails against him as he kept going to town on your cunt.

“It’s just been too long, baby,” he explained, kissing the side of your head. “Got a little too much energy.” Yeah no shit, with the way that you knew that you were not going to be able to walk.

But he just couldn’t seem to shut up. “Y’know, if I had you back in my day we would’ve had ten kids. You would’ve give birth to one and then I’d put another one in you the next month,” he said as he continued his brutal pace. And damn, this man really had a breeding kink. It was not really your thing-kids tend to get in the way of careers, and also, you were infertile- but anything’s hot when it comes out of those plush lips with the 50s accent, so, naturally, you moan in response.

“Would’ve kept you sated all the time too, sweetheart. Any time you were hot and bothered, had an attitude… I’d fuck it out of you,” he murmured, enveloping you in his arms to hold you closer. You didn’t know if it’s the proximity to him, his voice, or the way that he hasn’t really let you come down from any of your highs, but suddenly you were coming again… just in a different way.

“Aww baby, did you just squirt?” he chuckled. You did all you can to further hide your face in his neck as he just kept going, only concious enough to register your embarrassment and fatigue. He pulls you by your hair to look at him. “Don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart, that was so hot.” You smiled, cheeks pink, your somehow still horny self proud of his compliment.

“It’s okay, just give me one more and you’ll be done, alright?”

“O-okay,” you say shakily. You hadn’t even noticed hot much your legs were quivering until then, and he laughed, squeezing them close.

“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he praised, rubbing your clit. Your blush became even more furious before you came again at him tracing patterns into your poor, overstimulated, sensitive bud. He came in you shortly after with a very sexy grunt, and it was just leaking out of you, going all over the tops of his thighs. He held you at the base of his cock though, not ready to pull out.

“You alright, Dollface?” he asked, gingerly moving- somehow while keeping his cock in you- you onto your back. You nodded, sleepiness overtaking you.

“Good girl,” he nuzzled your nose, gifting you the view of all of the pretty freckles on his cheeks looking like gold specs. You whined as he pulls out, and he tutted, plugging you up with his fingers.

“Don’t tempt me, sweetheart. If you were a supe we’d be going another ten rounds, but I know you’re tired,” he warned, cock still semi-hard.

“Ben,” you gestured towards it, unsure what you were going to say because as much as you wish you had his stamina, you didn’t.

“It’ll be fine, sweets,” he shrugged it off. “Perks of the unbelievable stamina.” He kissed your forehead, before lightly thrusting his fingers in and out of you in attempt to keep the cum in. Pitiful tears leaked out of the corner of your eyes from the overstimulation.

“There, there,” he cooed, kissing them away. “Just don’t want to waste any,” he smirked, before leaving his long, thick fingers where they were inside you, all the way up to the knuckle. Your legs can’t stop shaking, and you try to talk but you can’t.

“Let me get you some water, put your fingers here for me,” he said, waiting until you do so, feeling your sticky release on your hand. You knew damn well that you werenot going to be able to stand.

“Here, sweets,” he returned, still ass naked, holding a glass, taking your fingers out of your cunt and licking them clean. “We taste real good, sugar.” You whimpered, ready to go at it again, abused pussy be damned. Speaking of, the poor cleaning staff… your mixed releases were dripping out of your poor hole, coating the bed and the bottom of your thighs in the stickiness.

“You really are an insatiable little minx,” he chuckled, holding you up so you can take a sip of the water. You obliged, eagerly chugging it down.

“I’m not going to be able to walk,” you muttered, resting your head on his freckled shoulders.

“Looks like you’re going to need to stick around, so I can take care of you,” he squeezed you.

“I’ll tell Hughie to take another hour, tell him that the therapy’s going real well,” you suggested.

“Oh yeah, real well. Definitely a happy ending, if you catch my drift.”

“Multiple happy endings.”

“Atta girl,” he kisses the top of your head.

You sat there in silence for a bit, basking in the afterglow as he rocked you back and fourth gently.

You’d seen so many sides to this man: Misogynistic, quick tempered, sex-god… but sweetness? This was the one that surprised you. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

“Ben?” you broke the silence.

“Yeah?”

“Uh, I could help you, y’know. If you want, anyway. And it wouldn’t even be proper therapy- you know, cause we just- yeah.” your words were shaky but you meant them. There was something about the supe that made you think that maybe, just maybe you could help him.

“I dunno, sweets. I think I’m a little too far gone.”

Vulnerability. That’s progress.

“Could you at least try?”

“I can’t say no to you,” he said. And you’d take him up on that.

••••••••••••A Couple Years Later••••••••••••

Ben Johnson, as he was now known, ended up becoming a normal member of society. After a LOT of work, he’s grown into himself. He cares about people, his ego’s lessened, his temper too. You had helped him through the whole way- gotten him a proper therapist and everything. And now you two were a couple who could just go out and get donuts, and do normal couple things.

“They’re cream-filled!” he beams boyishly, his bangs in his face and his eyes sparkling. He sets the box down in front of you, somehow having already gotten powdered sugar in his beard. He leans in and whispers excitedly, “you know, like you!”

“You’re bad,” you giggle, as if you don’t have him leaking out of you where you sit. You had stopped for a quickie before you made it to the donut shop, it wasn’t your fault that you were so irresistible to each other.

“Not anymore, sweetheart,” he winks with a click of the tongue. Which is true- there’s a certain softness to him these days. His jaw isn’t so set, the crow’s feet by his eyes have deepened. He isn’t so volatile, his tempers dissolved a bit. He’s become more human.

Not to mention that he’s made great progress in apologizing to his victims and making amends to the best of his ability. It may never be enough, but now that he has someone to teach him how to be right and a better understanding of the complexities of the modern world, there’s a chance. And that’s a chance worth taking, to help someone who could’ve been good become good.

Taming Soldier Boy was a feat that should have been impossible, but you had nailed it.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Hope you enjoyed this fic! If you have any ideas for headcanons or fics, my ask box is always open! I don’t bite- not unless you want me too 😏 (so. So. Sorry 😭)

Xx!

