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oddlydescriptive · 2 months ago

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Reset, Chapter Seventeen

Series Masterlist

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You didn’t get flown out for the final race. Didn’t get a dress code email for the prize giving ceremony. Didn’t get a hotel keycard left in an envelope at the front desk. You watched the last race of the season from your dorm, curled up on your twin bed with a plate of freezer dumplings and a laptop that buffered at least twice before the stream caught up.

Red Bull won everything, obviously. Verstappen took the final checkered flag like it was inevitable. The team celebrated in a blaze of champagne and perfectly lit content loops. You closed the window before the podium interviews even started.

No one called. No one needed anything.

And honestly, that made sense.

You’re still under contract through December 31st- still, technically, Red Bull property- but AlphaTauri’s already been announced. You’re not just development anymore. You’re not just RedBull Racing anymore. You’re forward-facing. Pipeline material. And while no one has said it aloud, the shift’s been happening for weeks.

They’re phasing you out.

Quietly. Gently. Efficiently.

Your data access had been the first thing to go- little changes, gradual redactions. You still had log-ins, but fewer dashboards showed up when you used them. Then the assignments started thinning out. Weekly reports became biweekly summaries. Dev meeting invites stopped appearing unless someone had a specific question for you. A sim anomaly. A question about a comment you had left on the braking data a few weeks ago.

It’s not personal. It’s not even cruel. It’s just… logistics. And you got it. You get it. You do.

You’re not their girl anymore. Or, won’t be. Not in the gears-and-axles sense. You got exactly what you wanted. You’ve stopped being a cog. Now you’re something shinier. Something public. A face. A product. A name.

You’d had more access than you probably should’ve from the beginning. More control. More input. They’re only pulling back what they’d loaned in the first place.

Still.

You’d built your entire life around this place since they dumped you on the factory steps in August- broke, jagged, desperate, hungry for anything more than the Indy career you had torched to the ground. This badge. These halls. The windowless sim rooms and bitter instant coffee and shared dorm showers. It’s become your whole ecosystem.

And now?

Now you’re bored.

Not in the casual, oh-I-have-nothing-to-do sense. Not in the Instagram scroll, maybe-I’ll-go-for-a-run way. You’re untethered. No real tasks. A measly four calendar holds before the end of the year. No Gavin- he’s traveling with the team. No Alessandro- burning PTO like a matchbook before the winter build surge. No Danny- off wrapping up his last days with McClaren. Stuck, just like you. Stuck, right here in purgatory.

Lying on your back in a sterile little dorm room with your legs curled up like a child and your phone battery at nine percent. Watching the forced-air heating ruffle a stray paper on your desk, trying not to fall asleep before the year-end party even starts.

It’s not loneliness, exactly. You’ve survived worse. Objectively, you have zero complaints.

But it’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch.

There are big things coming. Huge things. A race seat. Brand deals and sponsors. Points, even, if you play your cards right. But right now? Right now you’re still technically Red Bull. Still on their payroll. Still sleeping under their roof.

You’re not part of the machine you live in anymore. And the weight of that contradiction is making you feel… something. Not numb. Not sad. Not exactly.

Just unmoored.

The day’s gotten away from you in your spiral- cold gray light stretching thin across the dorm ceiling, your phone buzzing occasionally from across the room and left unread. You should be doing something. Hair. Makeup. Picking out an outfit for this evening’s staff year end party. Anything.

Instead, you’ve just been… still.

You can’t quite name it. The feeling in your chest like a tether’s been cut. The quiet hum of weightless boredom, pressed under the skin like a bruise that never quite blooms.

You’re still training. Still working. You show up to the gym like it’s your job- because it kind of is. Because it’s the only thing that hasn’t shifted beneath your feet lately. The rhythm, the discipline, the ache. It reminds you of the summer. The purgatory of Jos’s house. The hours you carved open just to fill them with movement. With sweat. With anything that kept you from unraveling entirely.

But this has been different.

Since you got here- since the AlphaTauri shook the marrow out of your bones and left you wrung out and trembling for your life in an ice bath- you’ve been training with intention. Not just survival. Not just control. Not just maintenance. You’ve been trying to build.

For the first time in your life, the goal isn’t to disappear.

It’s to expand.

IndyCar never cared if you were strong. They cared if you were light. No driver weight minimums. Junior series, whatever flavor you drove in any given year, same thing. Lighter was faster. Coaches, engineers, principals- always asking the same questions.

How light can you get and still drive? How many days can you go without carbs before your body starts eating your reflexes?

Smaller was better. A decade of conditioning that turned your own hunger into an enemy. Every pound scrutinized. Every calorie accounted for. Racing in those worlds meant being barely there- meant learning to cut yourself down until you fit inside the mold.

The only real advantage to being a woman in that system? You were already small. Naturally lighter. It made the weight targets a little easier- sometimes. While your male teammates were scraping muscle off themselves to make weight, skipping meals and running hot just to cut grams, you were coasting in under the line. Not because it was healthy. Not because it was fair. But because being born smaller meant you starved less.

But now?

Now you’re in F1.

Now there's a minimum. A fixed number. Now it doesn’t matter if you’re naturally small- because every pound you don’t carry is another pound your competitors get to fill with power. With strength. With muscle that helps them outdrive, outmuscle, outlast you.

You’re no longer rewarded for taking up less space. You’re punished for it. So you’ve changed.

You’ve been eating like it matters. Training like it’s math- input and output, time and tension. Your body, for the first time since before you got your first period, isn’t a compromise. It’s becoming a weapon.

You sit up slowly. Peel off your clothes. One layer at a time. Hoodie, socks, leggings, tank. Until you’re just in your underwear and bra. Cotton. Soft. Familiar.

Then you reach for the full-length mirror leaning against the wall and drag it onto the bed with you. Set it up agasint your pillows so you can see yourself. All of you. Up close.

And then you look. Really look. Take stock.

Your thighs are thicker now. Solid. Corded with new muscle, the kind that moves when you shift and flexes without trying. They press together, heavy and warm and proud. They flow into hips that have grown wider, fuller, more anchored somehow. Your waist is still there- narrow, defined- but the curve from rib to hip to thigh is smooth and deep and fucking stunning.

You twist slightly, propping yourself on one arm, and turn your attention lower.

Your ass is outrageous.

You blink. Then smile. Every inch of it earned from loading squats three times a week until you might have cried with exhaustion. It lifts high and round, fuller than it’s ever been. It’s the reason most of your jeans have become… hazardous, lately. You only have a handful of pairs left that fit at all, much less well. The shape is almost surreal- like someone photoshopped you and forgot to undo it. But it’s not fake. It’s earned. It balances the line of your back, the curve of your hips, the strength in your thighs.

You shift your hips again, slowly. Watching the way everything follows. The drag of your skin, the flex and pull of muscle. And it’s not just power. It’s not just the function of it.

It’s beautiful.

There’s a sensuality to it that catches you off guard.

Not sexual. Not quite. Not the kind of thing you’d show off for someone else. This isn’t about being wanted. You haven’t been touched in months. Haven’t been kissed. Haven’t felt the pressure of someone else’s palm against your skin or the heat of a gaze that wanted this body.

And that’s okay.

Because right now, this moment isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

You look at your stomach- still lean, but no longer hollow. Muscle built up through dedication, not revealed by deprivation. Your shoulders roll back as you shift upright, and your back pulls taut, muscles threading together like ropes under skin.

And then your eyes land on your chest.

Your bra- nothing fancy, just plain cotton- stretches over you in a way it never used to. Full. Rounded. Heavy in a way that’s new. Like your body finally got the message that it’s safe to have things now. That you’re allowed to take up space.

You trail your fingers from your sternum outward. Over the shape of yourself. The dip of your waist. The rise of your hips. The flare and the fullness and the heat pooling under your skin, not from desire- but from recognition.

This is not the body you left America with.

Not the one built for hunger. Not the one that fought, that starved, that was sold in sponsorship dollars and calories just to survive. Not the same one that felt powerless and drowned and vulnerable in pits full of men with egos that outpaced their cars.

This one is yours.

All of it. The strength. The softness. The sex appeal.

And yeah, it’s probably a little vain, the way you pose. The way you tilt your chin and arch your back and stare at your own reflection with a smirk you didn’t know you still had in you. But you don’t care.

You love her.

This new shape. This new presence. This walking, breathing proof that you are here. You deserve this space. You are every inch of who you make yourself to be.

You pull your knees up to your chest, still sitting on the bed, mirror between them, and rest your cheek on your own shoulder, watching the way your arms curve around yourself.

It’s not lost on you how much trauma lived in the old body. In the bones that didn’t bend. In the skin that always felt too tight. In the way people looked at you like a novelty or a threat or a product.

This body isn’t for them.

It’s for you. For who you’re going to be.

And it’s perfect.

Eventually… you move. Not quickly. Not decisively. Just… gradually. Like heat returning to numb limbs. You get up, still in your underwear, and pad barefoot across the cold dorm floor to the narrow wardrobe tucked beside your desk. It’s small, just to hold the things you can’t afford to let wrinkle. You’ve only opened it a handful of times since you got back from Brazil.

The contents aren’t much. A few basics. A pressed pair of jeans with a sharp, precise crease ironed down the front. Slacks. A simple blazer. At the right end, your suit hangs crisp in its plastic wrap, the one you wore to push your contract at Helmut, back when the words “development driver” still felt like something borrowed.

You touch the fabric out of habit. The pants look… impossible. Maybe, if you hold your breath and pray to Sara Blakely and her Spanx gods- oh, and don’t eat all night- but honestly, you’re looking forward to the catering spread. Besides, it’s just the staff party- it’s really not that serious.

You let them hang.

Instead, you let your fingers walk a few hangers to the left. Fingers brush something soft. Velvet. Rich, forgiving, quietly festive. Not ugly sweater festive, but more like ‘yes, we are acknowledging it’s December.’ You pull it forward.

The dress is red. Not race-car red, not attention-demanding. Just… warm. A little saturated. The kind of color that makes your skin look golden and your hair a little darker in contrast. Sleeveless. High-necked. Hits just above the knee. Enough stretch to move with you. To let the body you’ve built exist without apology.

You hold it up to your chest, glance toward the mirror still propped on your bed, and nod once. Quietly. Like you’re letting yourself agree with the version of you that smiled at her own reflection twenty minutes ago. It’s not a statement dress. It’s not supposed to be.

You pull on a pair of black nylons- semi-sheer, a soft little balance between flirtation and formality. The kind you used to wear for media days in junior formula, when you wanted to look polished but not severe. They slide up with the faintest whisper, snug but not constricting. They feel like intention.

Shoes next- your simple black pumps. Not casual, not party heels. Just clean, classic. You slip them on and they still fit the way only leather can- with loyalty. Like no matter how much the rest of you changes, these shoes will still love your feet. That feels like something. A single, stable detail in a body and world that’s otherwise brand new.

You perch on the edge of your desk to do your makeup rather than move the half-clean laundry that lives on your chair. Try not to sit in your compact while you plan your face.

Nothing heavy. Nothing loud. Just light coverage. A little shimmer. A soft sweep of blush across the apples of your cheeks that makes you look sunlit, even under factory-grade fluorescents. You gloss your lips with something pink and sheer, add a touch of mascara. Pretty. Festive. The kind of face that looks like someone you’d want to talk to at a work party without checking a credential first.

Your hair’s a little unruly from lying around until it air-dried, but it still curls easily under your hands. You twist it up in loose, polished sections, pin it in place, and finish it with a narrow ribbon tucked just above the nape of your neck. The bow is barely anything- thin, dainty. Just a little touch.

And when you finally step back from the mirror and take it all in- dress, tights, pumps, makeup, the slight shimmer on your collarbone- you don’t feel like a driver or a ghost or a PR obligation. Not really.

You feel like a girl going to a party at the end of the strangest, most transformative semester of her life. A little out of place. A little nostalgic for something that hasn’t even fully ended. Quietly proud. Quietly melancholy.

You smooth your hands down your dress once, just to feel the fabric hug your ribs. Time to say goodbye- quietly, professionally, beautifully- to the place that made you feel like someone valuable again. Even if they’re already learning how to do without you.

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The party’s better than expected.

Not flashy, not loud- just the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low warmth of staff laughter echoing against the high factory walls. Someone’s strung lights across the ceiling beams, giving everything a soft golden tint. There’s music playing low from the overheads, just enough to keep the room moving. Food’s decent. Little platters of fussy fingerfoods that strike a balance between upscale and approachable. Drinks are free. Everyone’s at that perfect midpoint between polite and tipsy.

You’re leaned against a high table near the edge of the floor, nursing something red and fizzy in a plastic flute. The dress is holding up. The shoes haven’t betrayed you. And you’re laughing- real laughter, open and soft- because Ollie from dev is holding court like his life depends on it.

“I swear to God,” he’s saying, wide-eyed, one hand gesturing wildly, “the second I mentioned it, he looked at me like I’d confessed to a murder.”

Nicole’s giggling politely beside him- dark hair curling over her shoulders, dress tastefully low-cut, clearly groomed and pressed to the nine- and Ollie is doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not subtle.

He is making full, direct, devotional heart eyes every time she opens her mouth. You’re only half listening to the story at this point. Mostly you’re laughing at the sheer audacity of his infatuation. Like he doesn’t even care that you’re standing right here, clocking every stolen glance like it’s your actual job.

