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aspenmissing · 7 months ago

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ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ: ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ?

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ

6159 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜰᴇʀᴛɪʟɪᴛ�� (ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴏꜰ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ, ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴋɪᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴜᴘ. ʜᴏᴡ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴏᴛʜ ꜱɪᴅᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛ?

JAYCE

You and Jayce stood outside the bright, cheerful building of the preschool, staring up at the colorful sign that read "Bright Beginnings Academy." Jayce's hands rested casually on his hips, the usual confident smile on his face as he looked down at you. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you couldn’t help but feel a little excited as well.

"I still can't believe they asked us to do this," Jayce said, adjusting his jacket. "It's not every day we get invited to talk to a group of young minds about science and technology."

You laughed lightly. "I think it's a great opportunity to inspire them. If even one of these kids decides to pursue something in science because of what we say, that would be amazing."

Jayce nodded, beaming. "Exactly! And I’ll make sure to give them a talk they'll never forget. You know, I can be pretty persuasive."

You raised an eyebrow. "Just... remember, not every five-year-old is going to understand particle acceleration. Keep it simple for them, okay?"

Jayce waved a hand dismissively. "Don’t worry, I’ve got this. I'll make it sound fun."

You both entered the preschool and were greeted by the head teacher, Ms. Graves, who led you to the first classroom. The kids were sitting at small tables, eyes wide with curiosity, some fidgeting with toys and others whispering to each other.

"Everyone, this is Jayce and Y/N," Ms. Graves announced cheerfully. "They’ve come to tell us all about their exciting work!"

Jayce stepped forward, his tall frame making him stand out among the tiny chairs. He cleared his throat, a grin spreading across his face. "Hey there, little scientists! I’m Jayce, and I build incredible machines that can help solve problems! I work with energy and technology to create inventions that can change the world. I bet some of you have seen big machines like robots, right?" He smiled, trying to gauge their understanding.

A few hands shot up eagerly. "I saw a robot on TV!" one of the kids exclaimed.

"That's right! And those robots use technology I help create!" Jayce said, puffing out his chest slightly.

The kids seemed intrigued, but the more Jayce spoke, the more confused their faces became as he dove deeper into the technical aspects of his work. He mentioned “energy fields” and “complex algorithms,” which only seemed to go over their heads.

You smiled softly to yourself, watching him confidently speak. It was clear he was passionate about his work, but you could see where things might be getting a bit... complicated for the children. You moved toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a knowing look.

"Maybe we should take a step back and make it a bit more fun for them," you suggested gently, giving him a playful nudge.

Jayce blinked, realizing his overcomplicated explanation. "Ah, right. I got carried away."

You took a step forward, crouching down to the kids' level. "Hey there, everyone!" you said warmly. "I’m Y/N, and I love science too! Jayce builds things that help people, but sometimes, instead of using big words, we can show you how things work with fun activities!"

You looked to the teacher, who smiled and nodded in agreement. "Let’s make a simple machine today. We can build something cool together!"

The kids cheered, their excitement palpable. You led them to the activity table where materials like cardboard, straws, rubber bands, and small gears were set out. You guided them through creating simple contraptions—a basic pulley system, a little lever, and even a tiny rolling machine.

Jayce watched you in awe, his arms crossed over his chest as he observed how effortlessly you connected with the kids. You patiently helped each child, showing them how to build and encouraging their creativity. Some kids had trouble with the mechanics, and you were there with a smile, explaining everything in the simplest ways.

The more you interacted with the kids, the more they clung to you. One child tugged at your sleeve, asking to show you their creation. Another crawled into your lap, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes. You laughed, gently brushing a few strands of hair from your face.

"Look, Jayce," you whispered, nodding to the group gathered around you. "They really love you too, but I think they might love me just a bit more right now."

Jayce chuckled, a bit of a pout on his lips. "I’m supposed to be the cool inventor, but I guess you’ve got the magic touch."

You leaned in, teasing. "What can I say? I’m a natural with kids. They like when things are fun and hands-on."

Jayce's gaze softened as he watched you, a proud smile spreading across his face. "You’re amazing," he said, more to himself than to you. "You make it look so easy."

The children continued to surround you, proudly showing off their creations. One little girl climbed onto your lap, a big smile on her face as she presented her simple yet clever machine.

"Look, I made a lever that helps me open my toy box!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

You beamed, helping her adjust the lever. "That's fantastic! You’ve just made something that could help you every day. I think you’re a real inventor in the making."

The classroom was alive with chatter, and Jayce had long since stepped back to give you the spotlight. He couldn’t help but admire how you connected with the kids, how naturally you made learning fun for them. He realized, with a soft chuckle, that maybe you were the true teacher here today.

As the activity came to a close, the kids surrounded you, each one wanting to show you their project or give you a high-five. Jayce joined in, still amazed by how well you were able to inspire the next generation.

"You know," he said, as you walked hand-in-hand with him out of the classroom, a playful glint in his eye, "maybe next time, we should let you do the talking."

You smiled, squeezing his hand. "Maybe we should. But you were still awesome, Jayce. I just think you need to simplify your genius a little."

Jayce laughed softly, his heart warmed by how easily you embraced everything that came with working with children. "I think I could learn a thing or two from you. You’re a natural."

You grinned. "I just know how to make science fun."

VIKTOR

The room was dimly lit, a soft glow from the warm fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. You sat beside Viktor in his workshop, the steady hum of machinery and the quiet crackle of the fire filling the space. You’d been talking for hours, about everything and nothing, when the conversation shifted to something you’d always carried in your heart.

"I’ve always wanted to have children," you said softly, tracing the rim of your teacup absentmindedly. "Even when I was young, I used to imagine what it would be like to be a mother, to have a little one running around, learning new things, growing up. It just always felt right to me."

Viktor’s expression faltered for a moment, his brow furrowing as he lowered his gaze. The silence stretched between you, and you could feel the weight of his thoughts, the subtle tension in the air. It wasn’t like Viktor to be so quiet, and it made your heart tighten with concern.

"You... want children?" Viktor’s voice was softer than usual, almost as if he was testing the words, as if they were foreign to him.

You nodded, turning toward him with a small smile. "I’ve always dreamed of it, yes. I think it’s one of the most fulfilling things someone can experience."

Viktor shifted slightly in his seat, a look of deep thought on his face. "I..." He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair as if searching for the right words. "I don’t think that’s something I can give you."

You blinked, a frown forming at the edges of your lips. "What do you mean?"

Viktor’s eyes met yours, and there was a heaviness in them, a burden he had carried for so long, one you knew he didn’t speak of often. "I have my illness," he said quietly, his voice tight. "And my... condition. I don’t want to pass on any of what I have to a child."

You felt a pang in your chest, the deep sadness in his words cutting through you. He was already thinking about his own deformity, his illness—how it affected his body, his life. Viktor never talked about it openly, always focusing on his work, but you knew that it was always there, lingering in his mind. He feared it, feared what it would mean for the future.

"But Viktor," you whispered, reaching out to take his hand, "you are more than your illness. You are strong, brilliant, and beautiful in so many ways. If we were to have children... they wouldn’t just inherit the things that make you feel broken. They’d inherit everything that makes you who you are."

Viktor’s eyes flickered to your hand, his gaze softening for a brief moment, but the weight of his thoughts remained. "I can’t bear the thought of passing on my suffering to anyone, especially a child. I wouldn’t want them to go through the things I’ve been through... the pain, the limitations." His voice broke slightly, though he tried to steady it. "I wouldn’t want them to have to carry the burden of what I’ve become."

Your heart ached for him, knowing how deeply he cared about you and how much it hurt him to feel that he could not offer you the life you had dreamed of. You gently squeezed his hand, offering him a tender smile, one filled with understanding and love.

"I understand, Viktor," you said softly. "I understand more than you know. I’m not asking for something you can’t give right now, and I wouldn’t want to put that kind of pressure on you. I respect your decision, and I support you completely. If it’s not the right time for you, then I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as you need me to."

Viktor’s eyes searched yours, his lips trembling slightly, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow reflected in them. "You... you would wait for me?"

"Of course," you replied without hesitation. "I love you, Viktor. And whether we have children or not, my love for you won’t change. We’ll have the future that’s right for us, together."

A long silence fell between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a peaceful kind of silence, the kind that spoke volumes without the need for words. Viktor’s grip on your hand tightened, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles as if he needed that touch to steady himself, to remind himself that you were there, beside him.

"You’ve always been so patient with me," he murmured, his voice filled with a tenderness you rarely heard. "I don’t deserve your patience."

You shook your head, a small, affectionate smile playing at your lips. "You don’t have to deserve it, Viktor. It’s not about that. It’s about us, about being together, and supporting each other. We’ll figure this out, one step at a time. And when you’re ready, I’ll be here."

Viktor’s gaze softened, his eyes reflecting the gratitude he struggled to express. He leaned in slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, a silent promise passing between you. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "For everything."

And in that moment, you knew, without a doubt, that whatever the future held, you and Viktor would face it together—patiently, lovingly, and with the same unwavering commitment that had always defined your relationship.

JAYVIK

The soft crackle of the fireplace filled the room, the warm glow casting gentle shadows on the walls of the living room. You, Viktor, and Jayce had just finished a long day of work, and now, you were all unwinding in your cozy space. You and Viktor were seated on the couch, a few scattered papers and empty mugs left on the coffee table, while Jayce leaned back in his armchair, kicking his boots up with a sigh of relief.

For a while, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of breathing and the occasional rustling of papers as Viktor worked on a few ideas for his next project. Jayce, on the other hand, seemed content to simply unwind, the silence comfortable in a way only the three of you could share.

It was a casual evening—no talk of politics, no discussions of breakthroughs or setbacks. But then, as Jayce stretched his arms above his head, breaking the silence, he casually dropped a thought that had been on his mind for a while.

"You know," Jayce said, half to himself, "I was just thinking about how we could have a little one running around here one day. Maybe it would be nice to have someone to pass all of this on to, someone who would grow up with us."

Viktor’s brow furrowed, his fingers tapping absently on the edge of his chair. He didn’t immediately respond, though his gaze drifted to you as if testing the waters.

"You’re right," Viktor added quietly after a moment, his tone soft but pensive. "Maybe one day, we should. We’ve spent so much of our lives focused on work, but I suppose we should think about a future beyond just our creations."

You looked up at the two of them, surprised to hear this so directly. They’d mentioned the idea in passing before, but now it felt more tangible, more real. Still, you said nothing at first, unsure of how to react. Jayce, always eager to entertain new possibilities, kept talking.

"I wonder what it would be like," he mused. "What kind of parents we'd be. It’s crazy to think about it, but I think I’d want to give it a shot. But you know, it’s a lot of work, a lot of responsibility." He laughed softly. "Not sure if we’d be the perfect role models, huh?"

You gave him a half-smile, trying to keep the conversation light. But inside, a knot of tension began to form in your stomach. You could hear the underlying question in their words—the curiosity, the openness, and perhaps even a bit of uncertainty. They wanted your opinion, wanted to know if this was something you were considering, too.

But as you sat there in the living room with them, you knew this conversation had to come to a head. The secret you had been keeping from them—the truth you hadn’t been able to share yet—was slowly eating at you.

Taking a deep breath, you set your mug down on the table with a soft clink, your hands shaking slightly as you prepared to speak.

"I—" you started, your voice trembling a bit. "I need to tell you something."

Jayce and Viktor both turned their attention to you, sensing the change in the air. They sat up a little, waiting for you to continue.

"I’ve never told you this before," you began, trying to steady your breathing. "But... I can’t have children."