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy #soldier boy smut

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navybrat817 · 6 months ago

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Hiiii Navy- how is our biker Bucky? I'm excited that his reader is a nurse because I am also a nurse...!

I'm glad you're excited, and I may have to get more of your insight as this goes on. And how he's doing...

Thinking About You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky's thinking about you after meeting you.

Word Count: Over 500

Warnings: Mix of fluff and dirty thoughts, love at first sight, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I'll try to post more of this AU once more. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo and divider by the incredible @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky’s thinking about your beautiful eyes and smile, but how you’re much more than a pretty face and how you must really be some sort of angel. You were a nurse, after all. Nurses helped provide comfort, protection, and care to others. You helped people heal. And, fuck, do you look good in white.

He’s thinking about how you listened to him when he talked. You were actually interested in his writing and the bar. He hoped you’d stop by at some point. Maybe he could convince you to stay after closing so the two of you could have the place to yourself. He’d even share some of his writing with you.

He’s thinking about how your eyes will light up when he brings the club to the blood drive tomorrow. At least, he hopes they’ll light up and that you don’t be afraid. His brothers could come across as intimidating from a first glance, but they were all good guys and the drive was for a good cause. You also didn’t seem put off that he was a biker.

He’s thinking about what an idiot he is for not asking for your number, and how he should’ve gone after you when you left. If he had your number right now, he’d message you just to say hi. He wasn’t leaving the drive tomorrow without asking for it.

He’s thinking about what your past relationships were like. How did your exes treat you? He’ll treat you well. Why didn’t the relationships last? Did anyone break your trust? If someone hurt you he’ll take the pain away. If the pain is no longer there he’ll do his best to help you should it surface unexpectedly.

He’s thinking about how he wants to take care of you, how he wants to learn your love language, and earn your trust. He wants to be your friend and have you confide in him, to learn your fears so he can protect you from them, and to learn how to make you smile again when you’re feeling down or hurt.

He’s thinking about how he wants to confide in you, too. To be vulnerable and open. It isn’t easy to let people in, but you make it seem effortless for him. He wants you to see every side of himself, every shadow, and tell you every story about every scar and tattoo.

He’s thinking about you as he lays in bed, fisting his cock, imagining the sounds you’d make as you lay beneath him. Or on top of him. How you’ll melt on his tongue. How blissed out you’d look when you fall apart. He knows you’ll feel like heaven when he’s inside you if you ever let him get that far.

He’s thinking about you post orgasm when he catches his breath. It’s a little scary that he already wants you to be his girl, and he refuses to believe it’s just infatuation. It’s something deeper. And if you give him a chance, he’ll make sure you never regret it.

I guess we can consider this part of Ficlet Friday? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

#navybrat writes #ficlet friday #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #x reader #sebastian stan characters #mumbles411

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sleepybbywrites · 3 months ago

Text

Happy Little Omega Farms (1) 18+

a/n: this is reposted! I am however the original author, my other tumblr was just casually deleted by tumblr smile

summary: reader is an omega. the avengers pack needs an omega. the pack leaders of the avengers arrive at hlof to see if they can find the perfect fit, will it be reader?

warnings: alpha/omegaverse, this chapter doesn't have too much but definitely mentions some adult things

pairings: this will eventually be avengers x reader, this chapter however has tony x reader and steve x reader

word count: 1.9k~

MASTERLIST (wip) | HLOF MASTERLIST/INFO

Happy Little Omega Farms was the biggest Omega sanctuary in the world. Which sounded extravagant and massive, but considering they only housed roughly 100 omegas (which was 95% of known remaining omegas), it was still a fairly small organization. Security however, was very tight. Protocols were in place to ensure the safety of omegas and some even worried that some of the omegas were purposefully unaccounted for in a secret attempt to create more omegas. Whatever the case may have been, HLOF was the best bet for the Avengers to find their pack an omega. The Avengers might have been a group of some of the most elite minds, but they were also still just as affected by the Omega shortage as every other pack.

Which was how Steve Rogers and Tony Stark ended up sitting in the small waiting room. Well, Steve was sitting. Tony was standing, one hand on his hip while he spoke to the poor unsuspecting beta behind the counter, ranting about how they were prestigious guests, they shouldn’t be required to wait, blah blah blah. Steve had tuned it out within the first minute of him opening his mouth. Steve sat quietly, his large frame dwarfing the small chair he was seated in. He had a tablet in his hand and he was reading through information about some of the ‘adoptable’ omegas in their database. It felt weird, looking over these little profiles about the omegas, he felt like he was shopping instead of trying to get an idea of which omega might best work for their pack of superheroes.

A different beta worker approached him, leaning forwards over the tablet. “If there are any that you’d like to meet while you’re here today, just click the little heart next to their picture.” The beta gave him a warm smile and he could feel the effects of their beta scent soothing his nerves ever so slightly. He gave them a small nervous smile in return and thanked them, returning to the top. Tony had apparently given up on trying to get them special privileges as he plopped down in the seat beside Steve with a loud huff.

“Anyone interesting?” he asked the blonde. Steve’s brows furrowed at his words and he cast him a quick sidelong glance before he sighed softly. “It just feels weird.. I mean what if I skip over someone and they’d be perfect for us?” he asked, reading over another blurb of information about the first omega. Tony took the tablet from him and began clicking the heart on every single one of them, until they had hearted all thirty currently available omegas. Steve rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I guess that’s one way to do it..” You had been sitting on one of the benches outside, seated next to two very chatty omegas who were talking about– you tuned back into the conversation for a moment– dildos. Maybe it was time to go back inside. You rose to your feet, not even getting a glance from the two you’d been sitting with as you made your way back into the little side door to the sanctuary. As soon as you walked in you were hit with a cloud of nervous scents coming from absolutely everywhere. Almost as if on cue, the little bracelet on your wrist buzzed, lighting up a little heart indicator. You were chosen for consideration. Apparently, whatever prestigious alphas were visiting had selected not only you but also every other eligible omega in the sanctuary, which very easily explained all the panicked and nervous scents. You made it back to your room and rifled through your clothes. You weren’t not nervous but the idea of meeting with some rich alphas didn’t rile you up the same way it seemed to with the other twenty-nine omegas chosen. After stressing over your options for a lot longer than you felt you should have, you settled on a pair of light colored jeans, light blue converse and a matching light blue sweater. Now you just had to wait until your bracelet lit up once more.