Ollie says something else- something about a lost data package and a RedBull fueled all nighter that left him hallucinating on his drive home- and Nicole tilts her head, clearly humoring him.

“That’s… so wild,” she says, all doe-eyed and glittery.

Ollie looks like he’s going to combust. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again. You sip your drink instead, cheeks warm. For the first time all day, you feel… present. A little girlish. A little like you belong. And yet, despite the comfort of that- you feel it.

You can feel Jos moving through the room.

It’s not oppressive. Not threatening. He’s not circling like a shark, and you’re not prey. It’s just… something you’re aware of. Like tracking a storm in the distance. You always know where he is.

And honestly?

You’ve resigned yourself to it.

You know he’ll find you eventually. That’s the nature of Jos. He always does. Always appears at the edge of a moment you thought was yours, all gravel-voiced analysis and heavy handshakes and that particular brand of European proximity that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

And you’re not exactly afraid. You never have been.

If anything- God, you almost missed him.

Jos is a lot. An exhausting amount. But he’s also sharp. Dangerous in the way only brilliant men can be. Talking to him is like fencing with live wire- strategic, quick, crackling. But you’ve never felt like the target. Not really.

You’re not sure what that makes you.

An ally, maybe.

A co-conspirator.

Because Jos doesn’t talk to you like you’re lucky to be here. He talks to you like you’re a weapon. Like you’re leverage he trusts to understand what you’re worth. Like you’re playing a game with him- and unlike with most men in this sport, with Jos, the game doesn’t end with you losing. You think. Probably. So far, at least.

Still, there’s a sliver of something colder beneath it all. A flicker of discomfort you haven’t fully looked at yet. You don’t let yourself think about that too hard. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you set your drink down and laugh again- high and bright, because Ollie has just managed to turn a telemetry error into a flirtation, and Nicole is playing along like she might just let him win. You play with the ribbon in your hair, glance sideways across the room- And, sure enough, Jos is watching. Not close. Not obvious. Just… waiting.

You adjust the strap of your dress, smooth your hands down the velvet one more time. Your glass is nearly empty. Nicole’s laughing again, Ollie’s blushing so hard it’s a health concern, and somewhere across the room, Jos Verstappen is waiting for you.

So you decide- fuck it.

If he’s going to find you anyway- if he’s already watching- you might as well meet him on your terms. Even if those terms are flimsy. Even if they exist mostly as a way to keep your spine straight and your voice level and your heart from pounding through your ribs.

You slip away from the table, leaving Ollie mid-laugh and Nicole mid-smile. Neither of them notices you go.

You push off the table and cross the floor without fanfare. Slow, steady, unbothered. Your heels click softly against the concrete. The lights above throw gold over your shoulders, and you hold your posture just right. Not stiff. Not girlish. Just composed. Whole.

You don’t know what compels you, exactly. It’s not submission. It’s not allegiance. It’s something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or- God, maybe curiosity. You’ve danced around this enough times to know it’s coming. He’ll find you eventually. Might as well see what happens when you make the first move.

Jos tracks you the whole way. He’ss standing near the back, half-shadowed by a pillar and positioned with surgical precision- close enough to be in the mix, far enough that no one casually wanders into his orbit. He’s talking to someone from powertrains, nodding along like he’s interested, but his eyes flick toward you the moment you cross the floor.

Not obviously. Not openly. Just with the kind of stillness predators have right before they strike. Arms folded. Drink untouched. He shifts his weight once, almost imperceptibly, like he can’t believe his luck but is already plotting how to use it.

You keep your shoulders relaxed. You walk like you have nowhere in particular to be.

Jos smiles when you reach him. It doesn’t quite touch his eyes.His gaze flicks over you once- just once- but it’s loaded. Evaluating. Not lecherous, but not empty either. Like he’s cataloging the value of your appearance for some unseen ledger.

“There she is,” he says, low and pleased. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.”

You smile. Easy. Controlled. “Thought I’d save the best for last.”

He laughs once, a short sound, dry and amused. “I like the dress.”

You resist the urge to fidget. “Thanks. Needed something that fit.”

Jos’s eyes flash at that- just a brief glint of approval, the kind that makes your skin feel seen in a way that’s not quite comfortable. Not inappropriate. Just intentional.

You sip your drink- what’s left of it- and let a small silence settle between you. The music hums along in the background. Conversation rolls across the room like static. You glance over your shoulder once, scan the space like you’re keeping track of exits. Then turn back.

And with practiced casualness, you say, “You hear about anything running this winter?”

Jos’s attention sharpens, just slightly. Barely a twitch in his jaw. But he clocks it. You keep your eyes on the middle distance and take a sip of your drink- mostly for the pause it offers- and then, casually, like you’re mentioning the weather: “I’ve been a little bored.”

Jos tilts his head. Interested. “Is that so?”

“Just... stir-crazy.” You keep your tone light. Bright. “Haven’t been in a real car since they flew Max in for brake testing.”

He gives nothing away. Just waits.

You glance out over the room like it doesn’t matter, like you’re not carefully placing each word. “I was thinking- if anything came up. A testing slot. A rally drive. Anything like that.” There. Gentle. Palatable. No pressure. Not desperation. Not even an ask, really. Just a statement. A floating suggestion.

Your voice doesn’t shift. Your shoulders stay easy. But your stomach coils tight. Because even now- even with this new body, this new deal, this new version of you- there’s still something about asking that feels like folding. Like peeling open your ribs.

Jos’s mouth twitches. Just the corner. “Hm.” That’s it. Just that. But you know him well enough to catch it. That sound- small, smug, delighted. It’s the sound of a trap closing.

Because you came to him. Because you asked.

No matter how subtle. No matter how casual. You asked. And it thrills him. Because Jos Verstappen lives for this.

He hides it well- he always does- but it’s there. The faint shift of weight toward you. The satisfied tilt of his head. The way his eyes sharpen just slightly, like the game he’s been playing has finally started to swing in his favor.

“You want me to make a call?” he asks, smooth and quiet, like it costs him nothing.

You lift a shoulder. “Only if it’s not a headache.”

He hums, looking away for a moment, already flipping through names, contacts, favors- building the scaffolding in his mind. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to prove he holds the reins. Only then does he speak.

“It wouldn’t be a single-seater,” he says finally. “Rally, most likely. Scandinavia. Snow. Cold. Not much exposure. Barely any pay.”

You don’t hesitate. “Send my paycheck straight back to the team,” you say. “Call it a sponsorship. I don’t care what it is.”

That gets his attention.

Jos studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s just thrown a line out, expecting it to hang in the water for a while- and you bit down before it even landed.

It was a test. A measure of your grit. Of your desperation. Of your understanding.

And you passed.

He leans back ever so slightly, nodding once, like he’s filing something away. “That sounds like a good time, does it?” he asks, tone dry but edged with something almost amused.

You hold his gaze. Steady. “Yes. It does.”

Another beat. He looks at you for a moment longer- really looks. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re naive or ruthless, and whether or not it matters.

Then, almost fondly: “You’re smart to ask.”

There’s no threat in it. But there is a temperature. A charge beneath the compliment. He wants you to know you’ve made the right choice. That you’re wise to seek him out. That there’s more where that came from, if you stay close.

Jos smiles again, all teeth and calculation disguised as generosity. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your gear bag packed.”

And just like that, you’ve traded yourself for a favor. You feel it settle in your ribs. Weightless. But not free. The kind of thing that won’t show up in contracts or inboxes, but that you’ll carry all the same. Jos slips away only a moment later.

One minute he’s promising to make a few calls, and the next he’s clapping someone on the back and gliding into another conversation- like he hadn’t just offered you a taste of something sharp and sweet with a leash hidden inside.

You’re left standing near the perimeter of the room, drink still in hand, blood still humming from the conversation. It's not adrenaline exactly. Not fear. Just the slow, uneasy swell of something that feels like a contract being signed without ink.

You can feel him before you hear him. The shift in temperature. The static at your back. Max. Predictable, honestly. That Jos would drop you off right in his periphery. Fitting, truly. Inevitable.

You don’t see him approach- he moves like a shadow under a locked door. Silent. Sure. Unwanted.

But this time? You’re not caught off guard. You’re not off balance. You’re not scrambling to please, or prove, or endure. You’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that scrapes everything polite out of your chest and leaves nothing behind but sharp teeth and sharper instincts.

And you’re not afraid of him anymore.

Max takes position just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him skims your skin without touching it. Like a dare. Like he wants you to turn.

You don’t flinch.

You just wait. He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have something to say. Fucking say it, Max.

“You really going for the full set, huh?” he says at last, voice low and dry. Venom tucked under every syllable like it’s something elegant. “Sponsorship. Seat. Verstappen family holiday invite.”

You blink once. Slow. Unbothered. “Jesus.”

You turn your head over your shoulder- just enough to catch the line of his mouth, the cut of his eyes. The disdain’s still there, as always, but there’s something else now. Something darker coiled just behind it. “Is this your idea of a Christmas card?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The accusation’s already in the air between you. He’s not here to be clever. He’s here to see what you’ll do.

You inhale, sharp and silent. Then pivot on your toe, full-body now, facing him square for the first time. He’s close. Closer than you expected. Closer than anyone should be in a room full of champagne and fairy lights and factory staff pretending they aren’t watching.

You meet him at eye level. No posture. No smile. No spin.

Just you.

“I’m sorry I’m not subtle enough for you,” you say, voice steady. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending we don’t need favors.”

You take a half-step forward. Not aggressive. Not passive. Just enough to reclaim the space he thought he’d filled.

“Look,” you go on, tired and clear and done with it, “I’ve got nothing to sell but my drives and my time. That’s it. So yeah, if Jos wants to hand me a favor, or a drive, or a fucking photo op, I’m going to take it. I’m going to smile, say thank you, and take everything he gives me. Because I’m not in a position to be picky.”

His jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough.

And maybe you should stop there. But you’re so fucking done. With him. With this. With the way he’s hovered all season like a storm cloud and acted like you were the one blocking the sun.

So you don’t stop.

“Seriously,” you add, biting now, “why are you standing here? Why don’t you go find another junior employee to intimidate? Do some scouting for next season. You love that shit.”

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge.

But his silence isn’t power anymore. Not to you.

In two weeks, you’re out of his factory. Out of his immediate orbit. You’re done tiptoeing through his moods like they’re weather patterns. So you lean in. A breath closer. Just to twist the knife. Just because you can.

“Or maybe,” you murmur, “you want me to yell at you again.” His expression doesn’t change. But his pupils sharpen. You see it. The flash of it. That dark, sick little thing he doesn’t want to name.

You remember it. That day in the boardroom. The way he stood there, watching you unravel like it was art. Practically licking his fucking chops in the blood of a kill. Like he’d finally pulled the right string and the whole thing came tumbling down and God, wasn’t that just so satisfying.

You raise your brows now, almost playful. “Seemed like you loved it.” The air between you tightens.

Not with fear. With something else.

Something heavier. Twisted. Threaded through with adrenaline and ego and the fact that you don’t technically need to be any nicer to him than he deserves anymore- but fuck, you’ll still take the last word.

Your drink sweats in your hand. Somewhere, someone across the room laughs too loud. A champagne cork pops. Max breathes in. Sharp. Controlled. You can see the words on his tongue. You can see the war inside him- the want to snap back. To grab. To tear. But he doesn’t.

He flicks his gaze down your body instead.

Not long. Not crude. Just one slow, scalding drag of assessment. Like he’s not even sure if he’s sizing you up or taking you in. Then he tilts his head. Just a little. Voice flat. “Careful.”

You smile. Not sweet. Not kind. Just knowing. “Or what?” you say, cool and easy. “You’ll call HR? Kick me off the team?” You let the smile grow sharp. “Oh, wait. You can’t. I’m already leaving.”

His eyes narrow- barely. He’s trying so fucking hard not to react. To be cool. Detached. Unbothered. And he almost pulls it off. Almost. Because this? This isn’t a fight.

Not yet. This is play. The sick kind.

Two wild animals circling the same patch of dirt. Teeth bared, tails twitching. Neither of you quite sure if this is about dominance or the last laugh or mutual destruction- but God, don’t you both want to find out.

You take a sip of your drink. Cool and steady.

And Max- quiet, scalding Max- just stands there. Watching.

Your phone vibrates in your clutch.

You wouldn’t normally check it in the middle of a cold war reenactment with Max Verstappen, but almost everyone on your short, carefully curated no-Do-Not-Disturb list is in this room, except your parents and-

You pull it out.

Danny Ricciardo [8:42 PM] bailing on mclaren. headed your way. party still good or should we find a pub? 20 mins out

You blink. And then you smile. It hits like a burst of light- like someone cracked open a window in a room you didn’t know was suffocating you. Danny.

Your maybe-friend. Your only safe person in the entire Red Bull ecosystem. Someone who isn’t looking at you like he’s devastated you’re leaving, or like he’ll forget your name the second the paperwork clears, or like he’s waiting for God to strike you down mid-sentence.

(Max, that last one. That look is all Max.)

You type fast.

You [8:43 PM]still rolling but up to you. everyone here keeps looking at me like a kicked puppy. wouldn’t mind a drink that doesn’t have ‘compote’ or ‘infusion’ in it.