The words hung in the air between you like a weight, a truth you’d kept locked away for so long. You could feel the sting of shame welling up in your chest as you tried to continue.

"It’s... it’s because of infertility," you murmured, your eyes cast downward, unable to meet their gazes. "And I’ve never told either of you. I guess... I didn’t want to disappoint you. Or make you feel like... like I wasn’t enough. I’ve been so afraid that if you knew, you’d..."

You trailed off, the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. You hadn’t meant for this to happen. You hadn’t meant to break down like this, but the truth was heavy, and the shame was worse than you’d imagined.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. The weight of your confession hung over you, suffocating. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at them, too afraid of how they might react. You had kept this secret for so long, hoping it would never come up, but now the truth was out there.

Then, to your surprise, you felt Viktor’s hand on your shoulder, gentle but firm, as if to reassure you that he was there. His voice, when it came, was softer than you had ever heard it.

"Y/N," he said quietly, his tone filled with understanding. "You don’t need to feel ashamed. We’re not angry with you, not at all."

Jayce, too, leaned forward, his gaze filled with concern but also affection. "We’re a team, Y/N," he said, his voice earnest. "There’s nothing you could say that would change that. We love you, and that doesn’t change because of something like this."

You finally lifted your gaze to them, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. "But I—" you began, but Viktor shook his head gently.

"Listen to us," he said softly. "This doesn’t change anything. We’re still the same. And if you want children, we’ll find a way. Together."

Jayce nodded in agreement. "There are options, you know. Adoption. Surrogacy? We’ll figure it out, Y/N. No matter what."

Your heart swelled at their words, the weight in your chest beginning to lift, even if just a little. You weren’t alone in this. They understood, they cared, and they weren’t angry.

"I don’t deserve you both," you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

Viktor leaned closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his eyes warm with sincerity. "You deserve all of us, Y/N. We’re in this together. There’s no need for shame. We’ll take each step together, and when the time is right, we’ll decide what’s next."

Jayce reached over, placing a reassuring hand on your knee, his expression softened with a rare, tender understanding. "We’re here for you, always. And we’ll figure this out, whatever path we need to take."

The comfort in their words, the warmth in their touch, soothed you more than you could have expected. Maybe the road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but you knew you wouldn’t walk it alone.

Together, the three of you would find a way forward.

VANDER

It was a quiet evening at the Vander household. The children had long since been put to bed, and the house was filled with the soft sounds of the night—crickets chirping in the distance, the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze. You and Vander were seated by the fireplace, the warm glow from the flames casting gentle shadows across the room.

You had just finished tidying up after a long day of running around with the kids—Powder, Vi, Mylo, and Claggor. They were all sweet, each of them with their own personalities, their own quirks, and you loved every moment spent with them. But tonight, as you sat beside Vander, there was a different energy between you two. A quiet, lingering thought that had been on Vander’s mind for some time now.

Vander watched you from his seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he observed you. You were always so gentle, so patient with the kids. He had seen you day in and day out, playing with them, teaching them, loving them. It was clear how much you cared for them, and that made his heart swell with warmth. But tonight, something else flickered behind his eyes. Something he had been holding back for a while.

"You know," Vander began, his voice low and thoughtful, "you’ve been incredible with the kids."

You smiled at him, a soft, fond expression on your face. "I love them like they’re my own."

Vander’s gaze softened. "I can see that. They adore you. And it’s not just the way you take care of them—it’s the way you make them feel safe, the way you guide them. They need you, Y/N."

You shrugged, trying to hide the warmth in your chest. "They make it easy. They’re amazing kids."

Vander’s smile grew slightly, but there was something more in his eyes, a hint of something deeper. "You’ve been so good to them. I can't help but think…" He paused, as if carefully considering his words. "I wonder what it would be like to have another."

Your heart skipped a beat, unsure if you heard him correctly. "Another?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded slowly, his gaze turning toward the fire. "Yeah. You’re so good with them... I can’t help but imagine what it would be like, to have one of our own." His voice was quiet, almost a reflection of a thought he hadn’t fully voiced until now.

You stared at him, your mind racing. You loved the kids you already had but the idea of having one with Vander, of building your own family even further, was an exciting thought. You had always felt that spark of hope deep down, but you never dared to mention it, not wanting to push for something Vander might not feel the same about. But now, hearing him say it out loud, your heart fluttered with possibility.

"I..." You didn’t quite know what to say at first, the warmth in your chest expanding at the thought of another child. "I’ve thought about it, too. What it would be like to have one together."

Vander’s eyes found yours again, soft and full of tenderness. "I can’t help but wonder if we could handle another one. But then again..." He chuckled quietly, rubbing his hand over his chin. "We seem to manage just fine with the four of them."

You couldn’t help but laugh along with him. "They do keep us on our toes, don’t they?"

Vander grinned. "Yeah, but that’s what makes it worth it. Watching them grow, helping them become who they’re meant to be. And... I see the way you look after them. It’s something special."

You shifted closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder. "I love them, all of them. I love being their guardian, their guide." You sighed contently, your eyes falling closed as you breathed in the warmth of the room and the safety of his embrace. "I think another child could fit right in, don’t you?"

Vander’s hand found yours, gently intertwining your fingers. "Maybe it could. Maybe it’s time to see if we’re ready for that next step."

You turned your face up to look at him, your heart racing slightly as you met his gaze. The flickering light from the fire reflected in his eyes, giving them a depth of emotion that made your pulse quicken.

"You think we’re ready?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Vander’s grin grew as he leaned in slightly closer, his breath warm against your ear. "I think it’s something we should try."

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the tone in his voice, the weight of his words settling in. It was as if he was speaking not just about the idea of another child, but about everything that came with it—commitment, trust, love. His lips brushed against your ear as he continued, his voice low and smooth.

"I can’t think of a better person to have a child with than you, darling," he murmured. "So... what do you say? Are you ready to try?"

The air between you two seemed to crackle with tension, an unspoken promise, a shared understanding. You leaned into him, your heart thudding in your chest as you whispered back, "I’m ready."

With that, Vander’s lips found yours, gentle yet full of promise, as if sealing the decision, sealing the future. The kiss deepened, the warmth between you both growing stronger as you both knew, in that moment, that your love was only going to grow even further.

And as the fire crackled softly in the background, you both knew one thing for certain: a new chapter was beginning for you both. Together.

SILCO

It was late in the evening when Silco found himself watching you from across the room. You were sitting with Powder, laughing softly as the young girl showed you her latest creation—a makeshift toy made from scrap materials she’d found in the undercity. Powder’s face lit up with pride, and you, with your usual warmth, encouraged her with genuine admiration. Silco watched the scene unfold quietly from his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the way you interacted with Powder. It was a bond he’d seen growing stronger with each passing day, and though he didn’t show it, it stirred something deep within him.

You had always been like a guiding force for Powder. She trusted you, adored you, and looked up to you in a way that only a daughter could. Silco had his own complicated feelings about it all—he'd never been one for sentimentality or nurturing, especially when it came to children. The thought of raising a child, having someone so vulnerable tied to him… it made his stomach turn.

He shifted in his chair, then stood and approached you, his gaze flickering between you and Powder for a moment before he spoke.

“Y/N,” Silco began, his voice steady but laced with an underlying seriousness, “there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

You turned your attention to him, a soft smile on your lips as you glanced from him to Powder. “What’s on your mind, Silco?”

He hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his voice just a touch more guarded. “I’ve been thinking. About… children.”

You frowned, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. The seriousness in Silco’s tone made you wary, and you instinctively looked over at Powder. Her wide eyes were bouncing between you both, sensing the tension that was beginning to settle over the room.

“You should go get ready for bed, Powder,” you said softly, offering her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be with you in a minute, alright?”

Powder hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering between you and Silco, before she nodded slowly. “Okay, Y/N,” she muttered, and with a last glance, she shuffled off toward her room, her footsteps growing quieter as she left the room.

Once the door clicked shut behind her, the air in the room felt heavier, and you turned back to Silco, your gaze now fixed on him with an unspoken understanding that the conversation had just shifted into something more serious.

Silco’s eyes never left you as he continued, his expression unreadable. “I’ve seen the way you care for Powder. The way you’ve taken her under your wing. And it’s…” He paused, almost unwilling to continue. “It’s admirable, the bond you share with her. But I want you to know this, Y/N…” He took a slow step closer, the intensity of his gaze unwavering. “I don’t want children. The thought of having a child, someone so vulnerable, tied to me… it’s a weakness. A risk. They could be used against me one day. I won’t allow that.””

You could feel the tension in the room rise as he spoke. You could see the vulnerability behind his eyes, the fear of losing control, and perhaps, in some twisted way, the self-awareness that having a child might be more than he could handle. And yet, it didn’t come as a surprise. Silco’s life had always been about control, power, and survival. The last thing he needed was someone to hold over him, to manipulate his emotions.

You took a deep breath, moving from your position on the floor to sit beside Silco, resting your hand gently on his leg. "You're not the only one who doesn't want children, Silco," you said softly.

His eyebrows raised in surprise. "What do you mean?"

You offered him a reassuring smile, your voice steady. "I’ve never really had the desire to have children of my own. Powder is the only daughter I need. She’s enough for me."

Silco’s eyes softened ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching as if to form a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I suppose we both have our reasons."

You nodded, the weight of the conversation settling around you. "And those reasons are enough for me. Powder has always been the light in my life, and I’m happy with the family we’ve built. With you, with her, with everything we’ve worked for."

Silco regarded you for a long moment, his usual hard demeanour softening in the quiet of the room. He reached out, placing his hand gently over yours with a rare tenderness that made your heart skip.

"I respect that, love," he said quietly, his voice carrying more warmth than usual. "I can see how much she means to you. And how much you mean to her." His gaze flickered toward the door where Powder had gone off to bed, before returning to you. "I'm glad you're here. With me. With us."

Your smile deepened, warmth spreading through you despite the gravity of the conversation. "I’m glad, too, Silco."

The room fell into a long silence, but it was comforting, not uncomfortable. Both of you took in the truth of what had been said—no more, no less. The bond you shared, the family you had built, was more than enough. You didn’t need anything else.

"Good," Silco muttered after a pause, his usual commanding tone returning. "Then that’s settled."

You nodded, meeting his eyes with quiet conviction. "Yeah. It is."

And with that, the topic was closed—no resentment, no regret, just a mutual understanding between the two of you. You didn’t need a child to complete your family. You already had everything you needed in each other.

JINX/POWDER (PLATONIC!)

It was a quiet afternoon in the streets of Zaun, the sun casting an amber glow over the city as you wandered through the busy market, enjoying the calm between your usual chaotic routine. You had been picking up a few supplies, humming softly to yourself, when you noticed a small, frightened child standing near a stack of crates, eyes wide and scanning the crowd.

Instinctively, you approached the child, a gentle smile spreading across your face. “Hey there, you look lost,” you said, crouching down to their level. The child nodded, eyes brimming with tears, and you could see the desperation in their gaze.

“Don’t worry,” you reassured them softly, your voice warm. “Let’s find your parents, okay?”

The child clung to you as you took their hand, and as you made your way through the crowds, they became more and more comfortable in your presence, their grip on you loosening but still steady. The child’s fears slowly ebbed away, soothed by your steady presence. Eventually, you found the child’s parents near the merchant stalls, frantically scanning the crowd.

A tall woman with wild, auburn hair was the first to notice you approaching. Her expression softened with relief as you caught her gaze.