Each ten minute session with the omegas seemed to fade into the next and eventually Steve just sat still in the room while letting Tony take the lead. Damn extroverts. He listened to the omegas talk about themselves, about the kinds of things they hoped for from a pack. Each one of them seemed to be cut off abruptly at some point or another by Tony and Steve just watched from the sidelines, unsure of what had prompted him to send them off in the first place. Tony was good at this, at figuring people out, so Steve felt strangely comfortable with letting him decide to shoo off the current omega and let the next one join them.

It had been almost five hours by the time they’d made it to the final omega on the list, the one that had been eligible but unadopted the longest. Tony had pushed his sleeves up to his elbows by this point, his jacket thrown over one of the chairs. Steve could smell the frustration on his scent, obviously displeased by every other omega they’d met that day. Steve thought they had all seemed nice and he could have easily pictured himself with any of them, but it wasn’t just about him. It wasn’t even about just him and Tony, it was about the entire team. Steve found himself sighing softly just before the door opened one last time.

You stepped into the small meeting room and your eyebrows rose at the sight before you. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. These were the prestigious alphas that had rejected the other twenty-nine omegas? You were done for. You offered a small, slightly uneasy smile as you walked in. You missed the way Steve seemed to perk up slightly, but you didn’t miss the way Tony’s scent morphed, from one of frustration to a slightly softer scent. You introduced yourself and like the good little omega you were trained to be, you allowed them both to smell the slightly fainter scent glands in your wrist. Steve’s hands were massive compared to your own as he gently held your wrist up to his nose. His eyes shut and just as quickly as he’d let go of you, Tony had your wrist in his hand, inhaling your scent deeply.

It had been a long time since you’d noticed Alpha’s scenting aroused from you. The combined scent of both of them at once was almost overwhelming and you had to sit down to keep your knees from buckling from beneath you.

Tony stared at you across the small table, even from where you were seated you could see the way his pupils had dilated, swallowing almost the entirety of his deep brown irises. Despite Steve not having done much of the talking, he was the first to actually speak to you. “So.. what kind of pack are you hoping for?” His question was one that almost every alpha asked and you took in a slow breath, knowing your answer would most likely cause you to be sent out early, just like most of the other omega’s they'd spoken to today.

“I’m looking for a pack that will treat me as more than just a weak omega.” you said the words and lifted your head in an almost defiant manner. Steve looked over at Tony who was grinning. Something about the grin made your heart begin to race and the billionaire’s scent began to grow more and more intense. Steve rose to his feet, clamping a hand over the other man’s scent gland with a low growl.

“You’re overwhelming her.” he growled into Tony’s ear. The shorter man cleared his throat and straightened his tie, yanking a scent block stick from his pocket, aggressively rubbing it over his scent glands, shaking his head with a laugh. Steve seemed pleased with this but didn’t sit back down. His eyes found yours and he nodded, something that surprised you. “I think that’s an entirely fair request. Do you have a certain personality type or two that you’re less inclined to respond to?” he asked, brows pinching together in thought as he awaited your response.

You swallowed nervously, you didn’t usually get past the first question in interviews. Your eyes met with the man’s deep blue eyes, his own pupils a bit more blown now, though his scent remained a steady constant. “Just alphas that think omega’s are only fuck toys.” the words were out of your mouth before you could stop them and you felt your pulse race, cheeks flushing as you imagined them getting offended and tossing you out. The men cast each other a glance and you shrank back into your seat, waiting for the inevitable.

“It’s starting to make sense why you’ve been here so long.” Tony’s reply was blunt and you couldn’t help but wince slightly. Steve elbowed him in the ribs and there was a small exchange of low growls between the two Alphas but Tony cleared his throat and stepped closer to you. You looked up at him, expecting to be told off. However he simply crouched down in front of you. You could see the way his eyes dilated once more as he caught onto your scent and he tutted softly. “Hey, I didn’t mean that as a slight against you. I meant that Alphas are idiots and usually just think with their dicks rather than their brains.” His hand came up and gently cupped your chin in his hand. “I think you might be just what we’ve been looking for..”

You felt like the air had been pulled from your lungs. You’d been stuck in this stupid sanctuary for so long, meeting so many alphas that would rather ignore you and take home whatever omega was willing to bend over and let them fuck them senseless that the idea that you might be chosen was almost unbelievable. Your eyes roamed over Tony’s face slowly before you looked over at Steve whose expression was soft. Tony rose to his feet and he walked over to the door, knocking to get the attention of one of the workers. Once the door opened he began talking about another meeting, about bringing the entirety of his pack to meet with you. Your heart was pounding in your ears, making his words fade away. You almost didn’t notice when Steve crouched down in front of you this time, taking one of your hands in both of his.

You looked down at the way his hands engulfed your own, his hands were rough and calloused but so incredibly gentle. You had to remind yourself that this man was an alpha. Not just an alpha either, he was an avenger, a superhero. And he wanted you? They both did? Your head turned slightly to look over at Tony speaking with one of the workers of the sanctuary, both tapping over tablets and talking dates, times, expectations. Your gaze drifted back to the man in front of you and he gave you a smile. “I really hope you’re what we’ve been looking for..” his voice was soft and part of you found yourself wanting to lean forwards, to burrow into the massive expanse of his chest and just disappear. But you held back, you’d only just met him and you were much more than just a submissive little omega.

“I hope so too..”

#avengers x reader #steve rogers x reader #tony stark x reader #steve rogers x you #avengers x you #tony stark x you #alpha!steve rogers #alpha!tony stark #omegaverse #marvel omegaverse #sleepywrites #HLOF

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evelhak · 7 months ago

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Would anyone be interested in beta-/proofreading my KnB fic series?