There’s no reply for a minute.

Two.

Five.

Max, then, checks his phone beside you, his thumb hovering just a little too long. You glance at him- because you can’t not- and for the first time, he looks mildly annoyed. That makes you feel excellent. The night does have hope after all. You sip your drink just to keep from smiling.

Your phone buzzes again.

Danny Ricciardo [8:51 PM]let’s go out. I’ll text when I’m close.

You straighten, pulse skipping just once. You’re not going out in this. Not with Danny. Not to a pub. Velvet dress? Ribbon hair? Absolutely not.

You glance at Max, who’s still scrolling, now with an expression like he’s trying to burn holes through his phone. Good. He can stay here with his bad mood and his weird dad. You’ve got plans. “Bye,” you murmur, not bothering to wait for him to look up.

You disappear through the side doors, heels clicking across tile. Up the stairs. Down the dim dorm hallway that’s somehow still home even when it’s already starting to forget you.

Inside your room, you move fast. Dress peeled off in one motion. You keep the nylons- they add a little warmth, and they make you feel like your legs have a little secret armor- and pull on a pair of shredded black jeans. High-rise, frayed knees, familiar as a favorite memory. A memory that is a little tight over the ass, but it’ll do.

A sleeveless top. Tighter. Cropped just enough to make your waist look like something sculpted- enough that it just barely kisses the waistband of your jeans. Black, because of course it is, but with a slight sheen that catches the dorm light.

You let your hair down. Shake it out. Pin the bow back in, low at the base of your skull.

Quick check in the mirror- yeah. That’ll do. Cute. Sharp. A little youthful. A little fuck-you. A little fuck-me.

Exactly right.

You grab your jacket. Lip gloss. Your phone. And when you leave this time, it’s not with a sense of something ending. It’s with a thrill in your chest like maybe- finally- something is about to begin. The all black is fitting- like Danny’s come to save you from your own funeral.

You’re practically skipping by the time you spot the rental SUV idling just past the front doors.

Factory lights still gleam overhead, pooling muted white against the cold pavement. You’re flushed from the party, from the hallway sprint, from the stupid quiet thrill of knowing someone actually wants to see you.

You wave once, already grinning.

Danny rolls the window down, half laughing already. “There she is! Backseat, Hollywood.”

You stop short. “What?”

He grins wider, too casual. “You’ve got the back.”

You blink. There’s a half-second- maybe less- where your brain tries to find a joke there, or context, or anything to make that sentence mean what you want it to mean.

But then you round the side and open the door-

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine.

This is fine.

Max is in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, jacket collar flipped up like he’s shielding himself from the entire world. He doesn’t even look at you. Your brain tries to recalibrate.

Because you’d assumed. Of course you did. Danny texted you. Danny said let’s go out. Danny is your friend. And for a few fragile minutes, you let yourself believe that meant just you and him. That it would be easy. Familiar. Comforting.

And now-

Now you’re crawling into the backseat behind the same man you had a little verbal sparring match with not seven minutes ago. Perfect.

You clamber awkwardly across the console, half-kneeling on the leather, and stretch your arms around Danny in the world’s least ergonomic side hug.

He laughs, warm and immediate. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” you mutter, chin nearly in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you smell good,” he shoots back, arms slipping around your waist just long enough to squeeze.

You pull back, cheeks pink from wind and exertion, and slide fully into the backseat.

Danny eyes you through the rearview mirror. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your seatbelt. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No, I’m saying it like you’re trouble.”

From the front, Max shifts. Says nothing.

You glance at the back of his head. His silence is louder than the engine.

Great.

This is going to be fun.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re practically folded over the center console, laughing about something stupid- Danny said a phrase wrong, or you did, and now the two of you are tangled in some inside joke Max doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. You’re taking up space like you live there- laughing, leaning in too close to Danny, warm in a way Max hasn’t seen from you in weeks. Maybe ever.

And it’s not just the posture. It’s the presentation.

Your hair spills over your shoulder, catching the light from the streetlamps overhead. Loose. Shiny. Feminine in a way that makes his throat tighten.

Your shirt rides up slightly at the back, just enough to reveal the soft curve of waist where the jeans cling a little too perfectly- black denim, snug in all the places that would make anyone stare, especially now, with your new body- louder, prouder, stronger than the one Max last saw at a weigh-in this summer. Sheer black nylons that aren’t entirely see-through, but just enough to make his eyes linger before he can snap them away.

He doesn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking. He isn’t looking.

But he can’t stop seeing.

He tries not to. Shifts in his seat like that’ll stop his peripheral vision from functioning. Like the heat creeping under his collar isn’t his problem to deal with.

He hates this.

Because it’s not just the way you look- it’s the way Danny’s looking at you. The way you’re looking at Danny. All warm and open and lit up from the inside. Like Danny’s safe. Like he’s yours. Like he’s seen something Max hasn’t.

There’s a ribbon in your hair.

A fucking ribbon.

Tied low, trailing down the back of your neck where your curls fall loose and messy, like you meant for them to look that soft. That touchable. But Max can’t stop looking at it. He hates that bow. He hates what it implies- what it softens. Like you’re approachable. Sweet. Like there’s anything gentle about you.

And he hates that it works.

Danny said it first- you smell good- and Max hasn’t been able to un-smell you since. Now Max can’t stop noticing. Something soft and expensive and a little sweet, something that clings to the heater vents. Wraps around his throat. It’s subtle. Effortless. Exactly the kind of scent that doesn’t try to draw attention but does anyway. Warm. Light. Clean. A little vanilla, maybe. A little powder. Something soft and domestic and utterly disarming, soaking into the the edge of his patience with every breath.

He wants to roll down the fucking window.

You look good. And that should be annoying. Just another fucking thing about you that takes up too much space. But it’s worse than annoying.

He hates all of it. He hates how cute it is. Not loud. Not styled to seduce. Just naturally, infuriatingly attractive. He wants to make Danny turn the car around. Wants to shout something just to ruin the mood you and Danny are building without even trying.

Because it undermines everything. The bow, the perfume, the gloss on your lips- none of it belongs on someone like you. Someone who’s clawed her way into every room, swinging elbows, spitting fire, refusing to take a single inch without drawing blood.

But now you’re in Danny’s car looking like this?

Like a girl?

Because for the first time- the first time- Max doesn’t see you as a rival, or a nuisance, or a pressure point to push until you scream.

For the first time, he sees you as a woman.

And he hates it. Hates that it’s you. That it’s now. That it's happening at all. Because you’re not supposed to be this. You’re supposed to be sharp edges and smug retorts. A storm in a Red Bull polo. Someone to fight with. Someone to prove wrong.

You’re not supposed to be cute.

You’re not supposed to be beautiful.

But you are.

And now you’re glowing in the backseat like some perfect fucking contradiction, all honeyed edges and storm-wrought eyes, and Max-

Max can’t breathe.

Because the same power that makes him want to throw something through a wall every time you talk is the same thing that’s pulling at his nerves right now. That’s twisting under his skin like a wire.

You are so goddamn alive.

Every room you walk into, you change the temperature.

Every time you speak, you rearrange the gravity.

Max clenches his jaw. Because the worst part- the part he can’t admit, even to himself- is that this isn’t new. Not really. That presence you carry, that fire, that thing that pisses him off every time you open your mouth- that’s what this is. You’re a problem. You’ve always been a problem.

And now he’s seeing what that problem looks like in black jeans and soft perfume and a bow tied at the back of your head like a dare. You’re not just a problem. You’re alluring. You’re dangerous. And Max is hating every single fucking second of realizing it.

When the car pulls up in front of the pub, you unclip your seatbelt with a soft click and glance between the two of them.

“I can check it out first,” you say, hand already on the door. “Make sure it’s halfway subtle. Not filled with factory staff or a Max fan club.”

Danny huffs a laugh, but you’re already slipping out- shoulders squared, leather sneakers hitting pavement with that easy, practiced rhythm that says you’ve never once considered asking permission to take up space.

You cross in front of the SUV, slicing clean through the headlights. And for a second- just a second- Max forgets to breathe.The way your hips move. The way the sheen of your tights catches the light through the ripped in the denim at the back of your thigh. The bow bouncing softly behind your hair as you go.

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s watching, too. Staring, really. Full tilt. Blatant.

And not in the way Max is- bitter and defensive, trying to smother it before it spreads. Danny’s looking like someone genuinely pleased to see you. Someone who likes watching you walk. Someone who wouldn’t mind seeing you keep going and not come back, just so he has an excuse to follow.

And Max-

Max hates that, too.

You disappear into the pub, shoulders back, posture casual. And the moment the door swings shut behind you, Danny exhales.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She looks good.”

Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look. Tries not to. But he can feel you out there, just like he’s always been able to feel it- occupying more than your share of the air.

Danny exhales through his teeth, a little laugh catching at the end. “She always like that?”

Max flicks his eyes toward him, annoyed already. “Like what?”

Danny shrugs, eyes still tracking the door you just disappeared behind. “You know. All... that.”

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what that even means. The ribbon? The legs? The presence?

Danny glances at him. A little softer now. Still watching the door, but quieter. More careful. “You knew her first, man. What’s her deal?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Max could say a dozen things.

Her deal?

Where would he even start?

He could say you are stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Obsessive. You don’t bend unless something breaks you. You’re exhausting and impressive and sometimes so fucking loud in his head it drowns out everything else.

But the truth is simpler. The truth is worse.

All Max really knows is how much it takes to break you.

That’s it.

How long you can hold your breath in the fire. How much pressure you absorb before something cracks. What your voice sounds like when you’ve been holding back a scream for hours, for weeks. What it’s like to push you into a corner until the only thing left is fight.

It’s not knowledge. It’s pathology.

And it makes him feel a little sick.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t know her.” And it’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Not when Danny’s looking at him like he wants a reason to justify feeling something warm- like he’s hoping Max can explain the thing Danny’s become infatuated with. But Danny doesn’t push. Cuts himself off as your figure comes darting back across the parking lot.

You push open the car door and duck back in, breath puffing in the cold. “It’s decent,” you report, tugging your jacket tighter. “Not a lot of quiet corners, but if we can get y’all to a table fast, there’s a good chance we can get a drink or two in before the whole town realizes Verstappen’s here for pint night.”

Danny snorts and grabs the handle. “Copy that. Deploying cover fire.”

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The three of you head inside. It’s warm, a little cramped, but charming in that British-pub-on-a-Friday kind of way. Low ceilings, scuffed wood, red walls. A few tables of locals already deep into their second round, but no one looks up long enough to register who just walked in.

You claim a booth near the back- narrow, loud, good enough- and offer to grab the drinks. Danny rattles off his usual, Max mutters his without looking up, and you head to the bar, sharp-heeled and half-smirking as you go.

You come back balancing three pints in your hands, pushing one toward each of them and settling into the seat across from both. Max takes his without thanks. Danny gives you a soft, sideways look that you pretend not to see.

Small talk kicks up, carried mostly by Danny. Easy stuff. You all pretend for ten minutes that the last few months haven’t been a professional and emotional meat grinder. You have problems. Danny has problems. Max has problems. You talk about none of them. Instead, racing gossip. Car updates. A truly unhinged story from Danny about a team principal with food poisoning in Singapore. You didn’t need to know that much about Zak Brown, honestly, but you’re laughing anyways.

And then, half a beer in, Danny leans back. One arm stretched across the booth. His gaze lands on you.

“So.” He takes a slow sip. “Hollywood. You talked to anyone since moving?”

You blink. Oh. “Like… romantically?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or whatever you call it when it’s mutual.”

You nearly choke on your beer. You cough once, cover your mouth, and wave a hand like it’ll clear the air. “Oh my God.”

Danny laughs immediately. “That bad?”

“That’s hilarious,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. “Genuinely. Peak comedy.”

Max shifts slightly, glass still in his hand but eyes cut sharp across the table. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about your life in front of him, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. Not really.

You shake your head. “Danny. I live in a dorm room above the factory. Everyone I interact with is either married, under the age of twenty, or- ” you gesture lazily, without even looking- “him.”

Danny turns to glance at Max and immediately huffs a laugh. “Right. Right.”

Max doesn’t blink. Just lifts his beer and takes a long, steady sip.

You lean back in your seat, finally grinning. “Where do you think I’m meeting people? The break room? Am I supposed to flirt with the espresso machine?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking now, head tilted back in open laughter. “Listen, I don’t know your life.”

“No. But you should. Because it’s deeply, profoundly celibate. Probably for the best. I don’t really plan on doing the whole distance thing.”

Danny’s still grinning when he gestures with the rim of his pint toward you. “Okay. No distance. Fair enough. So, theoretically- if someone not married, not a minor, and not mean,” he says, throwing a glance at Max that’s almost too quick to track, “were to, say… express interest. Someone from F1. That’d be off the table?”

You raise an eyebrow. “From F1?” The suspicion in your voice is thick enough to chew on. Profound. Amused, because this is a joke, clearly.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What? We’re not all emotionally stunted.”

You snort. “Okay. Let’s break that down.”

Danny lifts his hands. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s fuck one of my new coworkers,” you say dryly, “whose dating pool is a puddle. Like, I have seen more water on the floor of my shower.” Danny nearly spits his beer, but you keep going. You’re on one, now.