“Are you looking for someone?” you asked, glancing down at the child who had begun to tug at your shirt.

“Yes! My son!” The woman rushed toward you, and the child’s face lit up. Without another word, the child hopped off your hip and ran to their mother, clinging to her side.

“Oh thank you, thank you!” the woman said, tears welling up in her eyes as she held her child tight. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The man beside her, who had been nervously pacing, stepped forward. His deep voice was shaky as he added, “We’ve been looking everywhere. We thought we lost him for good.” He turned to you with a grateful smile. “You’ve done more than we could have asked for.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a smile, your heart warming at the reunion. You nodded at them both. “Just happy to help.”

The woman reached out to pull you into a brief, heartfelt hug. “Thank you again. We’re in your debt.”

You returned the hug lightly, your thoughts drifting as you watched the mother and father take their child’s hand, walking together with him in tow. They waved as they walked away, and you waved back before turning to leave the scene.

It was in that moment that you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind you, followed by an all-too-familiar voice, sharp and full of an edge you recognized.

“What’s this?” Jinx’s voice echoed from behind, full of suspicion. “You just making friends with every little rat in the city now?”

You turned around to see her standing there, arms crossed, a scowl on her face as her eyes fixed not on you, but on the small child who had been clinging to you moments before.

Jinx’s gaze was icy, her brow furrowed as she narrowed her eyes at the child as they walk away with their parents. She took a slow step forward, the usual manic energy in her movements tempered by something else — jealousy. And that was a rare sight.

“Why’s was that kid clinging onto you like you’re his new mom?” Jinx sneered, her voice dripping with possessiveness, the insecurity in her words biting deeper than she likely intended. She shifted uncomfortably, hands fidgeting with the straps of her weapon as her gaze shists to you. Her foot tapped impatiently against the ground, and you could see her cheeks flush with frustration.

You raised an eyebrow, sensing the tension in the air, but also the deeper discomfort simmering beneath her words. “I was just helping them find their parents, Jinx. Nothing more to it.”

"Right," she muttered under her breath, her jealousy almost palpable now. “I see how it is. Just another kid looking for a mother figure while I... get left behind. Not enough room for me, huh?”

Her words hit harder than you expected, and for a split second, you felt a pang of regret for the situation, as if somehow you had betrayed her by offering your care to someone else. But then, you remembered who you were to Jinx — and who she was to you.

You took a deep breath, your eyes flickering to Jinx, who had taken a few steps closer, her posture tense and guarded, like she was expecting a confrontation.

“Jinx…” you began, your voice soft but with the weight of sincerity. “You know I care about you. That kid… they needed someone, and I just helped. It doesn’t change anything between us.”

Jinx’s expression faltered for a moment, and she looked away, biting her lip as she avoided meeting your gaze. There was a long pause before she muttered, her voice barely audible, “I know... It’s just, I... I don’t like seeing anyone else taking your attention. It’s like... you’re spreading yourself thin, and I’m afraid there won’t be enough of you for me.”

You took a step closer, your heart aching as you read the vulnerability in her words. Gently, you cupped her cheek, guiding her face to meet yours. “You’re my priority, Jinx. Always.”

Her eyes softened, a flicker of gratitude passing through the storm of emotions that she usually kept hidden. She let out a soft sigh, her usual wildness dimming as she allowed herself to relax for just a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her hands falling loosely at her sides, her expression more like the girl you knew — Powder. The one who wanted to be tough, but deep down just wanted to be cared for.

You smiled warmly at her, your thumb brushing her cheek tenderly. “Don’t be. You never have to apologize for needing me. And you’ll always have my attention when you need it.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she finally let her guard down a bit more. The jealousy, while still lingering beneath the surface, was no longer as intense. She knew, deep down, that your bond was something that couldn’t be easily replaced or shared with anyone else.

Jinx huffed softly, a touch of her usual playful spark returning as she bumped her shoulder against yours. “Yeah, well, you better not go getting attached to every little lost kid running around.”

You chuckled, leaning into her shoulder for a brief moment. “I’ll try to keep my ‘motherly instincts’ in check for you, alright?”

“Good,” she said, her tone a mix of relief and mischief. “But if you’re gonna start collecting kids, at least pick the cool ones, yeah?”

You laughed softly, rolling your eyes but feeling lighter. “I’ll keep that in mind, Jinx.”

And as you both walked away from the market, side by side, you knew this was just another layer of your relationship with Jinx — an unspoken understanding that no matter the jealousy or misunderstandings, you would always be there for each other, no matter what.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader

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freedomfireflies · 1 year ago

Text

Overdrive*

Summary: The one where it's 1969 and Harry likes to drive really, really fast.

Word Count: 5.5k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, exhibitionism, very brief daddy kink

Five.

The sound of revving engines echoes between the tall, city buildings. Loud enough to startle a nearby flock of birds on a telephone wire as they take off into the dark night to escape the lurid noise.

Four.

The smell of burning rubber is everywhere. Tires screech against the pavement as the smoke dissipates into the warm summer air and the drivers prepare for that familiar white flag.

Three.

There’s a murmur amongst the crowd. The bets have been placed and the anticipation has set in. They pick their favorite driver, and they hope that somehow, they’ll be able to beat the unbeatable.

Him.

Two.

You can see your little speed demon just up ahead as he waits patiently in front of the makeshift starting line. He seems relaxed. Confident. One hand is settled on the steering while the other is flipping the bird to the driver beside him.

One.

The flag waves and the drivers take off. A streak of color flashes across the street as each of the five cars attempt to take their place ahead of the rest. But nobody can seem to get an edge on the black Lamborghini Miura already skidding around the first curve, effortlessly leaving them all behind.

You grin. It’s harder to see the cars now that they’re on the other side of the buildings, but you can hear them. You can hear his engine, specifically. You’d know the sound anywhere. After all, he spent weeks introducing you to the ins and outs of his favorite toy. Showing you exactly how to care for it, with those rough, practiced hands that also happen to care for you, too.

You catch a glimpse of his vehicle just before it disappears past the drugstore. He shifts gears and accelerates, just before the blue Stingray to his right can gain on him. You hold your breath as both cars drift around the corner onto the next road and the crowd begins to cheer.

Harry hasn’t lost a race in weeks. You don’t imagine he could lose if he tried. In fact, he could be blindfolded with no brake pedal and a faulty transmission and somehow, he’d still be miles ahead of the competition.

It’s one of the things you love most about him. The way his eyes light up when he gets behind the wheel. The way the engine purrs in his hands and the way he can bend the road to his will.

The Stingray veers to the right in order to get ahead of him, but Harry seems to anticipate this attempt. He cuts the other driver off just before he can speed up and your heart jumps into your throat. The only thing you don’t like about his racing is how careless he can be at times.

If you’re in the car, he takes the utmost care to make sure you’re safe. That you’re never put in harm’s way.

But when he’s alone, he’s in a whole other world of his making. He doesn’t consider the consequences or the repercussions. He doesn’t consider you. The way you’d feel if you lost him.

And you trust his instincts, you do. But you can’t always say you enjoy the show.

The Stingray slams on his brakes as Harry takes off and slides around the second to last corner. Tire marks are painted across the cement in his wake and the crowd cheers.

Your stomach twists. He seems to be doing all right, although one of his fatal flaws is that it’s nearly imposable to tell how he’s feeling. He’s eerily stoic when he’s under pressure and perhaps that’s a good thing.

But that doesn’t exactly help you now as he zigs and zags across the road before finally reaching the last turn that leads into the final stretch.

This is it. You hold your breath as you watch from the edge of the sidewalk, hands twisting in front of your chest as he races across the last few hundred feet. It’ll be close—the Stingray is gaining on him with each passing second—but Harry’s undeterred. He switches into a lower gear and the engine comes alive. Giving the car torque for those last few inches as he flies across the finish line. And the race is over.

The rest of the cars follow shortly after and the growing crowd of onlookers all swarm the street. They cheer and they holler, and they flock to the handsome driver now stepping out of his vehicle, desperate to congratulate him. But those soft green eyes only search for you.

When he finally finds you squished between the horde of admirers, he grins, and begins to push his way through to you.

The moment you meet, he picks you up, hugs you to his chest, and spins you around. And you squeal giddily, happy to be back in his embrace as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on for dear life.

“My little lucky clover,” he whispers proudly. “What did I tell you, hm?”

The nickname makes your insides grow warm. He’s called you his lucky clover ever since that first race when the two of you met. He claimed he only won because he saw you standing there watching and was desperate to impress you. And that every race he’s won since has been because of you and your charming presence.

You aren’t so sure you believe him, but you have to admit it sounds pretty on his tongue.

You laugh as he puts you back down. “I know, I know,” you finally concede. “You were right.”

“Mhm.” He smirks—cocky—before he’s surging forward to kiss you. Soft and slow and with a desire that almost feels scandalous for such a public place. “I always am.”

His tongue brushes against yours while his hand splays across your lower back to tug your body to his and the crowd cheers as you giggle. But you don’t fight the way he loves you. Instead, you cling to his shirt and allow him to take what he wants.

When he finally allows you a moment to breathe, you gaze at him curiously. “How fast were you going?”

“120 on the main stretch. 80 on the curves,” he says, then chuckles at the way you frown. “M’fine, Clover. I promise.”

“You agreed nothing over 100,” you remind him.

“Yeah, but I needed to win.”

“No, you don’t need to win. You need to stay alive.”

“Well, why can’t I do both?”

Unamused, you huff, and lightly slap at his stomach. “Not funny, H.”

However, he merely laughs aagain and pulls you back between his arms. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says softly. “You know I’d never die on you. I’d miss you too much.”

“Let’s hope so.” You push up onto your toes to bring your lips to his once more. “Cause if you die on me…I’ll kill you.”

His smile is smug as he kisses you hard before he leads you back to his car. The large mass follows, anxious to ask him questions or offer their praise. And he listens to dutifully, perching himself on his hood while pulling you between his legs.

It’s the same after every race. The other drivers try to tease him while his growing group of fans are desperate to be noticed by him. He might not be inherently famous, but he is to this crowd. They love a lot of things about him. His skill, his confidence, his looks.

And you can’t exactly blame them.

It’s impossible to tell if you want to be him or be with him. You imagine for most people, it’s both. He has a sort of relaxed assurance that seems to make everyone else around him comfortable. And there’s a mystery about him. An intrigue to know more about the man behind the wheel. About who he is outside of these races. What he’s really like.

He slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you back into his chest. He talks to the driver of the Stingray and they exchange comments about the almost collision that makes your stomach turn. But when he notices, he presses a quick kiss to your temple and changes the subject.

However, the rowdy celebration is cut rather short by the sound of sirens as two police cars come slinging around the side of a building with their lights flashing and their microphones on.

Everybody scatters, a collection of wild cheers and hollering voices as the officers step out of their vehicles in order to round up the crowd and instruct everyone to return home.

But Harry is unfazed as he pats your hip and nods his chin up. He’s rather good at his getaway now. After all, you imagine he’d have to be with all the times the police have broken up these races.

And he’s only been caught once.

You slip inside just as he starts the engine. The radio comes alive, the sound of Jimi Hendrix enough to rival the roar of the motor as places one hand on the back of your seat in order to look behind him before he speeds away from the scene, hangs a sharp left, and takes off down the adjoining road.

The sound of sirens follow. There’s a cop car on the next street over, attempting to chase after him as Harry weaves in and out between the scarce traffic. He’s good—incredibly good—but they haven’t given up yet.