(Spreading the word helps too. 🙏🏻)

Unfortunately I lost both of my beta-readers due to dramatic life changes a couple of years ago, and I've been doing my best to manage on my own but it's becoming a struggle.

There must be someone out there who craves for the same kind of intense longfic as I do, to get immersed in, and would like to be a part of it.

Plus there are some new/returning KnB people around recently, so who knows? Maybe one of you, who would already be interested in reading an insanely long fic for your own enjoyment, would like to devote, probably a few hours a month or so (I don't have a strict schedule), to relieving the writer's anxiety before they post a new chapter? I'm not looking for anything super in-depth. Basically just another pair of eyes to help me fix:

1. Scenes/sentences/word choices that are too confusing.

2. Factual errors.

3. Typos, grammar mistakes etc.

Low pressure, basically just anything that catches your attention as out of place or needing clarification. Definitely not asking for perfection or anything that you wouldn't catch on the first round of reading. I'm just looking to reduce mistakes I can't catch on my own.

I guess the chances of me finding anyone who is already reading the series (since to my knowledge my long-term readers never came from Tumblr in the first place) are pretty low, so

What will you get if you take a chance on me/The Other Things series?

Aside from a devoted friend (who will also always be ready for in-depth KnB talk)...

🏀 basically a lifetime supply of KagaKuro, seasoned with AoMomo, MidoTaka and other less prominent and at times rare ships (Stay tuned for Yagi Yuuta/Male OC) and also a lot of supporting OCs who exist for reasons other than shipping, including several characters' family members

🏀 one detailed and elaborate version of the main KnB characters' life journeys/basically an enormous character study

🏀 a very psychologically explicit story <- a pair of words (reader approved xD) I recently came up with to describe the emotional intensity that sometimes takes people by surprise

🏀 so much slice of life, so much dialogue, so much angst and fluff, so, so much character development that is definitely earned the hard way

🏀 snail speed slow-burn, I am not kidding, but intense love scenes and also no smut for over a million words but once we get there I promise it's worth it

🏀 so much intertextuality, myths, fairytales, analogies, symbolism that you can reread and reread if you want and I'm sure you'll keep finding new connections

🏀 a lot of fun stuff like our dorks in a group chat, disaster house parties and basketball idiots playing quadball, tons of everyday silliness

🏀 heart wrenching stuff and psychological depiction of hardship, personal growth as well as different kinds of relationships

🏀 deep-dives into topics including mental and physical health, dysfunctional family dynamics, a variety of queer experiences, neurodiversity and more, and particularly characters struggling with how complex things are

🏀 at times counterintuitive interpretations of canon but everything is in one way or another, canon-based or canon-inspired

🏀 to read seven fics before you actually get to beta-read the new stuff😇

Send me a DM if you're interested! 🩵

You can also try and decide it wasn't your thing. The series can be found here on AO3.

#knb #knb fic #proofreader #beta reader #kagakuro

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scekrex · 1 year ago

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Hi I am wonder if you could do anothe part for overlord!reader, like maybe news on how reader has Adam got out and now reader has to take time from his personal paradise to deal with the rest of Hell. Their place is hidden away so he doesn’t really have to deal with attack but he does have to deal with contant calls to buy or hand over Adam. Reader is just increasingly piss off and at some point Adam decide to help him chill out by snuggling him when it became clear he’s close to losing it. It gotten bad enough that Adam straight up drag a reclining couch to his office which help which helps wth work because an angel being all cuddly nearby would motivate anyone haul ass quickly to join them

Fuck I'm such a sucker for the soft bond overlord!reader and Adam have, I wanna write for em all day long ughhh

Bird of Hell's Paradise

Lover come hold me

pairing: Adam x male!reader

warnings: language

note: not beta read bc fuck you I don't have beta readers

After that little date you and Adam had enjoyed the prior week, news that the former angel was living with you spread through hell’s seven rings like a disease. And while your life as an Overlord in general had grown more stressful ever since the exterminations had been invented, this was a new peak of stress.

People kept reaching out, strangers managed to get their claws on your phone number and had the audacity to call you and ask for how much you would sell the first man to them, not understanding that Adam was not for sale. The first man would continue to stay at your place for as long as he desired and if one day he should decide that he no longer wants to spend eternity with you, he could move out. Selling him to some limp dick Imp was off the table though. Hell’s residents didn’t seem to understand that though, they kept calling you, blowing up your phone like there was no tomorrow, your text messages were full of people offering insanely high amounts of money for Adam and some people even dared to pay you a personal visit - though those were only people you knew. Not everyone in hell knew where exactly your mansion was located and you were more than grateful for that. A protection spell you had casted recently would also prevent any ordinary sinner or hellborn to ever find it.

You dropped your head onto your desk, the loud noise it made caused Adam to lift his head, his eyes looking you up and down. The first man was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at you with a displeased expression, “The fuck is going on?” You sighed as you turned your head towards your lover, yet you kept it on the desk, you were too tired to lift it up. “Hell’s demons seem to be very interested in you, my love,” you mumbled as you reached for your phone that was interrupting the situation by buzzing quite loudly, “Fuck off, he’s not for fucking sale like a motherfucking slave,” and with that you hung up, not even hearing the person on the other end out. Your tired eyes watched as the first man left the little room you had organized to function as your office. Apparently Adam himself seemed to have enough of hell’s bullshit as well and you really could not blame the former angel at all. It must be exhausting to know that people down here either want him permanently dead or that they want to buy him like a pet you can just shop. The poor soul must suffer from this even more than you were. You were able to turn off your phone and ignore it, he wasn’t. Not when all of this was about him, after all. You had offered him protection when you had rescued him, now you were not even able to provide a peaceful afterlife for the first man.