“Yeah, fantastic idea. Let me join the glorious tradition of passing around the same three girlfriends like a paddock carnival prize. I’ll get murdered in my sleep by a group of jealous ex-WAGs and my tombstone will just say ‘should’ve known better.’”

Danny’s howling now, and even he looks slightly ashamed about how funny he finds it. Max hasn’t said a word, but you can feel it- the bristle, the shift in his posture. That thing he does when he’s trying to stay above it and failing completely. Like he does not want to appear to be enjoying this conversation in any manner, yet can’t quite help it.

And then he speaks. Mistake. “They’re not all like that,” he says, quiet but pointed.

You both turn to look at him. Just one of those slow, synchronized movements that would be funny if it weren’t so precise. Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You just sip your beer, staring at him over the rim.

Because if Max Verstappen- the reigning king of WAG turnover- is about to defend the honor of the grid, you’re going to need another drink.

And you both wait.

And Max?

He says nothing. Because he can’t. Because his most recent ex was literally the mother of his former teammate’s child. Kelly. Kelly fucking Piquet.

She was with Daniil. Had a baby with him. Then moved on to Max like it was a change in season. And Max, to his credit- or to his utter lack of shame- never said a word. Just took what he wanted, like he always does.

The silence stretches.

Danny takes a sip of his beer. You take another.

And the look you both give him- matching, amused, pointed- is louder than anything either of you could’ve said. Max doesn’t flinch. But the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Yeah. That’s what you thought. Down, boy.

The conversation drifts. Eventually, even Max and Danny start talking- about tire strategy, about something ridiculous Christian said in a meeting last month, about a simulator bug that made the steering rack twitch even under a full shutdown like a haunted marionette. You know the one. You had to unplug the wheel entirely each night just to keep it from scaring the shit out of you after 9 pm.

You half-listen, sipping your beer, watching the crowd thicken near the bar. Observe the slow turn of a face or two across the room- but everyone goes back to their own beers, their own conversations.

You’re part of the table, but not the conversation. Just a warm body holding one corner down. And honestly, it feels kind of nice. To not be the one driving the story. To let your posture soften, to let your brain go quiet for a minute.

Max is talking to Danny now- something about the setup in Brazil and how god-awful the outside line was that weekend. You’re half-listening, enough to track the rise and fall of his voice, the occasional gesture of his hand, but your mind drifts.

Danny is still nodding along. Still laughing in the right places. But you notice it- once, twice, then again.

His eyes keep darting over to you.

The first glance is quick. Curious, even. The second lingers longer. Long enough that you glance up and catch it. He doesn’t look away. By the third time, he’s full-on watching you.

Like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks. Like maybe he’s not just being polite anymore.

You glance down at your drink, the rim of your glass smudged with a faint print of gloss, and try not to fidget. It’s not romantic. Not exactly. But it’s focused. Intentional. He’s looking at you like he forgot what Max was even saying.

And Max notices.

You feel it in the fractional pause in his cadence. The way his voice flattens slightly at the edges. His story loses shape. His next sentence tapers off like he’s forgotten the punchline or just doesn’t feel like delivering it anymore.

There’s a lull- brief but open- and Danny jumps on it like he’s been waiting all night for the gap. Turns to you fully.

“You really are fun, you know that?” he says, leaning a little closer, the kind of grin on his face that usually means trouble- but not in a mean way. Somewhere between beer two and beer three, and all of him just buzzing with charm and distraction.

You blink, startled out of your haze, but smile anyway. “I hope so. Would hate to be boring on top of everything else.”

Danny’s smile softens. His voice drops half a register. “No. Not just fun. Like- bright. You glow when you’re around people you like.” That makes you pause. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And unexpected. You’re not exactly sure what to do with it.

Not in a romantic way. Not really. It’s just Danny being Danny- charming, loose around the edges, ADHD running the conversation like a DJ with a broken crossfader. You’ve gathered that he’s always this side of a flirt, especially after a couple drinks. But still, something about the way he says it lands. The way his attention keeps snapping back to you like a rubber band.

You smile, wide and sheepish. “You’re just saying that because I got the drinks,” you tease, nudging his foot under the table.

Danny laughs. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

Max, across from both of you, exhales like he’s trying not to audibly gag. And then- because he cannot help himself- he drops the hammer. “Right,” Max says, voice flat. “Just wait ‘til you see her lose it in a meeting. Then you’ll really see her glow.”

You blink.

Danny turns.

Max sips his beer, casual. Lethal. “Full meltdown. Everyone stopped talking. I think someone apologized to her, which was insane, because she was the one yelling.”

You can feel the flush rise up your chest like a fuse.

Because how dare he. You stare at him. Stunned. Furious. You can’t even speak yet.

Because he left out everything.

He left out the weeks of poking and prodding. The whispered digs. The anonymous feedback dropped into your reports. The pointed questions in front of senior staff. The deliberate redactions in your sim notes that made you look wrong even when you weren’t.

The mother-fucking-Diet-Coke.

He left out how he made you snap. Just this. This version. You, unhinged. Overreacting. Embarrassing. And now he’s feeding it to Danny like you’re some unhinged liability who just couldn’t keep her pretty little mouth shut in a meeting.

Max takes a slow sip of his beer. God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself.

But then- Danny laughs. Hard.

You blink again, confused.

Danny’s eyebrows go up. “No way. Her? C’mon.”

He looks at you, grinning. “You? You’re the meltdown type?”

Your mouth opens, words fighting their way up your throat, then closes again. Because what are you supposed to say? That it’s true? That you did raise your voice, that you did storm out, that you did send a stack of paperwork flying over the top of Max’s head and let it rain down like confetti?

That Max got what he wanted?

Danny leans back. “Nah. Don’t believe it. Not Hollywood. Not our girl.” He says our girl, like Max might share a claim to any part of you but your absolute contempt.

You glance at Max. He’s still staring into his glass. But his jaw is tight now. Just slightly. Like the moment didn’t go the way he planned. Danny bumps your foot under the table again, teasing. “You’d have to be a menace to get her to snap.”

You lean forward slightly, eyes still locked on Max, voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the pub.

“Yeah,” you say. “A real fucking menace.”

Max doesn’t flinch. But his next sip of beer is sharp, and silent. But you can’t gloat on it for long, because there’s something about the room, the bar, the energy that’s… changing. You sneak a glance over the boys.

A couple glances from across the pub. Someone nudging someone else. A phone tilted in your direction, not discreetly enough. The laughter from your table a little too loud, your faces a little too familiar.

You’re not famous-famous. Not like them. But you’ve got enough edge now that your name rings a bell. And when you’re sitting across from two men who look very much like Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo on a Friday night, wearing a shirt that fits a little too well and a bow in your hair that people seem to notice more than they should- it adds up.

You clock it before either of them. So you slide your empty glass across the table and say, “Time to go.” No one argues.

Outside, the air is colder than you expect. Your breath fogs. Max shrugs into his coat without a word. Danny smiles, easy and relaxed, spinning his keys once before offering them to you.

“You good to drive? We can get a cab if we need to.”

You nod. “One beer. You guys had, what, two? Three?”

Max grunts. Danny grins, a little shrug, boyish. “I was thirsty.”

You slide into the driver’s seat. Max takes the passenger side without asking, which- yuck. Bad manners. Danny climbs in back. The plan’s simple: drop them off at the hotel. You’ll take Danny’s rental car back to the factory, bring it back to him tomorrow.

Easy.

But when you pull up to the curb, the quiet lingers just a little too long. You put the car in park. Danny leans forward between the seats, voice low and warm.

“You want to come in? Just for a drink. Hotel bar or my room- whatever’s less weird.” You blink. Not thrown off, not uncomfortable- just surprised. Max stiffens beside you. Danny’s smile doesn’t waver. “Just to hang out. You’ve been in factory jail for weeks.”

You glance at him. Then Max. Then back again. “I mean- sure,” you say, casual. “I’ll come in for a little.”

And that’s when Max says it. “I’ll come too.”

You turn.

Danny blinks.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. Still casual. Still detached. “If we’re doing a nightcap. Why not.”

Danny hesitates. Just a beat. “You literally said you were going straight to bed.”

Max shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

You stare at him. “You really don’t have to- ”

Max cuts you off. “I want to.”

And that’s it. Decision made.

You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. Danny sighs, a little dramatic. “Alright. Boys’ night plus you, then.”

You shake your head and kill the engine. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Max’s jaw ticks as he gets out. He’s already regretting all of it. But the idea of Danny and you alone- in a hotel bar with mood lighting, or on a couch, or anywhere near a bed- is worse.

If Danny falls for you, Max won’t survive it. He is not losing custody of his best friend to you.

So tonight?

He’s not letting either of you out of his sight.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

One drink turns into four.

You’re not even sure how. One minute you’re perched on the edge of the couch in Danny’s hotel suite, shoes still on, sipping something floral and deceptively strong. The next, you’re flat on your back on the carpet, legs splayed out under the coffee table, laugh-crying into your forearm.

You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.

Because Max- Max- is pacing the room, red-faced and animated, shouting over Danny while they argue about whose fault it was that the side of Max’s caravan sheared off halfway through their marketing stunt at the RedBull Ring five years back.

“No, no, no- you hit me!,” Max says, pointing aggressively with his gin and tonic like it's a laser pointer of truth. “You always do this- !”

“I was being cinematic!” Danny yells, already wheezing. “It was for the shot!”

“For the shot?! It was a caravan, not a drone sequence! You tipped my caravan over!”

You’re howling.

There are tears streaming down your face. Your stomach hurts. You’re half convinced you might actually piss yourself on the floor of a Milton Keynes hotel if they keep going. And you don’t know if Max is actually funny or if you’re just drunk enough to believe he is- but either way, this is the funniest thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Maybe ever.

You manage to lift your head just enough to wheeze, “Please stop talking- I can’t breathe- ”

Danny falls off the arm of the couch, landing next to you in a heap. ““I was winning!!” he gasps again, absolutely beside himself.

Max throws his hands in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “You were going to kill us!”,

You’re laughing so hard now that it’s silent- just your mouth open, body shaking, face buried in the hotel carpet.

You should not be this happy. Not here. Not now. Not with them. But God, for the first time in months, the ache behind your ribs isn’t heavy. It’s light. Not this isn’t terrible, not this is actually kind of enjoyable, but genuine, rib cracking fun.

You can’t help but think it again, horrifyingly, as he gears up for another round of arguing with Danny. Max Verstappen- stone-faced, growling, rage-fueled Max Verstappen- might actually be funny. The world is upside-down. And you’re just drunk enough to love it.

At some point following drink four, Danny tries to scoot closer to you on the couch.

It’s not dramatic- just a lean-in, knee bumping yours, shoulder dipping slightly in your direction as he cracks open another story. You don’t really clock it. You’re still laughing, still breathless from whatever Max just said about how fucking terrible the sausages they cooked at the end were.

But Max sees it.

Max clocks it immediately.

And before Danny can even shift his weight again, Max moves- fast and thoughtless, dropping down right between you like he’s claiming a spot that was always his. “I mean, you could taste the propane,” he cuts in, reaching across you both for a half-empty can of tonic. “I think that’s when I realized I am an awful cook.”

Danny blinks. His arm is still outstretched where it was trying to find the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Now it’s hovering awkwardly in midair behind Max’s neck.

You blink too, a little disoriented, because now Max is suddenly close- like really close- one leg pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours every time he gestures. He’s not even looking at you, just ranting about how Danny “none of it was the same after he left,” but the space between you has evaporated.

Danny tries again a few minutes later- after he stands to make another round of drinks, another bout of story-laugh-shouting that has you giggling into your wrist, head thrown back against the couch cushion.

Danny drops on the arm of the couch as he hands you your drink, shifts toward you. Barely. Just trying to close the distance. Maybe bump your shoulder. Maybe nudge his knee next to yours again.

Max leans back.

Elbows wide. Legs spread. Like he’s stretching- only somehow, his stretch ends with his knee fully pressed against yours and his arm slung behind you on the couch. Not quite touching you. But close enough that the heat of him is a presence. Enough to make you stand too, vacate the space Max clearly needed to manspread into, and drop down on the far side of the couch. Max between you and Danny. Again. It’s fine. It’s better even, because you can kick your feet up.

Danny narrows his eyes. Clears his throat. Mate, you are fucking this up for me.

Max doesn’t even glance at him. Doesn’t notice. Or rather, he pretends not to. Just keeps sitting there.

Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s just protecting his friend. That’s all. Keeping things in check. Hogging Danny, maybe, but only because he doesn’t want him tangled up with someone who ruins everything she touches.

That’s the reason.

And it keeps happening. You’ve noticed, even through the gin haze.

Every time Danny leans in- just slightly- Max inserts himself like it’s a sport. When Danny shifts toward you on the couch, Max shifts further. When Danny makes a joke, Max cuts in before you can answer. When Danny starts a story, Max finishes it.

You’ve moved to the armrest. Then the cushion beside it. Then leaned onto the floor with your back to the couch.

Each time, Max finds you.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re halfway through a laugh and suddenly there’s a knee pressed into yours and Max is talking again, louder, sharper- about you, at you, through you.

Like just by existing, you’ve ruined something that was his.

You try to ignore it.