They cross over and skid behind him. They’re getting closer and the red and blue lights are bright in the rearview mirror. Still, Harry is calm. Simply shifting gears with ease as the car accelerates and offers a bit more distance before he takes a last-minute right in order to shake them.

The force of the turn slings you against the side of the door and you huff as Harry shoots you a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, baby,” he calls over the music. “You all right?”

With a grimace, you nod and say, “Mhm. Just great.”

He winks before he’s blowing through one red light and then another. Somehow missing the few cars currently crossing the street while the police are forced to slam on their brakes as somebody passes. And once they lose sight of him, he veers into an old, abandoned alley to hide.

Seconds pass before they finally fly by. Oblivious to his plan as they head further into town while Harry takes another right and disappears from the city.

He cheers victoriously and rolls down the windows and you laugh as you gaze at him. Entranced by the way he nods his head to the music as a gentle, summer breeze blows through his curls.

Freedom tastes better with him. Life is better with him. His hand on your thigh, squeezing, while he sings along to Jimi Hendrix and grins at the open stretch of road ahead of him.

You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else and he seems to bask in your admiration before he finally looks over.

“What do you say, Clover?” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Wanna see what a hundred feels like?”

A bit hesitant, yet wildly curious, you nod.

He reaches for your hand in order to help you across the car, and you crawl over the console until you can settle onto his lap. Once you’re snug over his thighs, his arms slip beside your middle to keep you safe while he holds onto the steering wheel, and you scoot back into his chest for support.

And it feels good. Comfortable. Even though the car is going faster and faster with each passing second, you feel protected. You know he’d never let anything happen to you. And there’s hardly any danger out here, along the old, backroads away from the city and traffic.

The needle on the dash rises higher and higher. 70…80…90. Harry’s grinning against your cheek as the wind dances across your skin. The moon is bright in the sky, illuminating the road even without headlights and it’s exhilarating. Limitless.

“How’s that, hm?” he whispers. He kisses your jaw before dropping his foot against the gas. “You sure you’re ready, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly and brace yourself in his hold. “Mhm.”

The car reaches 100 and it feels like flying. You laugh, giddy, and he grins. The straight stretch of empty street might as well be a runway and the faster you go, the lighter you feel. As though the tires will simply lift off the ground and carry you into the sky.

He shifts gears and the car jolts forward as the needle jumps to 110. You gasp and squirm excitedly over his lap before he suddenly groans. The sound is low and strained and you recognize the lustful cadence almost immediately.

Amused, you bite the inside of your cheek. “You okay, H?”

He takes one hand from the wheel and places it on your thigh. Squeezing it once. Pointedly. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You squirm again, settling into the feel of the hardening bulge beneath your ass and he makes another noise that goes straight to your cunt.

Your lashes flutter. The world blurs and your heart races. Perhaps you shouldn’t be doing this while you’re going so fast but Harry is calm. He trusts himself and you trust him.

The needle rises.

“Harry,” you whisper and his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. “Harry, please—”

“What?” His mouth rests against your cheek and you whine. “What, Clover? What do you need?”

He wants to make you say it. Wants to hear the words on your tongue and you swallow thickly as you intertwine your fingers with his. “H…”

“What, baby girl?” He nips at your skin with his teeth. “M’I making you nervous?”

You nod and he chuckles. A dark, sadistic sound.

“Do you want me to stop?”

There’s a quiet moment of hesitation before you eventually shake your head. Of course you don’t. How could you?

“No?” He squeezes your leg, touch slowly slipping beneath the fabric of your skirt. “Good girl.”

The car begins to go faster. 115…118…120. The same speed he reached during the race and even if you knew it was fast, this feels infinitely faster.

You gasp and clutch his hand. Terrified and enthralled all in the same moment. And even if you shouldn’t be, you feel insanely aroused. Legs squeezing together as he subtly bucks up into you.

The music is loud and the wind is loud and the sound of your heart pulsing in your ears is loud.

And then…the needle drops. The car slows. The speedometer goes from 120 to 50 in only a few seconds, and you blink curiously before glancing back at him.

He says nothing. His expression is firm but stoic and it’s not until he pulls off the road and into the dirt that you understand.

He turns the car off, then pats your hip. “Get out.”

You swallow again and swing the door open. Crawling off his lap before obediently trailing your way to the front of the vehicle while he follows.

“Bend over.”

You do. The hood is warm but not hot and it’s almost inviting as you place your hands against the covering to brace yourself in wait.

“Let me see.”

Your breath catches as you move your fingers to the delicate panties beneath your skirt. You pull them down your quivering thighs and the summer air makes you shiver. You feel nervous under his gaze. Under the way he owns you. But it’s thrilling. Addictive. And it leaves no room for questioning as you drop your underwear to your ankles in the middle of the open desert.

You hear him step closer. Feel his hand on your hip as he pulls the fabric of your outfit up in order to get a proper look. But he’s quiet. Almost too quiet, and you feel a touch warm as you wait for his remark.

“Have you been this wet all night, Clover?” he finally asks.

You nod once. “…yes.”

“Mm.” Another pause while his other hand begins to trail up the back of your leg, slowly pulling it open. “And when were you planning to tell me?”

“I…I figured you already knew.”

He hums and you can only imagine his smirk. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you were waiting for, then? For me to do something about it?”

“…yes.”

The tip of his finger drags its way through your folds and the sudden sensation makes you whimper.

“Then why didn’t you ask, sweetheart?” His tone is soft but condescending and you make another noise as you attempt to glance back at him. “Uh-uh. Eyes down, Clove.”

With a huff, you drop your chin to your chest and anxiously wait for more.

“Why didn’t you ask?” he repeats. “Thought I taught you better than that.”

When your only answer is a needy mewl, he lands his palm against your ass in a sharp smack.

“Speak,” he murmurs. “When I ask you a question, I expect you to use your words and answer me. Is that understood?”

“Yes…yes, I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you ask?”

“Was…nervous,” you admit, glancing off into the dark night to hide the shame in your expression. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He steps closer and his touch becomes gentler. “You were nervous, baby girl?”

“Mm. Knew you were busy and…and didn’t wanna be greedy.”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he exhales before he’s grabbing onto the cheeks of your ass to pull you open. Allowing him an even better view of the way you drip. “Can always be greedy with me, you know that? Don’t have to be nervous. All I wanna do is take care of you. My time is yours.”

You release a stuttered breath before your eyes fall shut. You love the way he touches you. The way he cares for you. The way he humiliates you, even out here where nobody can see.

“Look at you,” he whispers and you feel yourself clench around nothing. “Look at how pretty your little hole is when it’s so empty.”

The pad of his thumb brushes through your folds and he ignores the way you gasp his name.

“Think I should fix that?” he asks. “Think I should fill you up? Make it better?”

“Yes,” you pant. “Yes, please—”

“D’you need me to stretch you open? Hm? Play with your little cunny till you’re coming all over my cock?”

The dirty words inside his gentle voice feel criminal. Your mind turns to mush and you can do nothing more than press your chest into the hood as you excitedly wiggle our ass further into his hand.

He laughs, amused by your desperation in a way that only pushes you further toward the endless edge. “Is that a yes, Clover?”

You nod quickly. Your cheek rubbing against the car until you finally—finally—hear the sound of his belt flicking undone.

The metal clink is music to your ears and you release a deep moan at the thought of the leather against your skin. Of his cock as it brushes against your clit, mindlessly teasing you past the point of no return.

“Easy,” he says. “Give me your hands, sweetheart.”

Slowly, you pull your arms behind you until he captures them in his hand. He wraps the length of the belt around your wrists until he can securely bind them to the small of your back, and once your mobility is gone, you simper.

“There you go,” he coos. “You okay, honey?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“Gonna tell me if it’s too much, yeah? If I hurt you?”

“Yes…”

“Know it’s a tight fit, baby, but m’gonna make it work. Promise.”

And this vow makes your heart thumb against the inside of your chest before you feel him disappear from behind you.

And then…his tongue.

He’s dropped into a crouch in order to taste you, fingers locked around your wrists to keep you still while his lips suck on your pussy.

“H,” you inhale, already undone by his technique. “I…”

He says nothing but the noise of wet licking echoes between your ears. His other hand pushes your leg away, creating more room for his head as he mouths at you. He flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you steel yourself against the hood, almost as though to get away.

“Careful,” he warns again. He smacks your thigh. “M’having so much fun. Don’t ruin it.”

And you try to be good. Try to stay still so he can do with you as he pleases. But it becomes increasingly harder when he nips at your cunt like he means to feast on you.

Your fingers wiggle about the air, desperate to grab him. To clutch onto his curls or yank on his arm. But he keeps you restrained, keeps you compliant. And you are nothing but a toy for him to play with now.

You hear the sounds of the world around you. The crickets, the owls, the flock of birds flying overhead. You’re reminded yet again that anybody could drive by, even out here in the middle of nowhere. They could find you, bent over the hood of a Lamborghini as you get tongue fucked by the handsome man on his knees.

And yet…you don’t care. In fact, you almost hope somebody does pass. Because you know Harry wouldn’t stop even if they did. He’d keep going until you were unraveling in his hands as you whimpered his name.

As if to prove this, he adds a finger in beside his devious lips. “Gotta make sure you can take me,” he says in a low grunt. “S’too tight in here, Clove. Don’t think I’ll fit.”

You whine louder and angle your ass closer. Desperate to get his finger in as far as it’ll go. “I’ll take it,” you promise. “I will. Always do.”

“Always do,” he repeats in a soft chuckle. “That’s right, you do. Treat my cock right, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Nearly purring, you allow the subtle thrust of his hand to drag you closer to that blinding pleasure.

“Do anything I ask. Even have my babies, wouldn’t you?”

The thought nearly does you in. Your tummy all swollen and full of him. Tits leaking milk that he’d eagerly lap up. The way he’d still treat your body like a temple. A prize to behold. Because you were carrying what he gave you. He fucked you so hard and so deep that you became a vessel for him.

And even past that, you’ve always wanted to be a mother. Always wanted to start a family with him because you know he’d be a wonderful father. He’d take them to races and hold them on his shoulders so they could watch. He’d kiss all over their little cheeks and tuck them into bed. And your kids would know nothing but love. Because they’d look up to the two of you.

It makes you smile.

“What do you say, hm?” he whispers between kitten licks to your pussy. “You wanna have my babies? Wanna make me a daddy?”

He adds a second finger and begins to scissor them almost immediately until you cry out. Loud enough to startle a bird from a nearby branch and this proves to be answer enough for him.

“Okay,” he decides. “Okay, I’ll fuck your little pussy and get it all nice and full. Give you all I’ve got. And you’ll take it, won’t you? Hold it in your little belly like a good mama.”

You cum. Suddenly and without warning as the intensity of the orgasm explodes behind your eyelids like stars in the sky. You cum and you don’t get a chance to warn him or prepare or even hold off as you feel yourself drip down his hand.

“God, H,” you moan. You sound pitiful. Voice hoarse from the way you’ve been wailing and arms sore from the way he keeps them behind you. Still, you don’t mind. The pain is pleasure in and of itself. “I…m’so…”

“Yeah.” He stands up and tugs his pants down. “I know, baby. I am, too.”

The tip of his cock drags through your soaked and sensitive pussy before he pushes in. He’s right, it is a tight fit. Even with the way you attempt to relax your muscles and draw him in. But it’s always snug with him and truth be told, you almost prefer it this way.

“There you go,” he breathes, dipping down to kiss your shoulder before drawing back his hips. “Just like that. Fucking hell, Clove, I wish you could see. Wish you could fucking see the way you look taking me right now.”