In exhaustion you closed your eyes but the silence in your office didn’t last long, this time however it was not your phone that interrupted the somewhat peaceful moment, it was Adam. The first man was dragging a reclining couch through the door, pushing it through the room until he had decided on what appeared to be the perfect spot for it, then he walked over to where you were resting your head on your desk. Without any explanation the first man took your phone, muted the device and put it back on the table. “You,” he said as he lifted you out of your chair. Your body went limp as the brunette picked you up as if it was the easiest thing he had ever done, your head was now resting on the first man’s shoulder instead of the hard wooden desk and your body embraced the warmth that Adam’s body offered. Legs were wrapped around the brunette’s hips and arms held onto his neck, the former angel’s hands steadied your back so that you were not to fall. His soft, shimmering wings he wrapped around you, turning the stressful world off for a moment as he carried you over to the couch he had just dragged here. “Are gonna fucking rest and ignore all that motherfucking bullshit for a couple hours,” he finished his sentence as he flopped down onto the couch.

Adam had never been this touch before, yes he had hugged you, yes the both of you cuddled while sleeping, but him hauling an entire couch into your office just to distract you from the chaos that hell was going through because its residents now knew Adam was living with you? That was nothing you’d turn down - not that you’d ever turn down affection the former angel offered you in general. “Whatever my mighty winged love desires,” you hummed as you snuggled closer against his chest. The brunette’s chin came to rest on the top of your head as he simply held you, the wings provided a comfortable warmth that made you fall asleep quicker than you had thought it would. But the warmth paired with Adam’s scent had you asleep in no time and with a small smile your tall lover watched over his finally resting boyfriend.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam #adam x male reader #male reader #adam x y/n #adam x reader #adam x you

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maybege · 2 years ago

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A Helping Hand

Summary: When one more omega is in the group, the suppressants aren’t enough for everyone and you end up getting your heat for the first time since the outbreak. (Part of The Weight of The World AU)

Pairing: alpha!Boba Fett x fem!omega!Reader

Wordcount: 5.1k | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: Modern AU, Zombie Apocalypse AU, A/B/O dynamics (scenting, heats, etc.), yearning, unrequited love (or is it?), a little bit of fluff, explicit sexual content, dry orgasm(?), pet names (princess, good girl, etc.), praise kink

Good morning everyone and happy weekend! I hope the summer is treating you well and that you are looking forward to the second half of this year. 🥰 It has been way too long since I delved into my love for Boba, so if you’re interested in a part two (perhaps he helps Reader out with her heat? 👀), let me know! I really hope that you enjoy this story and would be very very happy if you let me know what you think in a comment or a reblog!

Please note that “Sunshine” is essentially Reader from the Paz version but I had to give her a nickname somehow to make sure she is still part of this.

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

When Charlie presented as an omega, everyone in the group knew you were fucked.

There was no better way to say it.

“We don’t have enough suppressants,” Paz said out loud what everybody knew already, “They are harder and harder to come by and the last pharmacy didn’t have any. Chants is already on half a dosage, I am not sure how we can stretch them more.”

“What’s that? Suppressants?”

Din turned to the little boy that had snuck his way into the conversation. “Something for grownups, buddy, c’mon let us talk in peace.”

You smiled when Grogu shrugged, completely unbothered, and returned to where he had been playing with Pan and Jarno.

Sometimes you envied the kids in your group for the semblance of innocence they could still afford to have. And then you felt bad because this was not the childhood you wanted for them. Stars, you knew about babies being born and the thought that this was the only kind of life they would ever get to know made your stomach hurt and your heart ache.

Yet, they did not have to deal with problems like you were now. The adults of the group had come together, standing together and saying nothing but muddling over the same thing. Deep down, you knew that there was only one solution and you were pretty sure that almost everyone had come to that conclusion.

Almost.

“Maybe I don’t need suppressants,” Charlie piped up, shifting nervously next to his mother, Bernie, “I could pass my heat just like that.”

“No, you can’t,” Briggs said flatly, the old man crossing his arms in front of his chest. He had not been here the longest, only joining the group a few months ago when Paz had found him and Sunshine fighting off a horde of zombies. But despite his recent status in the group, he had risen in rank quickly, his advice and opinion honoured by those you had chosen as unofficial leaders.

One of these leaders was Boba who was standing right across from you. Like Briggs, he had crossed his arms in front of his chest, his biceps bulging and you swallowed, trying to keep your staring as subtle as possible.

With the late summer now cooling down, he had started to wear flannel again and you were a little embarrassed to admit that fall had not only become your favourite season because of the harvests you could make but also because you got to see the alpha stroll around with rolled up sleeves.

Trying your best not to look too long at him, you glanced back at Charlie.

“But what if I –“

“Charlie, dear,” Moira piped up, her voice gentle and kind. It was the same voice she had used to comfort Bernie this morning after she had made the discovery that her son’s scent was not as beta-like as she had hoped. “Briggs is right,” the older woman explained, “You will need your suppressants more than anyone else in this group.”

More than you.

You swallowed heavily, trying to get enough oxygen into your lungs to fool your heart into believing that you were not about to have a full-blown panic attack.

Charlie’s light eyes met yours and you knew him well enough to know that he was feeling the same way.

“Come on, Charlie,” you heard yourself say, stepping forward, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Everyone else let you pass without a word of protest and Paz nodded at you in approval. Bernie looked like she had about a thousand different things on her mind and you could not blame her. The outbreak was the least ideal place to be an omega – much less discover being an omega. And to see that your child had to be an omega in this cruel world? You could not imagine the pain she was going through.

The tree line was only a few steps away from where you had stood, the clearing only barely big enough for you to set up camp, and so it only took a few more steps until the thick trunks provided you with some privacy. With the summer nearing its end, the leaves filtered the sunlight a light gold and you took a moment to appreciate the pure beauty and peace of it.

In the last few years, there had not been enough moments like this.

You watched as Charlie started to pace from tree to tree, bouncing off them like the DVD logo on the sides of the screen. There were a lot of things you wanted to say, a lot of things you wanted to assure him of. But you also knew that he was not prone to listening right now and you could not blame him.

“I don’t want to take your suppressants away from you,” the boy started, tears of anger running down his cheeks, “I – I don’t want to be an omega and I don’t want to have heats and I don’t want everyone to look at me like I am a fucking failure!”

His voice got louder and louder and in peak teenage fashion, he kicked his foot over the ground, sending a bunch of leaves up in the air and sailing down to the mossy floor.

Your brows rose in surprise.