Try to keep drinking. Keep smiling. Talk less, if only it means trying to hang onto the little bit of joy left in the night.

But the last straw comes when Danny tosses an arm across the back of the couch, joking about some fucked up F1-themed wedding he saw on Instagram- complete with matching helmets- and Max just has to cut in.

“Hey, maybe you can sell your wedding to SkySports,” he says, all casual menace. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want a public meltdown broadcasted when you go full-bridezilla.”

Your entire body stills, because what normal fucking person would ever say that?

Danny freezes, stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares like his favorite dog just shit on the floor of the White House. And for a long moment, the room is just… quiet.

Then, you turn your head. Slowly. You speak. Too sweet. “Max?”

He glances over, cocky as hell.

You smile. Bright. Lethal. “I would rather lick the inside of a fucking racing boot than sit next to you for one more minute.”

Danny chokes on his drink. You stand, grab your phone, and type out a rideshare request in record time.

Max shrugs, already halfway smug. “I’m just-.”

You cut whatever bullshit he had loaded up off at the knees. “-you were just shutting the fuck up, thanks.”

You don’t even wait for a reply. Just turn to Danny- softening your expression, letting the warmth return. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, and mean it. “I had fun. I’ll see you around.”

And then you’re gone. Door swinging gently shut behind you.

Danny stares at it. Still holding his lowball glass of ice. Still seated on the couch, still half stuck in the dream where he was supposed to be the one walking you out. Getting a real date set. Maybe a kiss, if he’s being wishful. At the very least, not ending the night like this.

Max exhales. “You’re welcome.”

Danny turns slowly. “Sorry?”

Max shrugs. “You were about to make a mistake. I saved you.”

Danny just stares. “You think she’s a mistake?”

“I know she is.”

“Right.” Danny nods, lets it hang for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Silence.

Max sits back like it’s a game he just won. Like he didn’t just gut the night with a single, well-placed knife between her ribs.

“I liked her,” Danny says, finally. Quiet. Not for sympathy. Just the truth.

Max doesn’t say anything. Because he could see Danny liked you, at least a little. And he did fuck it up. On purpose. He watched Danny lean in- watched him light up like you were something precious- and he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because he wanted you. But because Danny did. And something about that felt too threatening. Too unstable. Too real. So he ruined it.

And he’s still not sorry.

Because in Max’s mind, he didn’t sabotage Danny’s shot with a good thing- he saved him from a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. He just doesn’t know how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make him sound like the jealous asshole he refuses to believe he is.

So instead, he leans back. Folds his arms. And lets the disappointment settle between them, thin and quiet and heavy as sleep.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

A/N: Back from the dead with a 31 pager! Definitely struggling a little bit recently, and I hate that feeling of being 'in debt' to you guys with chapters, so I am going to try to make a push for a few releases this week, don't hate me if it doesn't go accordingly.

On my hands and knees begging for feedback and your commentary on the story as it quite literally is my only mental reward for the hours I am putting in. It makes my little ADHD brain go brrrr

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 #mv1 #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1

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axolterp · 2 months ago

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Axolt: Modern ERP and Inventory Software Built on Salesforce

Today’s businesses operate in a fast-paced, data-driven environment where efficiency, accuracy, and agility are key to staying competitive. Legacy systems and disconnected software tools can no longer meet the evolving demands of modern enterprises. That’s why companies across industries are turning to Axolt, a next-generation solution offering intelligent inventory software and a full-fledged ERP on Salesforce.

Axolt is a unified, cloud-based ERP system built natively on the Salesforce platform. It provides a modular, scalable framework that allows organizations to manage operations from inventory and logistics to finance, manufacturing, and compliance—all in one place.

Where most ERPs are either too rigid or require costly integrations, Axolt is designed for flexibility. It empowers teams with real-time data, reduces manual work, and improves cross-functional collaboration. With Salesforce as the foundation, users benefit from enterprise-grade security, automation, and mobile access without needing separate platforms for CRM and ERP.

Smarter Inventory Software Inventory is at the heart of operational performance. Poor inventory control can result in stockouts, over-purchasing, and missed opportunities. Axolt’s built-in inventory software addresses these issues by providing real-time visibility into stock levels, warehouse locations, and product movement.

Whether managing serialized products, batches, or kits, the system tracks every item with precision. It supports barcode scanning, lot and serial traceability, expiry tracking, and multi-warehouse inventory—all from a central dashboard.

Unlike traditional inventory tools, Axolt integrates directly with Salesforce CRM. This means your sales and service teams always have accurate availability information, enabling faster order processing and better customer communication.

A Complete Salesforce ERP Axolt isn’t just inventory software—it’s a full Salesforce ERP suite tailored for businesses that want more from their operations. Finance teams can automate billing cycles, reconcile payments, and manage cash flows with built-in modules for accounts receivable and payable. Manufacturing teams can plan production, allocate work orders, and track costs across every stage.

#Axolt ERP #Axolt #Inventory software #Salesforce ERP #ERP on Salesforce #Cloud ERP (Saas)

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vivace-formulala · 4 months ago

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑: 𝑺𝒐 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑶𝒏 𝑻𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 (𝑶𝑩𝟖𝟕 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

🫵: “ AFAB ; same-aged ; you can drive ; you’re British ; you like Taylor Swift ; you fix cars ; ”

⌛️: around winter break 2024

table of contents | next | prev

a/n: these bitches is so cute i love them

Day 3 rolls around, and to your surprise, things are already looking up. Ollie—Ollie, the guy who nearly sent you flying into a ditch yesterday with his death-defying driving—has actually come prepared today. He doesn’t just show up to the car, grinning with that half-apologetic look. No, today, he’s actually put some effort in.

“I watched some YouTube videos last night,” he says, adjusting his seatbelt with a small smile. “Figured it was time I stopped trying to brake this thing with my left foot.”

You feel your eye twitch and a headache comes in because what?

But then he throws you a wink— a conniving one, and then you blink, then feel your shoulders relax—ones you didn’t even know were tense.

“Oh, thank God.” You lean back in the passenger seat, saying nothing more, letting the breath of relief do the talking. He rolls his eyes in response, and you find yourself kind of enamored by the fact that he’s taking this seriously.

He nods, a little self-satisfied grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Gotta at least try. I have a feeling you might not sign me off for my super license.”

You chuckle at that, any annoyance from yesterday already slipping away. Maybe this is going to be okay after all.

That is, until parking happens.

For the next few hours, it’s a series of missteps. Ollie pulls forward, then repositions. And then tries again. And again. And again.

It’s like watching a dog chase its tail—only with less success and a lot more frustration.

“Seriously?” You watch him inch forward, then back again only for the car to be slanted. “Come on, Ollie. You can do this.”

“I know!” he groans, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. “How do people even park these things?”

You’re about to explain the basics when he turns the wheel too sharply and clips the curb. Again.

“I swear, this car hates me.”

“Or maybe it’s just you,” you tease, leaning against the dashboard.

He makes a sour face that maybe resembles a scowl on his usual smiley face. “Very funny.”

After a few more failed attempts—and a brief discussion on whether the car has developed a personal vendetta against him—you both decide to take a break before he drives you both off a cliff (or just into a bush). You end up grabbing lunch at a McDonald’s nearby.

As you sit down to eat, you can’t help but comment, “You know, my gym trainer is going to murder me for this.”

Ollie grins, unwrapping his burger. “Same. My fitness team would have a heart attack if they knew what I was eating two days in a row.”

You laugh, eyeing the greasy burger in your hands, the smell of fries making your mouth water. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He winks. “Deal.”

The two of you devour the food like a couple of starved animals, and once you’re done, that familiar glint appears in Ollie’s eyes—the childish boyish one.

Somehow, you both end up on the swings at the park, discussing gym routines and fitness.

“So, you’re telling me you have to stay the same weight all year round?” you squint, picturing the logistics. Some days you were a little chubbier; other days, you were less so. If you were any more insecure, that might be a problem—but lucky for you, you didn’t mind.

“That’s basically an eating disorder waiting to happen,” you mutter. You’d never make it as an athlete.

Ollie laughs, his long legs pushing the swing with ease. “I mean, we have trainers and dietitians on the team to make sure everything’s in check. The car just has to be really light, so they work around our weight and the regulations. Just that though.”

“Phew. And here I thought you had to be, like, six feet tall, too,” you joke motioning to his long appendages, making him laugh.

“One of my friends? Kimi? He’s just around 5’4.” He gestures with his hand, a little below his chest.

It makes you think. You like it better in the car, you didn’t have to look up at Ollie too much. When you guys stood by side even the height difference had you blushing. You never thought of yourself dating a taller guy but— wait you were thinking of dating Ollie weren’t you?

You shake trying to fight these thoughts so you stand up, urging that you two spend some time out of the car today (because you might stare a little too long at Ollie if you stay in the car with him for the rest of the day). Just for a little bit, you tell yourself.

“Now, usually we use tennis balls for this, but these will have to do,” he grins, shaking two plastic water bottles that he filled halfway. “You have to catch them as I drop them.”

You eye the bottles skeptically. “How will I know which one you’re going to drop?”

“You won’t,” he says, “that’s where your quick reflexes come in.”

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind. *Quick reflexes?* You don’t have those.

“It’ll be fun trust me.” He gives a big grin. “Now put your hand on top of mine.

You hesitate but follow his instructions. The second your palm meets the back of his, you don’t even have time to process the fact that you’re kind of holding hands before he drops the left bottle.

By some beginner's luck, you catch the bottle.

You are also annoyed so you try to wack Ollie with it.

“I wasn’t ready yet, you numpty!” you screech, lifting the bottle to hit him.

Ollie laughs and ducks, trying to shrink into his six-foot frame to avoid the blow.

The game continues for a while along with other skill games, and though you fail more than you succeed, you’re both having the time of your lives. At one point, Ollie even tries to teach you how to juggle— as all amazing F1 racers can do— both of you abandoning the whole driving lesson thing for a little while and letting yourselves loose. The game is ridiculous and your laughs mix in with the other joyful laugh of the kids at the park.

It’s exactly what you need.

As the sky shifts from orange to deep blue, reality sets back in. You both climb into the car to head back to school.

You take the wheel this time—it’s way too late to be trusting Ollie with driving . But when you show him how to properly and legally speed at 100 km/h on the expressway, he’s impressed, weaving through cars and even going semi-manual mode.

Ollie was unashamedly looking in awe.

“So it’s not out yet, so if this leaks, I’m blaming you,” Ollie says, looking like the proud passenger princess. “But I just signed with Haas for F1 this season.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. It’s not Ferrari or Mercedes or even a team you knew, but you could tell it means the world to Ollie. “That’s... big news. Congrats.”

He looks at his lap and then back at the road, looking modest. “It’s a dream come true, but it still feels surreal. They’ve got me for a seat fitting next Monday.”

You have to give him an amused look. “A what?” You ask not quite believing what that was.

“Yeah, we have customized seats.” He says earnestly and you have to stop yourself from laughing.

The two of you talking casually about his career and the costs of having his back and butt being molded perfectly for his race chair, as you make your way through the streets. You honestly felt kind of bad you didn’t know just how famous he was and how ignorant you were of the sport.

You also tell him about your latest project: a Ford Mustang you’re working on, swapping out the engine for a Coyote 5.0L. Your dad sponsored the engine, so you’re hoping to sell it for £29,000 once it’s running.

“Really?” Ollie’s eyes light up. “You could make a whole business out of that. All for an engine swap?”

You nod, proud of your work. “It’s a work in progress, but I’m getting there. I’m 98% sure it’ll work.”

Ollie crosses his arms and grins. “I’ll help you get it to 99%.”

“Nuh-uh. You want a cut,” you tease.

He laughs. “Of course! Gotta get paid for holding the flashlight.”

You roll your eyes. “And it’s not even a 100% guarantee.”

You banter back and forth about the project car, and Ollie jokes you should make a career out of it, crunching through the numbers of the profit margin and how much you'd pay your star employee if Haas ever decides to pull a Ricciardo. ("Ollie you'd be my only employee, you can't start a union like that.")

“You know, it’s funny,” you hum, steering towards the exit to Chelmsford. “Your biggest problem right now is getting a custom seat, and I’m over here still deciding whether college is even for me. And you’re what—just a year younger than me?”

“Seven months."

“Potato, potahto,”

He shakes his head, amused. “You’re kind of like the exact opposite of what I expected. You know, I thought you’d be all about racing, you drive a mean expressway.”

You laugh. “Yeah, racing isn’t really my thing. I love cars, but racing? Nah, that’s not me.”

He gets quiet for a moment, thoughtful.

“You’d be surprised,” he says, turning serious. “The sport isn’t just about racing—it’s the life, the discipline, the pressure. The training... It’s intense.”

You nod, understanding more than you let on. “I can imagine. I have to drag my ass out to the gym, and barely control myself for boba so I don’t think I can give up my favorite things to eat.”

Ollie’s smile fades a little. “I miss normal food sometimes. And my family. I’ve been at PREMA since I was 15. It’s hard, you know? Living in Vicenza while they’re here. So much has changed around here since then.”

His honesty catches you off guard. It’s a side of Ollie you haven’t seen—the vulnerable part that you can’t help but relate to.

“I get it,” you say softly. “I’ve only got my dad here. And it’s been just the two of us since my mom passed. The move from Chelsea was… tough.”