You wish you could, too. As it is, the feeling is enough to make your eyes roll back and send sparks of electricity up the length of your spine.

He keeps your wrists in his hand as he fucks into you. Sharp thrusts that sound sloppy and uncoordinated but feel like heaven. And there’s an urgency here. A desolate need to feel you unravel. He cares for you and he uses you all with the same technique.

He grabs your leg and forces it up onto the hood. Giving him more room and a deeper angle just to hear you moan. And you hate that you can’t see him. Because you know how pretty he looks when he’s in control. His adrenaline high and his eyes alive with the possibilities of what he could do to you.

Instead, you choose to imagine. The way a few rogue curls must be sweeping across his forehead, unable to stay constrained beneath the sticky gel he likes to put in his hair. His chest is probably heaving, offering peeks of his tattoos beneath the white shirt clinging to his sweaty torso. His thighs will be flexing with each thrust. The muscles rippling in such a way that would surely make you drool.

You understand why every woman you pass on the street tends to fawn over him. You know they’d do anything to take him home. Cook for him, clean for him, be good for him. Anything to earn his affection.

But you also know, his affection belongs to you. You’ve seen it, time and time again. He doesn’t even glance their way. He doesn’t notice when they giggle over him or when they try to call to him with their eyes.

Because his eyes are always on you.

“You’re beautiful,” you hear him whisper. It’s soft—restrained. Almost as though he doesn’t mean for you to hear it. But you do and you nearly sink into the car in bliss. “Fucking hell, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”

A fervent heat rushes through your body from his praise and subsequently has you clenching around him. The feeling makes him groan and you’re proud of the way you can still care for him. Even if you can’t see him. Even if he’s the one with all the power.

“This sweet little pussy takes such good care of me,” he says and reaches around your tummy in order to press his palm against the subtle bulge there. “Every…fucking…time.”

You careen forward, cheek squished into the hood, skin dewy from the way your body shakes with pleasure. It’s always this close and somehow, he keeps you there. As though reminding you not to cum until he says so.

The hand on your stomach moves down until his fingers find your sensitive clit. He rubs and he plucks and he plays with your body with the same precision and skill he uses when he drives. Because no matter how much he loves to race, he loves you more. And winning you will always be infinitely better than winning some goddamn race.

“What do you say, hm?” he mumbles from behind you, rubbing the swollen nerves while pistoning his hips to yours. Dragging you closer and closer and closer. “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod and when you start to waver over that edge, he chuckles.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, baby, cum.”

You do. Again. Harder this time. Louder. It’s almost cruel how easily your body breaks beneath him but before you can indulge in the feel of the way he follows…he’s pulling out.

He guides you away from the hood and turns you both around. He sits in the spot you once were and he lets you see him. Because this is what you needed. The intimacy, the eye-contact. The beautiful look on his face.

He guides you closer with his hold on your bound wrists before pulling you onto his lap as best he can. He helps you place one leg back on the hood while his other hand moves to guide his cock between your overstimulated folds. Then, he brushes his swollen tip through, just to tease himself, before he’s pushing in.

And you can see him now. Can see the fucked-out expression on his face. The way his vision becomes hazy and his teeth grit together in ecstasy.

You whimper, whine, cry out. You want to hold him. Want to wrap your arms around his neck and curl yourself into his beautiful, broad chest.

But you can’t this time. In fact, he uses his grip on the belt to help roll you over his cock. A soft smile on his face as he whispers, “Just one more, sweetheart. Give me one more.”

He’s insatiable and greedy and you love it. Because you’d fuck yourself on his cock for the rest of time if you could. Even out here in the open.

“Wanna watch,” he whispers, then slips his other hand around the back of your neck to bring you down for a kiss. “Wanna watch the way I fill you all full of my babies.”

You make a rather pitiful noise against his mouth and he smirks.

“You want that, too, don’t you, Clove?”

You nod, although you imagine it should be obvious. You’d do anything for him.

“This little pussy was made to have my babies, wasn’t it?” he says and kisses the corner of your lips before moving down your neck. “Just made to be fucked by me. Perfect tummy to carry my kids. You’ll be so good, mama. Know you will.”

Your lashes flutter shut. The nickname breeds something new in your chest, a blossoming sort of urgency that almost makes it hard to breathe.

“Harry,” you plead. You nudge your nose against his temple. “Harry, please—”

“Shh.” His voice is soft. Still mischievous but kind. “I’ve got you. Yeah? M’right here. Just let me take care of you.”

And he does. He moves his hand from your neck to your shirt, slipping underneath until he can find your tits and give them a squeeze.

“There you go,” he coos. “Oh, baby girl. Do anything for you, you know that? Just to keep you.”

He moves from your chest to your clit, and you know the second his fingers make contact, you’ll be gone. You squirm in anticipation, and he grins against your cheek before kissing you hard. Tongues and teeth colliding as he sucks on your lip and murmurs, “Can I cum in your pretty pussy, mama? Will you let me? Please?”

You nod so quick and so hard, your head aches. But it doesn’t matter because nothing else will ever compare to the feel of his hand on your body and his cock in your cunt. Releasing the warm, sticky offering that means infinitely more now than it did before.

He thrusts up into you a time or two, milking himself with your pussy before he drops back down and pulls you with him.

You’re both panting. Heavy, hard. Depleted of all energy as he holds you as close to his heart as he can.

Eventually, he frees you, tugging on the belt with one, easy pull as it comes loose from around your wrists. And the moment your arms are returned to you, you use them to grab onto his shoulders and bury yourself in his embrace.

He laughs. A delicate sound that makes you feel just as warm as his cock does. And you stay there for as long as you can until he finally nips at your earlobe and says, “Need to get you home, Clove. Don’t want you to get cold out here.”

“M’not cold,” you pout. “And we can’t leave until it works.”

“Until what works?”

You look down and he looks, too.

Then, he grins. A big, giddy grin that’s all teeth and dimples. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Can’t leave until you’re pregnant, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“I see.” He squeezes your hips and kisses your neck. “Gonna have to hold me in there, aren’t you? Keep me all snug?”

“Mhm.”

“All right, mama,” he says and you giggle. “We’ll stay until you’re all nice and pregnant. And then I’m gonna take you home and fuck you again. Just to make sure.”

Your stomach flips.

“S’that sound good, Clover?” he asks, and you bring your eyes to his in order to see him fully.

You smile.

“That sounds perfect, Daddy.”

For a more immersive experience, feel free to play All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix during the chase hehe

Beautiful divider by @firefly-graphics 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @floral-recs @itjustkindahappenedreally @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

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cherrypickedchaos · 2 months ago

Text

Grease and Ghosts

A lost love. A shared past. A garage full of memories. Can they race back to each other before it’s too late?

Genre: smut, slow-burn reunion romance, angsty vibes, small-town grit, forbidden-yet-inevitable love, erotic literature, yearning, established relationship, grief, mechanic! f x Oscar.

NSFW warning: 18+... Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink - if you squint.

Inspired by Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan

The garage was warm, but only just. The little space heater hummed somewhere by the desk, struggling against the December cold creeping through the warped garage door. Oil stained the concrete as metal clinked against metal. A faint scent of burnt rubber and coffee lingered in the air, the ghosts of a hundred late nights. In the corner, a battered radio whispered an old song she didn’t really hear, classic rock, just like her dad.

She was halfway under an old Citroën, turning bolts that didn’t want to turn. Her hair was full of dust and a smear of something dark on her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her sleeve and muttered to herself.

"Come on, you stubborn—"

The bell above the garage door jingled once.

She didn’t look up. Customers always came in cold and awkward, like they were afraid they’d catch grime just by standing too close.

"Be right with you," she called, voice muffled.

A beat of silence.

Then a voice.

"Heard a Citroën throwing a tantrum and figured this has to be Sparks’ garage."

Everything in her went still. Not just the voice. The name. No one had called her that in years. Not since…

She slid out from beneath the car slowly, one hand still gripping the wrench. Her heart knocked once against her ribs, then waited. The wrench in her hand suddenly felt too heavy, like it remembered him too.

He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of a coat too clean for this place. Taller than she remembered. Older. His hair was shorter, but his mouth was still a straight line. Same boots. Same dark eyes.

"You’re back," she said. It came out quieter than she intended. Not quite a question, not quite a statement.

"It’s Christmas," Oscar replied, like that explained something.

She nodded. Calm on the surface. Only there.

"You’ve never come back for Christmas before."

He didn’t answer. His eyes wandered the space like he was trying to measure what had changed. Or maybe what hadn’t.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The sun sagged low behind the trees, throwing long shadows across the cracked old kart track. The air stank of petrol, burnt rubber, and over-fried chips from the greasy stand by the entrance. Her dad’s truck was parked nearby, dented and loyal, with tools spilling out the back like it always had something to fix.

She stood stiff in the middle of it all, fourteen, maybe fifteen, swimming in racing gear a size too big. The gloves didn’t fit. The helmet slipped when she moved. She could barely see over the wheel.

Oscar leaned on the fence with his usual smugness, arms crossed, helmet dangling from one hand. He’d already finished his lap, loud and fast, chewing up the track like he owned it.

“Sure you want to do this, Sparks? Not too late to back out and keep your dignity.”

She glared, even if her knees were shaking. “I want to try.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself. Just don’t cry when I lap you.”

Her dad called over, half-amused, half-warning. “Knock it off, Oscar. Let her drive.”

The kart hissed as she climbed in. The seat was cold and unwelcoming. The harness snapped shut with a sound too final. When the engine stuttered to life beneath her, it felt like being strapped to a jackhammer.

She nearly stalled pulling away.

The first lap was a disaster. Jerky acceleration. Clipped a cone. Took the corner like she was aiming to plow through it. She could hear him laughing somewhere behind her.

“You’re not supposed to be good at this!” he yelled as he zipped past.

Her cheeks burned. She tightened her grip on the wheel until her knuckles ached.

“I’m just getting started,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Second lap, smoother. Third, tighter. By the fourth, she wasn’t thinking. She was feeling it. The turn before the back straight. The way the engine kicked up just before it screamed. The little tremble in the left tire she hadn’t noticed before but now anticipated like a sixth sense.

On the fifth lap, she passed him.

She didn’t plan it. She just caught him easing off the gas too early on the final corner, and she surged past, tires screeching, heart thudding so loud she couldn’t hear the engine.

She hit the finish line a full second ahead.

Oscar rolled to a stop beside her, helmet under his arm, sweat in his hair and shock in his grin. He blinked. Then barked out a laugh, the short, sharp kind he did when something actually surprised him.

“Okay,” he said. “That was… not bad.”

She climbed out, helmet under one arm, eyes bright and confused. He was still staring at her.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, just kept smiling.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

That only made him smile wider.

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The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the damp clung to everything, to the air, to the walls, to the soft knock of Oscar’s boots against concrete. He was already there when she arrived the next morning, leaning against the garage door with two coffees and the look of someone pretending not to feel the cold.

She didn’t ask how long he’d been waiting.

“I got the one that isn’t sweet,” he said, holding one out like a peace offering.

She eyed it, then him, then took it without a word. It was the kind of thing you did when you still knew someone’s order. The kind of thing that shouldn’t still be true.

She set the cup down on the workbench without drinking. Then crouched by the rusted-out sedan she’d been fighting with since Tuesday. The front suspension was shot and the bolts refused to move, as if the car had grown roots overnight.

He watched her work, hands in his jacket pockets. She could feel his gaze, light and constant, like static.