“They are not my suppressants,” you corrected him gently, “They are for those in the group that need it most. And that is you.”

Charlie huffed, still not looking at you.

“It’s okay to be scared,” you said, “And it’s okay that you are unhappy with your presentation. Stars knew I always wanted to be a beta. But,” you stepped closer to him, “We don’t always get to choose what happens. And while it speaks to your character that you don’t want to put me in an uncomfortable situation, Briggs is right. Everyone is. You don’t know what a heat is like, especially your first one. It is too dangerous. At least I had mine already, I know what it is like.”

“That was years ago,” he protested, “Before the outbreak.”

“Yes, but it is still more experience than you have,” you added.

That seemed to get him thinking but he still did not look very happy. Deep down you knew it was not your fault that he was feeling this way or your responsibility to make him feel better. But you remembered how terrified you had been when you had your first heat and how terrified he must feel now.

“Look,” you took a deep breath, “We always knew that there would come a point where we have to choose who gets the suppressants. We were just lucky until now. Lucky that Chants has an implant and that Moira doesn’t get her heats anymore. And we got especially lucky when Sunshine mated with Paz before she could need them,” you said glancing over at where the giant man was gazing at his omega like she hung the stars in the sky.

The gaps in the trees afforded you the perfect view of the camp and when you saw the couple, so very in love with each other, something tugged at your heartstrings. You had never been interested in Paz that way but something you stung when you saw the way he looked at his mate. You wanted someone to look at you the way he looked at her.

You wanted someone to love you.

Charlie’s shaky breath snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Anyway,” you sighed, putting your hand on his shoulders, “If you are feeling like you take the suppressants from me – you are not. I know what I am getting into.”

“I always thought I was going to be a beta,” the boy finally said, revealing the true reason for his upset, “Like mom … and like dad.”

Your heart ached.

“You’re not less like your parents just because your presentation is different,” you assured him, “You will always be their son.”

“I know but … I feel like I disappointed her,” his shoulders slumped, his head “Mom, I mean.”

“Oh honey,” you pulled him in for a hug, “She is not disappointed. She is just worried about you.”

He wrapped his arms around you and you pretended not to notice the way his body was shaking or how his hot tears soaked your shirt.

Minutes passed like this and you could see the birds flying in the crowns of the trees, the leaves and canopy shaking and throwing intricate patterns on the forest floor. You wished you could stay here forever, in this little, safe corner of the world that seemed so far away from everything that wanted to kill you.

But you knew you never stayed in a place too long and it would be time again soon to move somewhere else.

“Thank you for that,” Charlie mumbled and pulled away from you, “Can – Can I be alone for a bit?”

“Sure thing, kid,” you smiled, “Don’t stay too long or else Briggs will send a search party out.”

He nodded and you smiled before making your way back to the camp. The leaves crunched under your shoes and you spotted a little squirrel rushing its way up a tree.

Your head was spinning as you approached the group, the reality of the situation really sinking in. Then again, it really should not be a problem at all. There was no reason to be nervous. After all, you were in a somewhat protected environment and you were an adult. You should be able to face a heat alone. Right?

Everyone was busy doing something (your heart warmed at the sight of Grogu, Pan and Jarno listening completely enraptured to Moira and Briggs retelling a Shakespeare play) but you could not find it in yourself to join anyone.

“All good?” Chants asked you, looking up from where he was working on one of the cars with Din.

You nodded, “All good.”

There was no reason to tell him that you felt like your heart was about to explode from fear or that you could feel your palms get sweaty at the thought of stopping to take the pills immediately.

That night, the entire group sat by the fire, seeming like the issue from this morning was long forgotten. Briggs, Paz and Din were bowed over a map they had placed on the hood of Altarf’s truck, probably planning the safest route to take when it was time to change camps.

Altarf and Sluice had been on dinner duty today and the stew they made still sat warm in your belly. The night air had cooled down significantly so you had remained at your place by the fire, amicably chatting with Sunshine and Bernie. You could see Grogu and the kids playing in the dirt by some of the cars.

Chants and Moira were off collecting the hanging laundry of the day and you already looked forward to wearing some freshly washed clothes.

How lucky you were that even years later you could all go to bed with a full stomach and the knowledge that you would wake up in the morning. Somewhat safe, somewhat sheltered, and surrounded by people who had become family.

“Wisconsin would take us right by Minneapolis,” Paz said, drawing a line with his finger. You smirked when you noticed how Sunshine immediately zoned out of the conversation, all her attention on her alpha.

“We are definitely not heading to Washington,” Din protested, “Heard that corner is a powder keg waiting to explode.”

“North, then?” Briggs asked, “If the tracks we found are anything to go by we would need to get a few days’ distance between us and here.”

Hearing them talk about moving camp made you anxious. When would your heat strike? Would you be so unlucky to have it while you were on the move? You had been on suppressant for so long that you hardly remembered what it felt like to go into heat. Would you really survive several hours in a car with your mind occupied with being fucked seven ways to Sunday?

“You okay?”

You flinched, looking up at the alpha that had just joined you.

“Boba,” you chided the man who gave you the hint of a smile.

He sat down next to you, the fire illuminating his features and you allowed yourself to look at him a little longer than usual.

Boba Fett was … He was …

Boba Fett was the kind of man you had dreamt about before the outbreak. And, to be honest, after the outbreak. The way he held himself so full of confidence and competence had always attracted you and you found that with each day that passed, you had another little thing you loved liked about him.

One day, it had been the way the crow’s feet on his eyes showed when he laughed. It was a rare sight but that made it all the more special, seeing him joke around with Din or Paz or one of the kids.

Another day, it had been exactly that: the way he was with the kids. At first, you had expected him to be a grumpy loner but there was a kindness there when he taught them about the dangers of weapons and made sure to show them to properly handle one if they ever came across a rifle.

Then there had been his hands. Stars, his hands. Thick long fingers and palms weathered from work. You knew he hadn’t been a mechanic like Din but that he had helped him out and he still did now, fixing cars and engines right and left in that week when all of your vehicles had started making problems, threatening to get you stuck in Northern Arizona.