There’s a quiet understanding between you and your softening eyes meet his.

You wish the ride was just a little bit longer, just so the day didn't end. But the feeling is short-lived.

“Oh no,” you groan, spotting the school’s locked garage door and darkened lights.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ollie says, unfazed. “I can tag along to your place.”

“Really?” And the thought makes you a bit too happy— so you squint at him. “You just want to see my car collection.”

He grins. “Hell yeah. I need to see this.”

You roll your eyes but drive toward your house anyway. When you unlock the garage and Ollie steps inside, his jaw drops.

“Whoa,” he breathes. “This is unreal.”

And he’s not wrong. Your collection is a proud testament to your love for cars and certainly not a cheap hobby for sure—leaving Ollie’s thoroughly impressed. He notices your Jeep Cherokee project and points out a missed timing chain change.

“You didn’t…” he starts, eyeing the engine.

“Don’t even say it,” you mutter, already heading for your tools.

You can’t stand putting things off, and Ollie seems to understand that. The two of you get to work right there in the garage, fixing what you missed. Your dad stumbles in, eyes wide as he spots you and Ollie leaning over the hood.

“I didn’t know you had a boy over,” he teases, leaning against the doorframe.

You roll your eyes as you fiddle around. “He’s just helping out dad.”

Ollie settles for a simple wave hello, grinning his gummy smile.

“You know, she never lets anyone near her projects,” your dad says, winking at Ollie. “You must be special, Ollie boy. You hold a mean wrench.”

Your cheeks heat up. “Dad!” you exclaim, trying to hide your embarrassment.

Your dad laughs it off and invites Ollie to dinner.

At the table, you’re still processing this new side of your dad—the one who almost became an F1 driver before you were born. He shares stories of his racing days, including a funny one about racing a guy named Sebastian Vettel back in the early 2000s.

Apparently this Sebastian guy was a big deal because Ollie practically begs for pictures, and your dad’s more than happy to oblige. He brings out an old box that you’ve never seen before and there your dad was in racing gear— a young aspirant in the world of formula racing who chose the loves of his life over a racing career— you and your mom.

“Look! It’s you.” Ollie coos as you peer that— yes indeed that was a 1-year-old you in little pigtails in your dad’s arms, a 3rd place trophy in the other.

You laugh as you study the photos closely, but you do not miss the small "cute" Ollie mutters under his breath.

It hits you—your love for cars probably started right there, but you don’t say it because it would be too sappy. Instead, you listen as your dad and Ollie trade racing stories.

By the time dinner wraps up, you’ve laughed so much you nearly forget how late it’s getting. But you make Ollie leave, forcing your dad to say goodbye too.

As you drive Ollie to the bus station, you realize something’s changed. You’re embarrassed by how well he and your dad got along—but happy too. And then, on the way to the station, you forget to signal when making a turn.

Ollie laughs. “Guess you need more hours at driving school.”

You flick his forehead in retaliation, smiling despite yourself. “Shut up.”

#f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #ollie bearman x reader #oliver bearman x reader #ob87 x reader #formula 1 imagines #f1 imagines #formula 1 x reader imagines #f1 x reader imagines #oliver bearman x reader imagines #ob87 imagines

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ohwhatagloomyshow · 3 months ago

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buzz cut season

I wrote gemma x helena hate sex and i'm insecure about it so y'all are my guinea pig audience rather than ao3.

a loose companion to alas, I cannot swim where helly pushes mark out of the emergency exit in the finale instead of running away with him. the tonal difference between the works, though, is night and day. lol.

explicit, 4,665 words.

characters: Mark Scout, Gemma Scout, Devon Scout-Hale, Ricken Hale, Harmony Cobel, Helly R.

relationships: Mark Scout/Gemma Scout, Gemma Scout/Helena Eagan, implied Mark S./Helly R., implied Mark Scout/Helena Eagan

The first thing she does exclusively for herself is buy a pair of clippers with Ricken’s credit card and give herself a buzz cut.

She doesn’t give any of them a warning, though she’s not sure why not. Maybe she’s too used to keeping secrets. Maybe she’s forgotten how to talk to people.

She does it at night, outside, even though it’s freezing. They’re heading out towards Salt’s Neck, the five of them, stopping for the night in a rundown motel off the side of the road that looks the other way when they pay in cash. It’s the world’s shittiest camping trip, four adults and a two month old baby crammed into the same space, traveling - inexplicably - with an older white woman who gives her the creeps. The motel and the gas station next door are the only things for miles on a wide, empty plain. She hopes her strands of hair can be used by birds for their nest, although they passed their last tree four hours ago, when they stopped for gas and she swiped Ricken’s wallet, slipping away as the four adults argued about the logistics of dinner. She kept the clippers in her pocket, felt them grow warm as she clutched them the entire drive.

She fucks up and doesn’t cut her hair before she attacks it with the clippers, has to sneak into the car for the emergency Swiss army knife the Scout siblings always keep in their dashboards. When it’s in her hand she thinks of herself as the store-brand version of Mulan, no reflecting pool in sight, the dull five-inch blade a kid-friendly version of slashing off a symbol of her femininity with a huge sword. Her cousin’s daughter - her niece, for all intents and purposes - had turned four the year that movie had come out, and they had made a girl’s day of seeing it together. Jenna had been obsessed with swords for months after that, she remembers. It would’ve been cool if Mark had rescued her with a sword, she thinks as she saws through a lock.

She’s sure the buzz is uneven but doesn’t give a fuck, is confident no one will look at her long enough to notice. She likes the feel of it under her palms. She’s never felt a buzz cut before. It’s bizarre how light her head feels now, how harsh the wind is on her scalp. When she returns the Swiss army knife she looks at herself in the passenger-side mirror and grins. It’s uneven as all hell - it looks terrible - she barely recognizes her own reflection and it’s the best thing she’s seen since Mark’s face, covered in blood.

Devon stirs when she re-enters their shared room but Mark still sleeps like a log, which is an incredible feat given Ricken’s chainsaw snores, although Eleanor doesn’t seem to mind them either. As much as she dislikes Cobel - distrusted her from the moment they first made eye contact - maybe she can argue for gender-segregated sleeping next time. Not that she wants to be away from Mark, really. It’s just fucking unfair that that silver-haired bitch gets her own room.

He still doesn’t stir when she wriggles her way over to him, molding her cold body around the curve of his spine. He smells different now in a way she can’t quite pinpoint. Maybe two years of smelling the same recycled air has fucked up her nose.

She thinks about Jenna, about Kiran - how angry she’d been at Kiran for giving her daughter a similar name to her own. How flustered Kiran had been by her 15-year-old jealous and furious cousin, not understanding that Gemma just wanted to be recognized as an individual, an adult. By the time Jenna had a personality, Gemma had been halfway through her bachelor’s program, finally almost-confident, thrilled to be a sort-of-aunt when her life was just getting started.

But then Kiran had moved her family to Boston for a job, and her other cousins started their families or careers and moved on to greener pastures, and her parents contemplated a move back to Lhasa to take care of her maternal grandparents. She made their choice easier by going to UW-Madison and they scolded her from halfway across the world for such a useless doctorate until she got that poverty-wages tenure-track position at Ganz and they’d flipped to bragging about her to all their neighbors.

She presses her forehead against Mark’s back, which does get a response from him - a flinch away. Because they’ve both been sleeping alone for two years, and it’s harder to readjust to sharing a bed than sleeping alone.

It’s hard to sleep. When she does, there’s flashing red lights, absolute silence, icy wind on her face. Needles and blood and broken glass and a barefoot woman shoving her husband through a doorway.

Mark is angry about her haircut but she gets a cold approving nod from Cobel, which she fucking hates. Devon is so gentle, so careful, when she goes back over her scalp with the clippers. They don’t talk, but Devon does squeeze her shoulder, every so often.

She always gets first pick of where she sits in the Scout-Hale SUV and she always sits beside Eleanor. It upsets Mark but he tries not to show it. He is always trying not to show it. Eleanor is soft and warm and sometimes she smells like heaven and sometimes she smells like shit but mostly she smells alive. Gemma can’t get enough of it.

They had fucked, desperately, in Ricken and Devon’s basement an hour after their rescue. Mark had showered and then she had showered but his neck tasted like copper when she sucked on it. He had grabbed her by her loose wet hair and she had cried out and he had bent her over the couch and it had been agony and ecstasy. He thrusted as deep as he had ever gotten, as deep as he could possibly get, and it hadn’t been enough. They both finished unsatisfied.

My baby.

By hour ten of the buzz cut, she realizes he won’t be able to pull her hair like that again for a long, long time.

Mark had guided her up that concrete stairwell like he knew exactly where they were going, but she learned later it had been his first time actually using those stairs. He’d seen them a few times on his very first day, but never again after that.

She’s grateful for whatever sweaty exercises they’d had her do once a week because she feels strong running up the stairs, her breath lighter than Mark’s, heartbeat fairly steady for all the added adrenaline in her system. Mark sounds like he’s going to collapse the second they see the parking lot but he keeps going, pointing her in the direction of an SUV she’s never seen before.

But she’s seen Devon before.

The sight of her sister-in-law nearly makes her drop to her knees; it’s only Mark’s hand in hers that forces her upright. Fuck, Mark’s hand in hers. He did it. He fucking did it. He fucking killed a man for her. He’s right here, and they’re alive, and Devon’s openly weeping in the driver’s seat while a breathtaking woman with almost unnaturally smooth, straight silver hair yells at her from the passenger seat.

It takes a couple tries for her to open the backseat door and the stranger is yelling at Devon to fucking drive, Goddamn it! And Mark is shoving her inside while he climbs in behind her the moment Devon hits the gas. When the door closes behind him he’s on her again, hands locking her face in place while he smothers her in kisses. She laughs and she cries and they hold tight, so tight, to each other. Devon yells at them to put their fucking seatbelts on as she hits 70 in a 35 but they never do.

The beautiful, angry stranger is Harmony Cobel, she’s told in Devon and Ricken’s Goddamn incredible wood-and-glass home. They let Gemma hold Eleanor while Mark holds her and she hasn’t felt this much love in her heart since the last pregnancy four years ago. Mark is still coated in a stranger’s blood, but Cobel is absolutely gleeful when she explains the large dead man in the elevator was Drummond, one of Helena Eagan’s personal protectors and top Lumon goon.

“The fuck was Helena Eagan’s guy doing on the severed floor?” She’s only paying attention because she’s resting against Mark’s chest, feels the vibrations when he speaks. She’s so distracted by being out, being free, holding her actual niece. Life is a miracle.

“You don’t know, do you?” Cobel always speaks in a murmur, her words just slow and soft enough to force you to listen, focus on every letter in every word she says. When Gemma looks up, the look in Cobel’s eyes has shifted. It makes her heartbeat kick; she settles back against Mark, holds Eleanor just a little bit tighter.

“Know what?”

Cobel just looks at him, looks at the two of them. Gemma almost wants to ask if she’s ok, can they get her something to drink, before she catches on that this is an intimidation tactic. She realizes, a half-second before Cobel speaks again, that Mark isn’t taking this - whatever it is - nearly as seriously as he should be.

“Helena Eagan is Helly.”

She’s nearly thrown onto the floor from how quickly he stands up; Ricken leans over from his easy chair to steady her and his daughter. She hands Eleanor over to his anxious arms as she stands, takes a place next to Devon, who has just emerged from the kitchen.

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Mark towers over Cobel, his pointer finger in her face. She can just make out his expression from this angle, and she’s concerned to find fear in the shape of his mouth. She hasn’t seen her husband in two years but she still knows all his tells; she had to memorize them when it became apparent that avoidance was written into his DNA. There’s guilt in his eyes, too. “Because if you’re fucking with me -.”

Cobel lifts her hands in a gesture of goodwill. “If I had the security footage I would show you. And there is security footage.” A look passes between them that she doesn’t have enough context to unravel, but Mark has gone deathly pale. He looks sickly under all that dried blood.

“I’m going to take a shower.” He doesn’t look at any of them when he says it, just turns on his heel and heads for the basement. Devon grips her elbow, urging her to stay in place. She’s not even sure if she was planning on following him yet.

“Who’s Helena Eagan?” she asks Devon in a low voice but Devon just shakes her head once, sharply.

They left Kier early that next morning, loading up the Scout-Hale car with as much as it could carry. Mark and Gemma had spent the night crammed into Eleanor’s future twin bed because it was the only guest bed that had sheets. They had made love properly then, pretending they were teens in her parents’ house trying not to get caught. It had been surprisingly romantic, all things considered, healing something that had been broken inside her for so long. This time she had come hard and fast with his mouth around her, again when he entered her slowly, gently. His own orgasm had been muted, though his eyes were glazed when he looked at her, stroked the hair from her forehead.

She didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer, what his conversation with Cobel had meant.

Cobel took the lead, taking all the backroads until they were safe to take the highway. From there it had been one long, monotonous drive, the mile markers increasing so slowly she thought it might drive her insane.

When she had finally come to in that fluorescent nightmare prison, everything had hurt and she felt foggy. People in face masks and white coats told her not to worry, she had been in a car accident, and her family had been notified. She would be kept under observation for 24 hours, and then she would be able to go home. She had fallen immediately back to sleep.