“You’re still doing everything yourself?” he asked finally. “No apprentice, no kid from the high school shop class?”

“I don’t like people in my space.”

Oscar gave a small snort. “Yeah. That checks out.”

She didn’t look up. The wrench groaned as she forced it left.

“Jet lag,” he added after a beat. “Didn’t know if you’d be here this early.”

“I usually am.”

He smiled. “Some things really don’t change.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

There was a long pause. She tugged another bolt loose with a satisfying metal shriek. He didn’t flinch.

“Still staying with your mum?” she asked, casual but not careless.

“Yeah. Delaney Road.”

A pause. Then, lighter: “Festive as ever.”

She grunted. “Must be hell.”

“Close enough.”

He didn’t elaborate. She didn’t push.

The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable, not hostile either. Like the aftermath of an argument neither of them ever actually had.

Oscar shifted his weight. His fingers tapped absently against his paper cup.

“Still smells the same,” he murmured. “Grease and instant coffee.”

She glanced up, only briefly. “Guess some things don’t change.”

He didn’t answer, his mouth smirking, drifting through the garage like he was walking through a dream. Slow, deliberate. Hands still in his pockets. His eyes moved from one thing to the next, pausing, like he expected each corner to remember him.

He stopped at the old pegboard above the tool bench, where every socket and spanner had its own chalk outline. A few spots were still labelled in her dad’s handwriting. The paint had faded, but the scrawl was unmistakable.

Oscar leaned closer, squinting at a note scribbled in the corner. “Still sorting by chaos theory, huh?”

She didn’t look up. “It’s efficient if you understand it.”

“Sure, it is,” he muttered. “Just a two-move puzzle. Where the first move is giving up.”

She snorted, quiet and unwilling.

He kept going, fingers brushing the top of the ancient radio, still held together with black electrical tape where the antenna had snapped. He turned the knob slightly, and the volume nudged up, a raspy old voice singing over sharp guitar and muffled drums. Something raw and old-school, all grit and growl.

He smiled faintly. “Still stuck on your dad’s rock station.”

“You’re the only one who ever minded it.”

He glanced over at her. “He never gave me hell for changing it.”

She kept her head down, tugging the hood lower. “That’s because he said it built character.”

Oscar gave a quiet laugh. Not much of one. Just enough.

The old coffee tin was still there too. Half full of washers and screws. He picked it up, shook it gently, then set it down again. Every corner of the place was like that. Alive but still. Like the garage had kept breathing after everyone else had left.

“You looking for something?” she asked finally.

He turned, caught off guard. “No. Just… remembering.”

She gestured toward the rolling cart. “If you want to be useful, sort those by size. The metric ones. Top tray.”

He blinked. Then gave a short, almost theatrical sigh. “You always did know how to delegate.”

But he moved toward the tray and started sorting, bare hands, slow and methodical. She watched him from under the hood, only briefly. He still knew what he was doing. Still worked in silence when it counted.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The music buzzed low. Tools shifted. Somewhere outside, a bird scratched against the sheet metal roof.

It was almost easy.

He was reaching for a socket when he saw it.

Top shelf. Behind a jar of miscellaneous bolts and a rusted tin of copper wire. The frame was angled slightly toward the wall, half-hidden, like it had been set down in a hurry and never moved again.

He froze.

The frame was still the same one. Silvered edges, slightly tarnished. Square and heavy in the hand. He remembered it well. He had seen it a hundred times on the wall near the back office, framed perfectly by light in the late afternoons. Back then, it held a photo of the three of them. Her dad in the middle, grinning under his ball cap. She was maybe thirteen, holding up a tiny trophy with both hands, cheeks red with sun and adrenaline. Oscar stood next to her, making a peace sign with motor oil on his sleeve.

Now it held nothing.

The glass was cracked in one corner. Not shattered, just a fine spiderweb fracture that reached toward the centre like it had been hit once by something small and sudden. The dust around the frame suggested it had been sitting there for a while. But the glass was clean. No smudges, no fingerprints. Like she still touched it sometimes. Like she still moved it. Just not enough.

He picked it up gently.

Behind him, the soft sound of a ratchet stopped.

He turned it slowly in his hands, thumb brushing the crack. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. Not hesitant. Just careful.

“That always been empty?”

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, it was flat. No weight behind it.

“No.”

He didn’t ask what happened to the photo. Didn’t ask why she had taken it out or what it had meant to her to leave the frame behind. She didn’t offer.

He set it back exactly where it had been. Angled toward the wall. Then turned back to the tray of bolts and kept sorting.

She didn’t move for a while after the sound of him setting the frame down. Just stayed crouched beside the car, her hand resting on the axle like she had forgotten what she was doing. The silence had stretched again, but this one felt different. Tighter. Denser. Like the kind you hold between your teeth.

Oscar glanced over but didn’t speak. His fingers worked slowly, sorting washers into neat lines on the tray. It wasn’t about helping anymore. He just needed something to do with his hands. He wanted to ask.

Why here? Why still this place, this building full of ghosts? Why had she taken the photo down but kept the frame like a shrine to something neither of them could name?

She hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little sharper around the eyes. Maybe quieter. But her hands still moved the same way when she worked. Her jaw still clenched when she focused. The way she held herself, stubborn, grounded, full of heat she refused to show, that hadn’t changed at all.

He wondered if she thought about it. About that photo. About the night he left. About what would have happened if she had come with him instead of staying. If they had left this garage together, would she still be reaching for busted bolts with scraped knuckles in the middle of winter?

Would he still be unravelling behind a smile in front of every camera in the paddock?

He looked at her again. Still no eye contact. She hadn’t looked at him properly since he arrived. He tried to say something. Cleared his throat. The words didn’t come.

So, he went back to sorting. One washer at a time. No hurry. When the tray was full, Oscar stood and stretched. His joints cracked louder than they used to.

She was still under the car, but her focus had slipped. The ratchet stayed in her hand. She wasn’t turning it.

He walked past her on the way to toss a rag into the bin. Didn’t stop. Didn’t linger. Just glanced once, on instinct, toward the shelf.

The frame was still there. Still empty. Still cracked.

He hesitated.

Then reached up and gently turned it face down.

The movement made her head lift, just barely. She saw it. She didn’t say anything at first.

Then: “You’re just visiting?”

He stood still for a moment. Like he wasn’t sure what to say. Then nodded once.

“Yeah.” He paused in the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets again. The same posture he’d had yesterday, but it felt different now. “Just visiting.”

The door creaked as he let it shut behind him.

She stayed where she was, eyes on the tray of tools he had left behind. Neatly sorted. Every piece in its place.

She flipped the frame back over a few minutes later.

Didn’t look at it.

Just set it upright, facing forward again.

And kept working.

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The sun spilled in through the open garage doors, slicing through the floating dust and laying gold across the concrete. The air smelled like grease, motor oil, and the lemon soap her dad always kept by the sink but never used. Music buzzed from the old radio on the shelf, the volume too high, the bass a little blown out. Something with twang and grit and an unapologetic guitar solo.

Her dad stood by the coffee pot, humming off-key and tapping a socket wrench against his palm like a conductor. His mug was chipped, stained darker on the inside than out. He looked happy.

Oscar was elbow-deep in the side of his kart, legs sprawled, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands stained with oil. The kart should’ve been a quick fix. He had come in early that morning for something simple, throttle lag, or maybe a stubborn plug. Now it was four hours later, and the engine was halfway out, and he hadn’t even tried to leave.

She stood across from him, holding the parts tray. Narrowing her eyes at the mess he was making.

“That’s the wrong socket,” she said.

“It is not,” Oscar shot back, already forcing it.

“It doesn’t even fit.”

“It fits enough.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to the drawer set. “No wonder you break everything.”

“I don’t break everything. I make bold choices.”

“You make poor ones.”

“Bold ones.”

Her dad chuckled without looking. “Same thing at your age.”

Oscar grinned like he had just been handed a medal. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

She passed him the correct socket. He took it, their fingers brushing just barely, and for half a second neither of them said anything. His smile faltered. She looked away too fast.

“Try not to strip the bolt this time,” she said, sharp again.

“Wow. Just when I thought we were bonding.”

“Keep thinking.”

Across the room, her dad shook his head, still smiling. He leaned over the coffee pot and muttered loud enough to be heard, “You two gonna fix the car or stay there long enough to get married under it?”

Oscar’s hands slipped. “What?”

Her head jerked up. “Dad.”

He was already sipping from his mug, totally unfazed. “Nothing. Just making conversation.”

Oscar cleared his throat and went back to work. The tips of his ears had turned pink. She was glaring at her dad like he had committed war crimes. Her dad only raised his eyebrows and wandered off to the back shelf, still humming along with the music. When the guitar solo kicked in, he whistled under it, off-key and enthusiastic.

Oscar swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear and bumped the tray. A wrench clattered to the floor.

“That’s strike three.”

Oscar blinked. “Three? What were the first two?”

“The socket you forced, the bolt you cross-threaded, and now the wrench.”

“That socket fit. Spiritually,” he retorted with a grin on his face.

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m unpaid emotional labour.”

She bent to pick up the wrench and flicked a rag at his face on the way back up.

He caught it. Barely.

“You’re assaulting a teammate,” he said, dramatic.

“You’re not my teammate.”

“Yet.”

She snorted, but there was a smile under it. Her dad caught the sound and shouted from the other end of the garage, “If you two are done flirting, I got brake pipes back here with your names on them.”

Oscar called back, “We are never done flirting.”

She smacked his arm with the rag again.

Her dad cackled, a big laugh, full of breath. The kind of laugh that shook the walls and stayed in the corners long after the noise was gone. The kind of laugh you don’t know you’ll miss until the day it’s not there.

Oscar leaned against the kart, wiping his hands. “So, Sparks, what’s the plan after this? Sandwiches? Cold drinks? A full parade in my honour?”

“You can have the last Tim Tam if you promise to stop talking.”

“I make no such promise.”

She tossed the rag at him again. It landed on his head. He left it there.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, with her dad whistling and the engine guts open like a story waiting to be finished, Oscar looked at her. Not for too long. Just enough.

Enough to know he’d be back next weekend. And the one after that. And probably the one after that too.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage smelled the same. It always did. Like cold metal and worn rubber, with coffee grounds clinging to the corners. But today, something else hung in the air. Thicker than oil. Heavier than exhaust.

Oscar didn’t say anything when he walked in, comfortable now since he’d done it all week. Just raised a hand in greeting, slow and small, like he wasn’t sure if it counted.

She didn’t wave back.

She was working under the hood of a battered Subaru; the same one she’d been pulling apart the day before. Her posture was tight. Focused. More than usual. Like every bolt was an excuse to stay silent. The heater was on, but the place still felt freezing.

Oscar leaned against the wall near the bench, hands in his jacket pockets. He listened for a minute.

“You always let the sad stuff play this loud?”

She didn’t look up. “Didn’t notice.”

He nodded once, even though she couldn’t see him. The music hummed low, her dad’s kind of track. Guitar heavy. Gravel voice. It scraped the silence instead of filling it.

Oscar kicked lightly at a loose washer on the floor. It rolled into the dark under one of the shelves.

“You okay?”

She tightened something that didn’t need it. “Fine.”

“Right.”

Another beat passed. The longest one yet. He moved toward the tool cart and stopped halfway.

“You need help?”

“No.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You sure? I’ve gotten really good at following instructions. Some even said I was trainable.”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a smile. She turned a wrench slow and steady, like she was trying not to let her knuckles shake.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the bench. “Alright. No jokes today.”