That was another thing: his competence. It made you weak in the knees and your panties wet to see him be so knowledgeable about so many things. Sure, it started when you had seen him, hands greasy and white tank top stained, fix one of the trucks like it was nothing. But it had continued when he had disassembled and cleaned his guns and put them back together again like it was no big deal. Or that one night where you had crossed a group and had spent dinner together and one of them had a guitar. You remembered it like it was yesterday, the surprise on (almost) everyone’s faces when Boba had asked for the guitar and played a few songs for the group.

Another day it had been his jaw and the stubble that grew when he went a few days without shaving. You wondered what it would feel like on your neck or between your thighs and you woke up more than one morning, vivid dream memories in your minds of how he had scented you with a stubble jaw like that.

Yes, Boba Fett was the alpha that made your voice stutter, your heart race and your pussy feel so very empty. Only that you were too shy to ever do anything about it. With Paz and his mate, it had been obvious to everyone (except for them) that they were meant for one another and it had taken barely any time for them to figure it out, too.

But you and Boba … You had been part of this group almost for the entirety after the outbreak. If anything were to happen, it would have happened by now. You were sure of it.

Realizing that you had stared at him for a little too long, you cleared your throat and looked at the glowing ambers of the fire.

“You okay, Princess?” he asked you quietly, “You’ve been quiet today.”

“Oh, you know,” you shrugged, trying to ignore how that made your cheeks feel suspiciously hot, “Just thinking.”

“You’re worried about the suppressants, aren’t you?”

You did not say anything which, apparently, was confirmation enough.

“We won’t let anything happen to you,” he stated, calm and confident and it was so easy to just believe him when he continued, “You’ll be the safest you can ever be, omega. It will be over before you know it and then we can see if we can some more suppressants up in Wisconsin.”

“Charlie’ll need them,” you said, your hands fidgeting, “I won’t get suppressants any time soon, Boba, we both know it.”

When you turned your head to look at him, you were met with brown eyes gazing at you so intimately, it made you want to crawl right into his arms. It made you want to curl up in his lap, tuck your face into the crook of his neck and just breathe him in until everything was right again in the world.

He opened his mouth, ready to say something and you saw his hand twitch like he was about to reach out to you.

“Now now, what are we whisperin’ about?” Moira laughed, sitting down on your other side. Sluice and Chants were with her and you watched as Sunshine walked over to Paz, being greeted with a grin and a soft kiss.

“Nothing of importance,” Boba replied, still looking only at you but straightening up. Only now did you notice how close he had been, how his knee had brushed against yours, and now with him standing up, how it left you cold and alone. “I think I’ll head over to Din … get the details of the route we’re taking.”

You wanted to ask him to stay with you a little longer but your shyness made the words dry on your tongue and you watched him leave.

“Hey there, princess,” Sluice grinned, sidling up to you. You knew she was just teasing you. It was the running joke in the group that Boba kept calling you princess like it meant something.

Of course, it didn’t.

(But stars knew you really wanted it to.)

It took four days for you to notice that something was wrong.

There even was a moment where you had had the slightest hope that maybe you wouldn’t get your heat. That you had taken the suppressant for so long that your body has just decided to skip them altogether and make your life that much easier.

But of course, it didn’t.

It started with you feeling more restless than usual. Whereas the kids’ shenanigans previously amused you, they now surprised you. Even more so when they would jump from behind trees but fake scare you only for it to end up really scaring you. They laughed at first at your surprised squeal and the little jump backwards you made, good-natured as kids were, but by the fourth time it happened, a stern Boba rushed over, his hand on your back, and telling them off on how it was mean to keep scaring you like that.

Then your temperature rose. Only at night at first. Despite the evening cooling down and Chants getting, you kicked off your blanket more and more, wishing you could just take off all your clothes and bathe in a cool stream. Then it happened when people touched you. Altarf brushed your hand once when giving you a few dishes and it felt like your skin was on fire, making you flinch. The same happened with Paz, the big man frowning with concern when you jumped away from him when his hand landed on your shoulder.

(It didn’t happen with Boba. Or at least it didn’t happen like that with Boba. Boba’s touch caused a warm fire in your belly that spread outwards until your entire skin was gently tingling with the need to be touched by him. Which was perfectly normal, you tried to tell yourself.)

You flinched away not only from but from everyone who had not approached you loud enough or anyone who touched you. No, your clothes started to feel scratchy, ill-fitting and just way too thick. Sluice started to tease you about how you were always fiddling with the collar of your shirt, trying to get the cool late summer air onto your body.

Not to mention the smells.

Stars, the smells.

You had never really bothered with how the others smelled. Sure, you had been faintly aware of how Paz’s scent had changed when Sunshine had first joined and how they both had become more prominent. Or how Charlie, now having his own presentation, had gotten his own scent. Or how musky and woodsy and comfortable Boba smelled. But that was nothing compared to the stench they now all emitted – except for Boba.

It was like you could no longer stand being around them. The only people you tolerated were the kids and Bernie. But the person you sought out the most was Boba because he smelled divine.

If he noticed it, he did not show it but the important part was that you noticed. And you knew you didn’t have long until things would get serious for you.

Only that you had not expected it to get serious so soon.

The night was dark and quiet when you had snuck out of the truck. You tried to tell yourself it was because you could not sleep but deep down you knew it was because you were way too hot and even Chants – Chants! – started to reek so bad you could no longer spend even a minute in that truck with him.

You knew it wasn’t his fault. If anyone’s, it was yours. But so, you snuck out, into the cool night air that made your skin feel normal again and that was free of any stench because everyone was fast asleep in their cars. If you focused enough you could even hear Altarf’s snoring.

Being outside helped, you found, but as quickly as your body cooled down from the heat wave, just as quickly did it reach a temperature that had you shivering. Debating if you wanted to risk getting back to the truck to get you something warmer or if you could –

Your thoughts were interrupted by pain so bad it made you double over.

A split second of confusion gave way to the realization that you were starting your heat.

The muscles in your abdomen cramped up again and you gasped, falling to all fours as you tried to gather the strength to press your palm against your belly. The touch helped minder the pain a little but it also made you aware of how you were yearning to be touched.