The second time she woke up, she was much more lucid. The people in the face masks and white coats came back and thanked her for her participation in Lumon’s revolutionary new surgery.

“What?” she had asked, certain there had been a mistake - perhaps they meant a patient in the next room, she was Gemma Scout, and her husband would be on his way to bring her back home in just a minute.

The man with the bright blue eyes lowered his face mask. “No, Gemma,” he chided softly. The look in his eyes made her stomach twist. “Don’t you remember? You signed the waiver.”

“Waiver for what?” Fear hadn’t begun to set in yet, despite her discomfort with this man’s focused gaze.

“When you underwent our fertility treatments.” Fake pity in his eyes, a hungry tilt to his smile. “Didn’t you read your intake paperwork?”

When they grab ready-made sandwiches from the next gas station, Ricken is the one who makes conversation like nothing is amiss. Cobel has sped on ahead, will wait for them in the next town, so it’s just the Scout-Hales breaking bread again like it’s a normal Sunday.

She’s wearing one of Devon’s extra winter hats and Mark’s pajamas, shivering by the frozen picnic table. They’re all so tired of sitting in that fucking car that freezing their asses off is the better option.

When she first entered Ricken and Devon’s home, the hostility between her husband and their brother-in-law had been immediately apparent, but she hadn’t been able to puzzle out what had happened.

By dinner that night, she had realized: she had happened.

To be fair to Mark, Ricken is different now, and their relationship had never been terrifically deep before. But it hurts her more than she wants to admit that she was the glue holding them all together. Devon’s done an admirable job in her absence, but she’s picking up on the distance between her and Ricken, too.

She just wanted to go home. She has only ever just wanted to go home. She couldn’t have predicted an atomic bomb had exploded in her absence.

They’re all exhausted and hungry and cranky when they finally pull into the city limits of Salt’s Neck. Cobel again bosses them around, driving them to a rundown “safe house” owned by an old coworker of hers, where they can lay low for the next two days, figure out their next steps.

Gemma does not plan on staying for two days.

Devon, Ricken, and Mark all drop into sleep twenty minutes after settling in, but her legs itch, and she grabs Devon’s keys from her purse without a plan, just a feeling.

Cobel stands in the yard between the door and the car, nearly giving Gemma a heart attack. What makes the scene almost uncanny is the lit cigarette between Cobel’s fingers. For whatever reason, she never pictured her as a smoker.

Cobel offers her one when she steps closer, and she takes it, accepts Cobel’s offer to light it for her. She steps away when she exhales; she doesn’t like hovering over people and with distance she can pretend she’s a little shorter, Cobel a little taller.

“Who are you?” she finally asks, throat burning after a hard pull, after two years without a cigarette. She’s immediately lightheaded.

“I was Mark’s next door neighbor,” Cobel offers in that not-quite-marble mouth of hers.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” There’s no heat to it, but she grips Devon’s keys just a little tighter in her pocket.

“I was also Mark’s boss.” She flicks her cigarette butt away but doesn’t move to leave.

“On the severed floor?”

A long fucking pause.

“On the severed floor.”

She wonders if she could move quickly enough to put out her cigarette in Cobel’s eye. She probably could. She considers it seriously.

“And Helena Eagan?” Another pull that’s too hard, and she coughs through the pain.

“Lumon’s future CEO.” Her silver curtain of hair barely budges in the wind, while Gemma left her borrowed hat inside and feels chilled to the bone.

“Helly?”

“Come now, Gemma. You’re smarter than that.” If she wasn’t enjoying the taste, the feel of this cigarette, now she would put it out in this bitch’s eye.

Because she is smarter than that. She just wanted to hear it, for whatever ungodly reason.

Cobel is still standing in the snow-covered yard, lit by the setting sun, when Gemma drives down the road.

The sun is just rising when she pulls into the Lumon parking lot; it’s amazing how much quicker the drive is without a baby or stopping to eat. She does wish she had grabbed for a pack of cigarettes when she’d stopped for gas, though.

Helena Eagan arrives at 6:15AM on the dot. Her driver pulls away the moment she slams the door shut.

She only has a few moments to make this work, so she sprints from the car, hoping any weight she lost from missing dinner and breakfast might make her just that much faster.

Helena hears her footsteps as she reaches the steps. Pauses, turns around.

She nearly has the dull Swiss army knife at Helena’s throat when their eyes meet. Helena takes a half step back out of surprise, and recognition.

“Gemma Scout.” Her voice is deeper than she was expecting. Refined. “I like the new hair.”

Gemma grips Helena’s pea coat at the neck, pressing the blade ever so gently against her jaw. At this, Helena does shudder out a sigh, a spark of real fear in her eyes.

“I want to talk to Helly.”

Helena laughs seemingly against her will, as the movement brings her jaw against the blade. It draws blood, which impresses Gemma. Just because a knife can be dull on hair doesn’t mean it can’t slice a bitch to shreds, she supposed.

“If you come down to the severed floor with me, you’ll just become your innie,” Helena argues, a slight shake in her voice as Gemma’s threat fully begins to sink in. It’s a delicious sound.

“You have a master key to this building, don’t you? You have to, as daddy’s little girl, right?” It’s more words than she’s strung together in a long time.

Helena’s emerald eyes harden at that; she’s hit a nerve. Something to exploit.

“Take me to the stairwell.”

She keeps the knife at Helena’s back on the walk down to the complex’s far left side. The only sound is Helena’s block heels on concrete.

Daddy’s little girl does, in fact, have the master key. Gemma lets her take one brief, steadying breath before she presses the knife against her back, encouragement to get it the fuck together.

It all happens very fast: Gemma nearly lets the door slam shut when Helena steps inside. She shoves the knife closed against her thigh and keeps it hidden in her palm while she watches Helena’s entire posture change, weight shifting forward, shoulders gently slouching. When she turns around there’s actually emotion in her expression: surprise, nervousness, some resentment, but most of all curiosity.

“Gemma Scout?” Helly asks.

The barefoot woman from her dreams.

She chokes on unexpected tears as she nods. “Why did you push Mark out?”

From the widening of Helly’s eyes and the shifting of her posture, it’s clear that this is the last thing she expected to hear.

“Because you love him,” is all Helly can think to offer.

“You love him, too.” The blood drains from Helly’s face, so she continues. “He loves you.”

Tenderness floats across her face for just a moment before confusion settles in between her brows. “Mark Scout? I’ve never met -“ she catches herself then.

“Helly hasn’t,” Gemma admits, “but Helena has.” It’s a shot in the dark but that look on Mark’s face in Devon’s living room won’t leave her head.

Helly has the decency to look embarrassed, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Gemma,” and her voice is soft, sincere. “He didn’t know - we didn’t know -“

Gemma silences her with a gesture. “I know, Helly. I didn’t want to come here to, I don’t know, torture you.” She hiccups through a laugh. Why the fuck did she come here? “I guess I just wanted to tell you thanks. Truly. Thank you. For giving me my husband back.”

Helly’s eyes begin to shimmer with unshed tears. “Is he happy? Out there?”

Gemma gives a sincere laugh this time. “Sweetheart, I don’t think anyone is happy out here.”

Helly doesn’t know how to respond to that. Gemma gestures for her to step back through the door. “He’s with family. He’s being taken care of. I promise you.” There’s still hesitation written on Helly’s body. She closes her eyes and sighs. “I know what falling in love with Mark is like. I know what being loved by Mark is like. It’s the easiest and the hardest thing in the world.”

Her eyes are still closed when Helena steps back through the doorway, and they only open as she gropes for Helena’s wrist, grabs it blindly, and pulls her away from the door, pushing her into the wall. They’re not so different in height, enough so that when Gemma brings her forearm against Helena’s neck, she chokes.

Their noses are inches apart. Helena’s gasps are the best fucking sound in the world.

“You fucked my husband, daddy’s girl,” she says, voice as low as it will go. “You killed me and then you fucked him, right? Or did he fuck you?”

Helena blinks as her face reddens.

“Would you fuck me like he fucked you, princess? Seems only fair. Fucking us both over and then fucking us.” She lets up on Helena’s neck and her gasp is desperate. “You ruined our lives,” she says, vision blurry, before finally, finally letting Helena Eagan go.

She coughs as she leans against the wall, catching her breath. Gemma just watches her, waits.

“We knew there were cracks,” Helena says finally, voice hoarse. Her hand rubs her throat as she speaks. “We were watching. Fertility treatment is always hard -“

“Don’t you DARE fucking talk to me about that FUCKING treatment!” She screams - screams, holding her head, knees buckling.

Helena waits for her to finish. And it takes a while to shove every single molecule of oxygen out of her body, through her throat.

By the time she’s done tears have leaked from her eyes and the fresh, cold air she sucks in is a balm to her throat. When Helena asks, “Do you still want me to fuck you like he fucked me?” she replies, “Yes,” and Helena unlocks the emergency exit again.

She tells Helly that she and Helena plan to talk in her office. She hates walking back through the severance barrier.

They’re in an elevator now, going up. This is what Mark did, every day, for two years, she realizes when Helena leads her through an empty locker room. She wonders which one he used. Because he couldn’t let me go. But if Mark had been able to let her go, she’d still be in that basement. The love she feels for him in this moment hurts.

She shouldn’t be surprised by the size of Lumon - she stared at the building all morning, waiting for Helena - but being inside it is a different monster. Helena leads her without issue up two flights of stairs, down a winding hallway, up another elevator.

One wall of her office is a window and it gives Gemma a feeling of vertigo to be so high up. This could be anyone’s office - there’s nothing personal here, just a huge L-shaped desk, three wide monitors, a few papers spread about. It’s a little dire, if this is where Helena spends most of her time when she isn’t Helly. There isn’t even a couch, although there’s plenty of room for one.

She turns to find Helena sitting primly on the floor, a little awkward in the restraint of her pencil skirt. She gestures for her to sit.

Of course they fucked on the floor, she thinks, but sits cross-legged in front of Helena anyway.

Helena makes the first move, because of course Mark had made the first move. She had made the first move once, eight years ago -

Helena’s lipstick is smooth on her mouth, and her tongue is warm. When Helena lifts her sweater over her head she feels hard acrylic nails against her back. She thinks about Mark’s blunt hands, always careful about the size of his nails.

Her bra is unlatched before she thinks to do the same to Helena - does she want to see Helena, or just be fucked?

When she’s lowered onto her back, she tries to stop thinking.

Helena’s hand at her crotch is hesitant, awkward, trying her best to circle her clit the same way Mark does, but it’s instantly clear she’s never touched a woman before, has to find her way around a stranger’s anatomy like a groping teenager. But the pressure she applies is good, and Gemma isn’t ashamed to moan into her mouth.

Helena is so slow and tender that it hurts. Her lips are gentle against her neck, only the barest suggestion of teeth. When she pulls Gemma’s pants down, she uses her whole hand to help get her off. This is lovemaking at its purest form and it makes her so angry when Helena finally enters her.

“Tell me what he did,” she asks in a voice that isn’t quite her own. Helena meets her eyes, deadly serious, as she speaks.

“He did this, Gemma. This is what he did.”

“He didn’t eat you out?” Her breath hitches when Helena’s tempo increases.

“Do you want me to eat you out?” She’s still serious but there’s sadness in her eyes, and Gemma thinks, one thing I still have with Mark.

“Did you suck him off?”

Helena’s eyes narrow, and she thinks, Two things I still have with Mark.

“Did he pull your -“ but she can’t finish the sentence because Helena is pressing her thumb into her clit.

“If he did, there’s not much left for me to pull.” There’s a bite of humor in her tone that makes Gemma moan again, tighten around Helena’s fingers.

“I think you should eat me out, princess.” The flush on Helena’s face is delicious - she hates this. She’s probably wet herself. Gemma wants to find out but not now. Now can only be about her, and getting Helena off would not be about her.

“He didn’t talk dirty to me, either,” Helena says and she adjusts herself between Gemma’s legs.

“Did you want him to?”

The aggression with which Helena puts her mouth on her cunt is answer enough; she groans at it, tightens her thighs around Helena’s face. She can’t help herself then, reaching down to tangle her fingers in that beautiful red hair. No wonder Mark has always liked her long hair. There’s power in it, she realizes as she scratches Helena’s scalp. You can make anyone do anything with a fistful of their hair.

“Baby,” she whispers as Helena devours her. “Baby, my baby.” Goosebumps break out across her back and she shivers. Helena is nothing like Mark, is everything like Mark.

She comes fast and hard on Helena’s mouth, a whine clawing its way out of her throat. Helena’s face is slick when she sits up and Gemma has half a thought to lick herself off of her cheeks and chin, but Helena says, “Are we done here?” and the thought vanishes.

Helena wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist and leaves Gemma in her office to dress herself alone.

#severance #gemmahelena #gemma x helena #helena x gemma #gemma scout #helena eagan #this is so WILDLY different from what i usually write #but i think writing hate sex healed something within me #i think also the first lesbian sex scene i've written??? ever???? which is bonkers to consider #is it obvious i have recently picked smoking back up or have rapidly developed an interest in sexy hair pulling. sorry.