Still no answer. He glanced around the garage. Nothing had changed, but it all felt different. Dimmer. He didn’t know why. Not yet. But he felt it. The air was thick with something unspoken. And he was standing in it, same as her. He stayed quiet after that. For a while.

She didn’t tell him to leave, but she didn’t talk either, and in the silence he found himself reaching for something to do.

The rolling cart was low on parts, so he crossed the garage and crouched by the lower drawers, pulling them open one by one. Most were packed with tangled cables, random fittings, a few tools long past their prime. The third drawer stuck halfway, then groaned open with a reluctant scrape.

He reached in for a socket set and paused.

Buried beneath a roll of old sandpaper and a cracked measuring tape was a sketchbook. The edges were warped, the cover smudged and oil streaked. No title, no decoration. Just plain black spiral binding and a corner folded over like it had been jammed back in a hurry.

He hesitated. Then slid it out. She was still under the hood.

Oscar flipped the cover open and felt his breath catch. Page after page of detailed mechanical sketches, clean lines, annotated margins, systems broken down into layered cross-sections. Suspension setups. Chassis tweaks. Engine configurations. Every line purposeful, confident. Sharp handwriting in the corners.

One page showed a kart body rendered from three angles, painted with a stripe of red across the nose and annotations for airflow and weight balance.

At the top, in pencil: “Race Concept: Build One Day”

He turned another page. Then another. Then something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the ground.

A piece of paper, yellowed and creased, like it had been folded and refolded too many times. He picked it up.

An application form. A real one. Addressed to a junior race team: a mechanic development program. He recognized the team. Knew the name. Knew who drove for them now.

The form was filled out, every blank completed in neat pen. Dated two years ago, almost to the day.

His name was written in one of the fields as emergency contact. It had never been sent. He looked up from the paper, toward the car.

She hadn’t moved. But she was no longer working. She was just holding the wrench. Still. Like she already knew what he’d found.

He looks at her, eyes sharp, searching. “Why didn’t you go?”

She freezes for a heartbeat, then lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “Why didn’t I go? You really want to ask that? After all this time?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “I just don’t get it. I thought maybe you’d have left by now.”

Her smile twists, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course you don’t. You left. You ran.”

He shifts, suddenly uncertain. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Then how was it?” She folds her arms, voice low and sharp. “You want me to explain how it feels to stay put while everything you cared about falls apart?”

He swallows. “I’m not blaming you.”

She snorts quietly. “Funny. Feels like you’re blaming me for not packing up and walking out.”

He looks away for a moment, then meets her eyes again. “I guess I thought you might have wanted out.”

Her laugh is harsh, edged with sarcasm. “Wanted out? Maybe. Maybe not. You think it’s that simple? Just wanting something makes it happen?”

He steps closer. “Then why stay?”

She shrugs, but there’s steel beneath the motion. “Because sometimes you don’t get a say. Because life doesn’t pause while you figure your shit out.”

“I’m sorry,” he softens

She bites the inside of her cheek, jaw tight, voice barely above a whisper. “Save it.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and raw.

Finally, she looks back at him, eyes guarded but sharp. “I didn’t stay for you. Not for your memory, your guilt, or your leaving. I stayed because it was the only thing left.”

He nods slowly, swallowing the weight of that.

Her lips press together. “So don’t ask me why I didn’t go. It’s your question, not mine.”

She looks at him, voice low and steady. “Go.”

There’s no lightness this time. No teasing edge. Just the hard line she’s drawn and refuses to cross back over.

He takes a step forward, then stops. His eyes search hers, like he’s trying to find a crack, an opening, something to hold on to.

“I—” he starts, but the words catch somewhere between his throat and the silence.

She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “No. Not today.”

The weight of that is sudden and absolute. He swallows, hesitant, wanting to say sorry, wanting to fix what’s been left broken, but the moment has already passed. Her hand moves, subtle but deliberate, toward the door.

As he turns to leave, his eyes catch something pinned to the wall, a funeral program. Her dad’s name. The date. He had died the day after he left.

He lingers for a moment, the weight of that detail settling over him like a silent accusation.

She doesn’t look back.

Not yet.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The night air was still. Not cold enough to bite, but damp. It clung to her sleeves and settled in her hair like dust. The kind of night that felt stuck between seasons. The kind that didn't know what it was supposed to be.

They were standing outside the garage, in the gravel lot between the back wall and her dad’s truck. The lights inside were off now, except for the lamp in the office window. Its glow leaked out just far enough to stretch across the concrete. Oscar was leaned against the side of the truck, arms crossed, head tilted down like he couldn’t look at her and say it at the same time.

She was hugging herself, not from the cold but because it helped. It helped to press her elbows into her ribs and keep her hands still and hold herself together, because no one else was going to do it. Not right now. She hadn’t spoken in a while. She didn’t need to. He was going to say something. She could feel it in her spine.

He cleared his throat like it hurt.

“I got a call,” he said.

She looked over at him. Not all the way. Just her eyes. “Okay.”

“It’s a development seat. One of the junior programs. They want me in Spain for winter testing. And some training stuff. Sim work. It’s a whole thing.”

There was a pause. She waited. He didn’t keep going.

Then, carefully: “It starts tomorrow.”

Now she turned to face him.

“Tomorrow.”

He nodded once.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Another nod. Barely a movement. She let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “You weren’t even going to tell me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

Her voice stayed calm, but her arms tightened across her stomach. “I’ve been sleeping three hours a night. Helping my mum with the shop books. Packing up Dad’s tools. Keeping my brothers from falling apart. Trying to make it feel normal for them. I haven’t had five seconds to myself, and the second I turn around, you’re gone too?”

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said.

“But it is.”

He looked up. Finally. “I didn’t know if I should say anything. I didn’t want to make things harder.”

She laughed. Not because it was funny. “Congratulations. You did anyway.”

“I thought maybe you’d come.”

“You know I couldn’t.”

He flinched at that. Just a little.

“I know,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want to hear it.”

“So, you waited until the night before?”

“I didn’t know how to say it.”

“You could’ve just said it mattered.”

The air stilled between them.

She let her arms drop. For a second her hands dangled like they didn’t know what to do. She looked at the gravel, then at the dark shape of the garage behind him.

“My dad’s in the hospital. You know that, right? You know what they said today?”

Oscar stayed quiet.

“They said maybe one month. Maybe less.”

Her voice didn’t shake. But her eyes glinted, not from tears, not yet, just the pressure behind them.

“I’m not leaving my family. I’m not getting on a plane and pretending none of this is happening.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you just made sure I didn’t have time to think about it.”

His face fell. The guilt came through then. Not anger. Just the weight of knowing he’d done something too late.

He stepped forward, carefully. Like the space between them had turned fragile.

“If this were different-”

“It’s not.”

“I didn’t want to leave without you.”

“But you are.”

He looked at her, like that was the first time it had fully landed.

“I should’ve asked you,” he said.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracked then. Just a little. “I would’ve said no,” she added. “But it would’ve been nice to be asked.”

He stepped closer again. This time he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like he wanted to hold something that wasn’t his to keep.

Their hands almost touched. Almost.

The porch light from the garage flicked off behind them.

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

She stood there in the hoodie he’d left at the garage weeks ago, the sleeves too long, the hem smudged with grease and threadbare at the cuffs. It still smelled faintly like him. She hadn’t meant to keep it. But she had.

She wiped the corner of one eye with the sleeve and stepped back.

“You should go.”

Oscar didn’t. Not yet. He looked at her a moment longer, and something shifted in his face, something that knew this was a line they wouldn't uncross if he said it. But he said it anyway. Soft. Final.

“I love you.”

She didn’t cry. Not then. She just stepped forward, took his face in her hands, and pressed a kiss to his temple—firm, quiet, devastating. Then she pulled back.

Oscar stood there, rooted. Then he nodded once, and didn’t say goodbye.

He got in the car. The headlights flashed across her as he turned it around, and for a second, their eyes caught through the windshield.

He didn’t wave. She didn’t look away.

And then he was gone. She stayed in the gravel; arms crossed over the hoodie like it might hold her together. The quiet rolled back in like a tide.

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The kitchen smelled like toast and old bananas. A cereal box was tipped on its side, spilling onto the table in slow motion while Jackson, twelve now, watched a video on his phone with one elbow in a puddle of orange juice.

“Seriously?” she said.

He blinked up at her. “What?”

She pointed to the box. “That.”

“Oh.”

He righted it lazily, wiped his arm on his hoodie sleeve, and went back to watching. Eli was already half-dressed, hoodie on inside out, socks balled in his hand, standing at the fridge with the door wide open.

“There’s no milk,” he announced like it was a personal betrayal.

“There was yesterday,” their mum said from the hall.

“Well, it walked out, I guess.”

Jackson didn’t look up. “You drank it straight from the bottle again.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Their mum shuffled in, hair still wet from the shower, coffee in a chipped mug she refused to throw out. She sat down at the table without looking.

“Is anyone wearing trousers?”

“I am,” Jackson said.

“I’m not,” Eli said, pulling one sock on and then immediately stepping in the juice puddle.

“Cool,” she muttered, standing to grab a paper towel. “We’re thriving.”

The morning noise bumped along in its usual rhythm, cabinet doors, toast popping, someone humming under their breath. She stood at the sink, staring out the window without really seeing it, arms folded. The dish rack was piled unevenly. One of the mugs had a crack spidering down the handle, but no one ever threw it out. Every part of the room was lived-in, a little worn. Familiar.

Jackson grabbed a granola bar and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Hey, can you tell school I might be late?”

“Nope,” she said. “Tell him yourself.”

Eli was still barefoot, still poking through drawers.

“You’ve had fifteen minutes,” she said.

“I was doing my English reading.”

“Since when is YouTube considered literature?”

“It’s a visual medium,” he said, too proudly.

Their mum finally spoke again, eyes still half-lidded behind her coffee. “Shoes, both of you. Doors. Let’s move.”

Jackson saluted. Eli grumbled. Then the screen door banged shut behind them, leaving the kitchen quieter, a little cooler.

She sat down across from her mum, stealing the other half of her toast without asking.

“They’re growing up fast,” her mum said, staring into her mug.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

She shrugged. “They didn’t match their socks.”

“They never do.”

“And Jackson might actually survive school.”

“Not betting on it.”

They shared a look. The kind built from years of not needing to explain everything. The toast was cold, but she ate it anyway.

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The hood was up. The sun wasn’t. Clouds hovered low outside the garage, grey and swollen, flattening the light that came through the open door. Inside, everything smelled like warm metal, damp concrete, and the lingering bite of brake cleaner.

She was half-under the front end of a Volvo, gritting her teeth at a bolt that refused to move. The ratchet clicked and slipped again, the angle too tight, the clearance unforgiving.

“Need a hand?” came a voice from behind her.

She didn’t bother looking. “No.”

Oscar’s boots crossed the floor behind her anyway. She could hear the lazy rhythm of his steps, the smugness practically radiating off them.

“You sure? That bolt sounds scared.”

She exhaled through her nose. “You want to be helpful, go bother the socket tray.”

“I already did. It’s organized. You’re welcome.”

She turned just enough to glare over her shoulder. “You organized it wrong.”

“I organized it alphabetically. It was beautiful.”

She straightened and wiped her hands on a rag, resisting the urge to throw it at him.

“No one organizes sockets alphabetically.”

“Well, now they do.” He was grinning like a man who hadn’t just committed workshop treason. Her arms were sore, her temper was fraying, and still, still, he looked at her like he was enjoying every second of this.