You wanted to feel hands on you – in your – and your pussy to be filled and someone to sink his teeth into your neck and mark you his.

Who were you kidding you didn’t want someone, you wanted Boba.

Tears of frustration and fear stung in your eyes and you tried to even your breathing.

This was okay. Everything was okay. It was not the first time you had your heat and it would not be the last time and hell, if you had gotten through it before, you would get through it again. Didn’t matter if it felt like your body was burning up from the inside and the only thought that made it better (and then much worse) was that of an unattainable alpha claiming you.

“Shit,” you cursed, furiously wiping at your cheeks, “Shit shit shit shit!”

Someone’s shoes appeared in your field of vision.

It was none other than Boba.

A breeze rustled the trees and his scent filled your nose, sending a wave of calm through your body. Closing your eyes was involuntary but you did not mind because your body felt so much lighter now. It was like a weight had been lifted off your chest and you could breathe.

He smelled even better than before, the scent of pine wood and something you could not yet pinpoint driving you crazy. You could feel your temperature rising a few degrees and suddenly it all came rushing back to you. The frustration, the fear, the panic, the desire.

“You okay?” Boba asked, sounding very concerned.

You could not help the way your bottom lip trembled as you allowed yourself to admit that –

“No,” you breathed out, “I’m terrified, alpha.”

He sank down to his knees in front of you. Your eyes immediately fell to his crotch and you were ashamed to admit that the first thought you had was to reach out and undo his zipper, to try and see what he

Thick arms wrapped around you and pulled you out of your thoughts and into his chest. His body exuded warmth that yours had been missing and you relaxed into him. His hands were on the back of your neck and your lower back and his touch caused pure warmth in you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, just like you had dreamt of, and breathed in his scent.

In a movement so small, you barely registered it, his nose brushed over your neck and you gasped softly.

“I know,” he said, his lips moving against your skin, “I know, princess, I can smell how scared you are.”

“What if I fuck it up?” you gasped into him, trying to hold the tears at bay. Your hands grasped at the back of his flannel, the fabric not feeling as repulsive as your own clothes, “What if – what if Chant can’t sleep because of me and we get attacked and he cannot defend himself and – and what if it is all my fault?”

A sob wrecked your body and you huddled closer to him.

For the longest moment, Boba did not say anything, merely holding you to him as you tried to gather yourself. Having him so close, with his hands on your body and your nose pressed against his neck, made it that much easier to calm down. You felt safe with him.

“You will sleep in my truck,” he stated, then, “I can bunk with Chants.”

“But – but –“

“Omega,” he interrupted you warmly and your mouth snapped shut, your brain short-circuiting at him calling you that, “You will have your heat, there is no question about it. You need rest and a safe place to nest and soft things. My truck has that and all the privacy you could desire.”

“Okay,” you nodded, swallowing back the tears that threatened to form in your eyes (again), “Thank you, alpha.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remembered that calling someone by their presentation was something intimate, something special. But it felt right, calling Boba that. Because if anyone was your alpha, it would be him. You could not imagine anyone else having the effect on you that he did. And you did not want anyone, except for him, to have that power.

His nose brushed over your scent gland again, this time right behind your ear, properly scenting you.

“Oh,” you whimpered, feeling a trickle of arousal gather in your panties. You clenched your thighs, he

Boba growled, his chest rumbling against yours, “Fuck, I’m sorry, omega, I shouldn’t have –“

He pulled away, ever so slightly, his hand cupping the side of your neck and the trickle became a wave when his rough fingertips brushed over the sensitive spot.

“No!” you protested quickly, a little too loudly, maybe, but you did not care if it meant you could have him scent you again, “Please … I – one more?”

The alpha in front of you froze and your eyes fluttered closed when his fingertips continued to caress your neck.

“You want me to scent you?” he asked and you were too far gone to notice if he sounded surprised. But what you did notice was how his thumb rubbed gentle circles onto your neck, how his eyes seemed a little darker in the light of the moon and how his scent seemed to get just a little bit stronger.

Shyly, you nodded, deciding to throw all caution into the wind. “Yes please, alpha.”

There was that rumble in his chest again, the one that made your pussy pulse and your thighs clench. But you could not even pretend not to be affected by his ministrations. Not when his nose, making your body break out in the best kind of shivers.

“That okay?” he asked against your neck and the fact that his lips were touching your skin now, the hint of his tongue peeking out again the patch of skin, made you almost feel blind with lust. “That feel good, princess?”

“Uh huh,” you brought out, tilting your head back so he had better access.

“Sweet little omega,” his lips grazed your ear before he moved his mouth back to where you needed it most, “Good little omega.”

His hand moved back to the back of your head, holding you against him and keeping you this and that way so he had the best angle to lavish your neck with attention. You allowed him to manoeuvre you as he needed, knowing instinctually that you would be rewarded in the best way.

And oh stars were you right about that.

“Smell so fucking good,” he grunted, his hips snapping against yours, “Bet you taste even better”.”

You did not know what made you come. His filthy words, the idea of his mouth, the feeling of his teeth on your skin, threatening to mark you or the outline of his hard cock against your flimsy sleep shorts, pressing right into your clit.

Maybe it was a combination of all of those things that had you stifling your moan against his neck and your vision going white. That had your pussy pulsing and clenching around nothing and your folds getting even wetter with your release.

You knew the first orgasm of a heat was the hardest to achieve. Which made it all the more surprising that it had been so easy with Boba. You were so stunned that you did not even have it in you to feel the slightest bit of shame at how needy you were. How you had just come undone in front of him like it was always meant to be.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear before gently untangling himself from you, “Feel better now?”

You nodded quietly, still reeling from what had happened but also feeling drunk on his pheromones.

“C’mon,” he murmured, his hands helping you stand up onto shaking legs, “Let’s get you into bed, sweet thing, wouldn’t want to keep you from your nest for too long.”

You could only hope that he would join you.

#maybege writes #boba fett x reader #boba fett x fem!reader #smut #apocalypse!boba vibes

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