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sophiuhhsthots · 3 months ago

Text

LOVE NOTE : mal contemplates the logistics of monsterfucking

WORD COUNT : 2584

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

dean’s barely made it out of the parking lot, maybe just pulling onto the main road, when his phone starts buzzing in the cup holder. of course it’s her. he picks up with that crooked grin already tugging at his mouth, “babe, i’ve been gone sixty seconds.”

and her voice comes through the line all syrupy and dramatic, “i miss you. come back. i’m bored. let’s make out.”

dean snorts, shaking his head like she’s ridiculous, but his heart’s already melting. “you’re so whiny,” he mutters, but he’s already slowing the car, already flicking on the turn signal with a sigh like she’s inconveniencing him — when really he’s grinning like an idiot, turning the impala around. “you gonna be at the door waitin’ for me, or do i gotta come drag you outta bed?”

and she’s smug as hell now, knows she’s won. “i’ll be on the bed. looking cute. pouting.”

he groans like it’s a burden, but his voice is already raspier, warmer. “jesus christ, you’re gonna kill me.”

“yeah, well. hurry up, lover boy.”

and he does. because he’s completely, hopelessly hers, and kissing her is so much better than takeout anyway.

so they make out for like thirty minutes straight, limbs tangled, her straddling him on the squeaky motel mattress, both of them dizzy and flushed and breathing like they ran a mile. her lip gloss is smeared, his shirt’s rucked halfway up his chest.

and at some point, she just flops onto her back beside him, grinning up at the water-stained ceiling like she’s won the damn lottery. “okay. now i’m hungry.”

dean groans, flinging an arm over his eyes. “you said you wanted to make out.”

“and we did. and it was great. but now i want onion rings.”

he peeks at her with a grin, already reaching for his jeans. “you want me to go get ‘em?”

she glances over, smirks. “nah. i’m coming. you’ll probably forget the ranch again.”

“that was one time!” he whines, and she laughs, pulling on his hoodie and already heading for the door with her hair a mess and her grin unstoppable.

they hit the drive-thru like a couple of teenagers, stealing fries from the bag and eating in the car with the windows down, classic rock on low, her bare knees propped on the dashboard, his hand resting on her thigh like it belongs there. because it does.

she’s feeding him fries as he drives, her legs slung over his as she yaps away about some silly concept, like… “obviously fucking a vampire is monsterfucking, but like… what about a werewolf in human form?”

dean nearly chokes on the fry she’s just popped into his mouth, coughing around it like she’s just said something blasphemous. “what?!”

mallory just snorts, all smug and unbothered, reclining in the passenger seat with her legs draped across his thighs like she owns the place — because she does — holding another fry up like a prize. “i’m serious! like, where do you draw the line? vampire’s got bloodlust even when they’re fuckin’, right? that’s monsterfucking. but a werewolf? if it’s not the full moon? they’re just… some guy.”

he hums noncommittally, like he hasn’t made up his mind yet, but she points a finger like he’s proved her point. “so if someone hooks up with a werewolf when he’s human, is that still monsterfucking? or is it, like, ‘monsterfucking-adjacent’? a technicality?”

he laughs, low and wheezy, shaking his head as he turns the wheel. “jesus christ, mal. this is what you think about?”

“it’s important!” she insists, poking his cheek with the next fry. “i’m gonna write a dissertation.”

“on monsterfucking logistics?”

“someone’s gotta do it,” she says, utterly serious, even as she licks salt from her thumb and smirks. “and you know you’d read it.”

dean grins, shaking his head. “only if there’s a section titled ‘i slept with a vampire and all i got was this lousy anemia.’”

mallory cackles, all head-thrown-back and breathless laughter, and dean thinks he could drive forever with her like this — full of fries, making him laugh so hard his face aches, filling every inch of the impala with the sound of her joy.

“okay ‘mister normal human man,’ what do you think about?” she teases, digging an onion ring out of the bag.

“you. constantly,” dean says, without missing a beat — just tips his head toward her, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping rhythm on her shin like she’s a song he’s been stuck on for years. smug and sappy in equal measure.

mallory rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, teeth catching the edge of her onion ring. “lame. try again, casanova.”

“fine.” he exhales like she’s just forced something deep out of him. “sometimes i think about how i’d rig a grenade to a salt shaker. or like… whether a ghost could haunt someone through their credit card chip.”

“you are so weird,” she says fondly, chewing thoughtfully, eyes fixed out the window like she’s trying to picture a ghost haunting someone through contactless payment. “they’d get charged for everything. ‘who ordered seventeen pizzas?’ ‘oh, sorry, my poltergeist’s bulking.’”

dean snorts. “gains from beyond the grave.”

“god, you’re stupid.”

“yeah?” he grins, turning to look at her for a half-second, full of that familiar mischief that lives behind his eyes when she’s around.

“yes.” she nods in full seriousness, shoving the rest of the onion ring into his mouth.

he nearly chokes on it again, just like she knew he would, and she’s already laughing as he swats at her knee with exaggerated betrayal. “you tryna kill me?”

“maybe,” she says, shrugging like it’s not a big deal, licking grease from her fingers like a menace. “then i could drive your car and hook up with a vampire guilt-free. it’d be a win-win.”

“wow,” he mutters around the onion ring, eyes flicking toward her with a faux-wounded expression. “so cold.”

“i will be when i fuck that vampire.”

dean groans like she’s just stabbed him in the chest, one hand flopping dramatically off the wheel. “not the vampire again. i thought we moved past that. i thought we were stronger than this, mal.”

mallory doesn’t miss a beat, still chewing, chin lifted with the smug elegance of a girl who knows she’s untouchable. “you brought him up first.”

“you brought monsterfucking up!”

“and you still fed into it,” she sing-songs, tapping her fingertips on his cheek in an annoying little rhythm, like her glee needs percussion. “admit it, you love these conversations.”

“i don’t love anything,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning, all dimples and heat, eyes flicking to her bare legs stretched over his lap like he’s got no defense at all. “except you. and onion rings. and maybe the vampire, but that’s between me and god.”

mallory huffs a laugh, turning her head to hide the way it makes her smile too wide. “gross.”

“yeah. disgusting,” he agrees easily, catching her foot when she tries to nudge him in the ribs, holding her ankle hostage like it’s some sort of prize. “you gonna replace me with a supernatural himbo the second i die?”

she pretends to think about it. “depends. is he hot?”

dean groans. “unbelievable.”

“i have standards, winchester. don’t act surprised.”

“i’m gonna salt-and-burn every vampire in north america.”

“jealousy is not a good look on you,” she says, wiggling her foot free just enough to kick the radio dial, switching it to something loud and messy and perfect.

“yeah?” he tosses back, voice warm and raspy. “then stop making me jealous.”

mallory pauses, just for a second, her smile flickering somewhere softer before it settles again. “no promises.”

and god, he wouldn’t want her to.

they’re back at the motel now, lounging on the couch and watching some movie.

mallory’s draped across him like she was born to lounge — one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched over dean’s lap, a half-empty root beer balanced precariously on the armrest beside her. she’s got her fingers idly twined with his, playing with his rings like they’re her personal fidget toys, barely even watching the movie. it’s some old action flick — loud explosions, bad dialogue, a guy with a square jaw saving the world — and neither of them are really paying attention.

dean’s got one arm slung behind her on the back of the couch, the other resting over her shin, rubbing lazy circles into her skin. his head’s tilted toward the screen, but every few minutes his eyes flick sideways, more interested in the way her nose scrunches at cheesy one-liners than the plot itself. he doesn’t say anything about it, but he shifts just enough to lean into her, let his knee press up beneath her thigh, grounding.

“you’re not watching,” he says finally, voice low and content, more observation than accusation.

mallory doesn’t even look away from the spot she’s tracing on his wrist. “neither are you.”

“yeah, but i’m subtle about it.”

“you’re never subtle.”

he huffs a laugh, leans in closer until his mouth brushes her temple. “you wound me.”

“good.” she smiles, finally glancing up at him with that slow, sleepy look she only gets after too much sugar and not enough real food. “you deserve it.”

he rolls his eyes and shifts again, pulling her closer until her head’s on his chest and the rest of her sort of melts around him. “what happened to that vampire, huh?”

she groans, muffling her face into his shirt. “let it go.”

“never.”

“you’re so annoying.”

“and you’re stuck with me.”

“ugh.” she grumbles, but her arms slide around his waist, pulling him tighter. “fine. but if you start quoting this movie, i will leave you for a vampire.”

—who’s technically dead?” dean finishes, scandalized and already grinning, his fingers tightening slightly around hers like he’s bracing himself for whatever unholy revelation is about to spill from her mouth.

mallory just raises a brow, unbothered, lips twitching like she’s barely holding in a smirk. “well, are they hot or not?”

��mal.”

“answer the question, winchester.”

he groans, tilting his head back against the couch dramatically. “this is what my life is now. ethical debates about undead hook-ups.”

she snorts, sitting up just enough to drape herself across his chest like some smug academic, propping her chin on his sternum. “not just undead hook-ups. you forgot the nuance. there’s layers. heartbeats. decaying vs. non-decaying. i’m talking technicalities, baby.”

dean squints at her. “you’re the reason the lore books have footnotes.”

“you’re welcome,” she says sweetly, and kisses his chin like punctuation.

he sighs, all suffering and affection, his hands coming to rest on her waist. “you ever stop and think about how insane you sound?”

“oh, all the time. i just don’t care.” she stretches, settling herself more firmly into his lap, pulling one of his hands up so she can play with his fingers again. “besides, you like it.”

“unfortunately,” he mutters, not even bothering to hide the way his thumb brushes over her hip, slow and steady. “you make me insane.”

she grins, all teeth and trouble. “good. someone’s gotta.”

they fall quiet for a minute, the movie flickering blue and orange across the room, the sound of distant gunfire and cheesy catchphrases filling the space between them. dean’s watching her more than the screen again, of course, watching the way her lashes fan against her cheek, the way her lips part just barely when she’s lost in thought.

then—

“okay but what if the zombie was like… a reanimated cowboy. with a tragic backstory. and a jawline that could cut glass.”

“mallory.”

“and maybe he can’t speak, but he whistles.”

“mallory.”

“and he’s got a haunted horse—”

dean kisses her to shut her up, again, because honestly? she’s gonna kill him with this. and not because of the monsterfucking — though, yeah, that too — but because she’s so alive, so infuriatingly brilliant and chaotic and lovely, that sometimes it feels like the only way to survive her is to keep kissing her until she forgets how to talk.

which… doesn’t work. not really. not when she kisses him back like that, all mouth and mischief, pulling him down with her until they’re breathless again, tangled on the couch, her shirt riding up and his resolve long gone.

when they finally pull apart, she’s smiling so smug it should be illegal. “see? you like when i talk about this stuff.”

dean groans into her shoulder. “i am so screwed.”

“mm. yeah, probably by a ghost cowboy.”

he covers her mouth with his hand.

she licks it.

he yelps and pulls away, and she cackles, victorious.

they are never making it through this movie.

dean snorts, loud and sudden, like she just punched the air out of his lungs with pure audacity. his head drops to the back of the couch, eyes wide, mouth open in disbelieving laughter. “mallory.”

“i’m just saying,” she purrs, smug and silk-smooth, her fingers tracing lazy patterns up his forearm, “you’ve got the whole broody stare thing. tragic past, daddy issues, an addiction to leather. you are a vampire. it’d be self-love.”

“okay, first of all,” he says, pointing at her like he’s about to present a legal case, “i do not brood. i smolder. there’s a difference.”

“you sulk with hot lighting. same thing.”

he narrows his eyes at her. “second of all, i’ve killed more vampires than you’ve had bad ideas.”

“oh honey,” she breathes, cupping his cheek in mock sympathy. “that’s not a high bar.”

he glares. she bats her lashes. the usual.

“and third,” he grits out, “i don’t go around fantasizing about biting people and drinking their blood.”

“you don’t?” she gasps, feigning shock, hand flying to her chest like she’s scandalized. “so you’ve never thought about pinning someone down, getting real close, whispering something filthy into their neck while you—”

“mallory,” he warns, eyes dark now, and not from fury.

she just tilts her head, all teeth and mischief. “what? i’m just saying. if some tall, pale vampire with a gravel voice and a trench coat showed up and begged you to stake him, you’d at least ask some follow-up questions.”

“you’re insane.”

“you’re into it.”

he doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. just stares at her, jaw tight, eyes flicking from her mouth to her eyes and back again like he’s weighing the pros and cons of losing this argument with his dignity intact versus letting her keep talking and destroying him entirely.

“you’d let him,” she whispers, “you’d let him pull you in, all slow and sweet, and then sink his teeth in just hard enough—”

he lunges, catching her around the waist and pulling her under him with a growl, burying his face in her neck as she squeals and laughs and kicks her heel into the couch cushion.

“you’re the vampire,” he mutters against her throat. “all seductive and evil and completely obsessed with me. plus you bite me so much.”

“you love it.”

“god help me, i do.”

“so you would fuck a vampire.”

he pulls back just enough to look her in the eye. “only if it was you.”

and mallory — sharp-tongued, smart-mouthed mallory — goes quiet for half a second too long. then she drags him down again and kisses him like she’s trying to leave a mark.

because yeah. he’d let her bite him. he already has.

#sophiuhhwrites #dean winchester #dean winchester smut #mallory hawthorne #mallory hawthorne smut #he’s so babygirl #i want him so bad #supernatural #supernatural smut

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