She narrowed her eyes at the bolt again, muttering under her breath. “It’s seized.”

Oscar leaned beside her, arms folded, head tilted toward the engine bay.

“You want the breaker bar?”

“I want it to cooperate.”

“That’s not usually how metal works, Sparks.” He said it easy. Like the nickname belonged to him. Like the years hadn’t scraped that ownership away.

She didn’t answer. He walked off without asking and came back with the bar. She took it without looking at him. Their fingers touched for a second longer than necessary.

He noticed. She pretended she didn’t.

She braced the bar, adjusted her stance, and pulled. The bolt groaned. Gave. She rocked backward a step, breath catching in her throat.

Oscar let out a low whistle. “That was kind of hot.”

She turned, deadpan. “Say that again and I’ll bury you under the parts cart.”

“Romance is dead.”

She handed him the bar. “It never lived.”

He held her gaze for a moment too long, the smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. There was something in his eyes, not just amusement. Something warmer. Something older.

She looked away first.

“Need anything else, boss?” he asked.

She bent back over the car. “Silence would be great.”

He chuckled, quiet and pleased with himself and stayed exactly where he was, just leaned beside her while she worked, offering nothing but presence. That used to be enough. Some weekends, that was all they did, pass tools back and forth and talk about engines like it was a language only they spoke. Now the silence wasn’t comfort. It was pressure.

She reached for a clamp. He passed it to her without asking. Their fingers touched again, briefly, and this time neither of them pretended it didn’t happen.

She cleared her throat. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re loitering with confidence.”

He smiled. “You used to like having me around.”

“You used to know when to back off, you’re breathing down my neck.”

He smiled. “Missed it?”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the engine. He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her shoulder.

“I remember a version of you that smiled more.”

“I remember a version of you that didn’t leave.”

The smile didn’t fade, but it faltered, just for a second. A small drop in the engine’s hum.

“Ouch,” he said, with mock offense.

She tightened the clamp. “Yeah, well. Some of us had shit to do.”

Another pause. She didn’t look at him. “You know. Like bury a parent. Keep a roof over people’s heads. That sort of thing.”

He blinked. Slow. Careful.

“Wow. Was that a joke?”

“Only if you’re laughing.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle, stepped closer again, not enough to touch, but enough that she could feel the air shift.

“Not bad, Sparks. You’re getting sharper in your old age.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’d know.”

He smiled at her then. Not wide. Just that tilt at the corner of his mouth that used to make her forget what she was holding. “I did.”

This time, she looked away first. She passed him the clamp back. “Hold this.”

He did, wordlessly, steady hands in the right place without being told. Muscle memory, maybe. Or something else. She adjusted the seal, her fingers brushing his as she worked, and there it was again, that flicker of heat under her skin. The way her breath caught just slightly off-rhythm.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tightened the last bolt with a sharp click and stepped back fast, wiping her hands hard on her rag.

“Done.”

He stayed still, clamp still in place. Watching her. She met his eyes, just once.

“You want something to do, clean the threads on the rear plugs.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “You okay?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s not what I—”

She cut him off with a look.

“Rear plugs,” she repeated.

Oscar nodded, slow, the smile returning. But softer now. Like he understood. He turned away to grab a brush, and she let herself breathe again, only once he wasn’t looking.

Later, the engine gave a small hiss as she loosened the last bolt, warm air rising from the block and curling against the cold. Oscar was beside her again, leaning into the open hood, his arm brushing hers.

She didn’t move. Not right away.

“You sure you remember how to do this?” she asked, eyes on the housing.

He bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “I’ve done more tracksides rebuilds than you’ve had birthdays.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He reached in to hold the part steady while she rethreaded a line. She leaned in at the same time, and suddenly they were sharing the narrow space under the hood, shoulders pressed, breath warming the metal between them.

She was aware of everything, the sharp scent of engine coolant, the oil under her nails, the sound of his breath when he concentrated.

His head dipped closer, just slightly, voice softer now. “You know what I missed?”

She didn’t answer.

“This. The way you go quiet when you work. The way you talk to engines like they owe you something.”

She kept her hands moving. “They do.”

He smiled. “They listen to you.”

“They behave for me.”

Oscar glanced at her, and she felt it.

“You ever think about what would’ve happened if you came with me?”

She stopped tightening the line. Just for a second.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t back off.

“I think about it,” he said.

“That’s your problem.”

She leaned away, suddenly too warm, grabbing a rag from the cart to clean her hands. The air between them stretched thin, like something pulled tight and trembling.

He straightened, slower this time. “You always used to get like this when you were trying not to punch me.”

“Still do.”

She tossed the rag into the bin. Harder than necessary.

Oscar grinned behind her. “You missed me.”

She turned, looked him dead in the eye and didn’t say a word. He didn’t press. Just stayed there while she wiped down the engine block, her hands precise again, her face unreadable.

Oscar leaned against the edge of the workbench now, like he belonged there. Like this was just another Saturday in the garage. Like they hadn’t gone years without speaking. She felt his eyes on her again. That same kind of watching, patient, sharp, almost fond.

It used to make her feel invincible. Now it made her feel like her skin didn’t fit right.

“You still look at me like that,” she said without turning around.

“Like what?”

“Like nothing changed.” He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t give him long. “Things did,” she added.

“I know.”

She turned, finally. Not all the way, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

“You think flirting makes it easier to come back?”

Oscar shrugged, but it was too slow to be casual. “I think it makes it easier to stay.”

That landed between them, quiet but heavy. She didn’t reply. Instead, she picked up the torque wrench, checked the calibration like it mattered.

“Car’s done,” she said.

Oscar nodded, like that meant something else entirely.

Then, still watching her, softer now: “Thanks for letting me help.”

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

He smiled anyway. And she kept her back turned until he walked out.

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The lights above the track buzzed, half the bulbs flickering like they were tired too. Everything else had gone still. The stands were empty, the engine noise long faded, and the air smelled like warm rubber and cooling metal.

He was still in his race suit, unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. She stood by the kart, tools in hand, grease smudged across her wrist, heart still beating out of rhythm from watching him take her build and push it to the edge.

Oscar pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, breathless.

“That was-” he stopped, grinning like an idiot, “-I don’t even know what that was.”

She walked toward him, still holding the torque wrench.

“You hit seventy-four on the back straight.”

His eyes went wide. “No way.”

“I checked the readout twice.”

He let out a breathless laugh and looked back at the kart like it was something holy. “You built that.”

She shrugged. “You drove it.”

“I barely had to. It knew what it was doing.”

She raised a brow. “Machines don’t drive themselves.”

Oscar turned back to her. Still smiling. “Maybe not. But that thing was humming. Every turn, every shift, clean. Like it wanted to win.”

She ducked her head. “It did.”

He stepped closer. She looked up, and that was the moment, quiet, too fast to stop. Oscar still smelled like engine heat and wind. His hand brushed her elbow when he leaned in just a little.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What.”

“That kart moved like it had something to prove.” He paused. “So did I.”

Her voice was low. “And?”

“It did.”

She opened her mouth, probably to say something cutting or smart, but she didn’t. Instead, she just stood there, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, fingers still wrapped around the wrench like it could anchor her. Then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not slow. Just honest. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission because it already knew the answer. Her hands didn’t let go of the wrench. His stayed loose at his sides, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed more.

When they broke apart, she didn’t step back.

“Okay,” she said softly.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

She nodded, still close. “You earned it.”

He smiled, something brighter than his usual smugness, something softer. She finally let go of the wrench.

Oscar’s grin stretched a little wider. “You know, if you keep building karts like that, I might just have to race them all.”

“Oh, you think you can handle it?” She cocked a brow, stepping even closer, the heat between them suddenly sharper than the engine’s roar had been.

He laughed softly; eyes gleaming. “I’m not scared.”

“Good,” she said, voice low and teasing. “Because I’m not just building karts, Oscar. I’m building traps.”

He glanced down at the wrench still in her hands and then back up, his smile turning sly. “Traps, huh? Should I be worried?”

“Depends.” She tapped the wrench lightly against his chest. “How fast can you run?”

His breath hitched just a little. “Faster than you think.”

The silence settled again, but it was different now, charged, expectant. She let her fingers trail a little along the sleeve of his suit, teasing without touching fully.

“Careful,” she murmured, “or I might start thinking you like being caught.”

He leaned in closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I do.”

Their faces were inches apart, the heat from the track mingling with something else, something electric. She glanced down at the wrench again and then back to his eyes, suddenly feeling daring.

“Race me to the garage,” she challenged, stepping back with a playful smirk. “Loser has to wash the kart.”

Oscar’s grin was all challenge now. “You’re on.”

And just like that, the tension broke with a burst of laughter as they took off, feet pounding on the concrete, racing into the night.

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It was the afternoon on a Tuesday. Oscar had been gone all weekend for a race. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t jealous of the sport taking him away, though she wouldn’t tell him that. She certainly wouldn’t admit to quietly cheering him on while cooking Sunday lunch with her mum, or that her mum insisted on having every race playing in the background.

She thought she’d enjoy the quiet. Maybe even need it. But without him, the garage felt less like a sanctuary and more like a shell.

She wiped the grease off her hands and bent back over the hood of an old VW, trying to focus, when the familiar clang of boots echoed through the doors. It was the sound she’d missed more than she wanted to admit.

“Sparks,” he greeted, his voice cutting through the silence, casual but not quite.

She didn’t look up right away. Just kept her head buried under the hood, like she hadn’t been listening for that exact sound all afternoon. “Didn’t know they let losers back through customs.”

Oscar let out a low laugh and leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “Seventh isn’t losing.”

“Tell that to the guy who came sixth,” she muttered, finally straightening up. Her ponytail was a mess, a smear of grease across her cheek. “I had to turn the volume down. Your post-race interview was giving me second-hand embarrassment.”

He raised a brow. “You watched?”

“My mum did.”

He grinned. “So, you just happened to be in the room?”

She didn’t answer. Just grabbed a rag and wiped her hands, more force than necessary.

He looked around, the garage somehow smaller with both of them in it. “Miss me?”

She scoffed. “You leave for two days and come back with a god complex. Impressive.”

“You missed me.”

“In the way you miss a splinter.”

“Sharp. I like it.”

They danced around each other like usual. Tension in every breath, every glance. Neither willing to admit what was obvious to anyone else. She didn’t ask how the race went, and he didn’t offer. Some things they didn’t talk about.

Oscar wandered as she fiddled with a wrench she didn’t need. He stopped by the back corner, drawn by something under the tarp. He glanced at her.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that.”

He looked at her. She didn’t sound playful anymore.

“Seriously. Leave it.”

But he was already lifting the edge. Not enough to see everything, but enough. Welded frame, stripped interior, half an engine. It wasn’t much yet. But it was something. Something important.

When she crossed the garage, she wasn’t stomping. She was silent. Cold.

“You don’t get to look at that.”

Oscar blinked. “I didn’t know it was…”

“You didn’t ask.” Her voice was quiet but sharp, like glass underfoot. “You just went ahead like you always do.”

He stepped back, hands up. “I wasn’t trying to-”

“It’s not about trying.” She was furious, but it wasn’t loud. It was contained, fragile. “That’s mine. You don’t get to touch it. You don’t get to act like you still know me.”

Something in her cracked then, but not in the way he expected. She wasn’t just mad about the car.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. When she didn’t reply he continued, “Don’t say I don’t know you. I do. Sparks I know you.”

She almost laughed, shaking her head. “No. No, Mr F1 hotshot. You don’t know me. You knew me. Me four years ago, before you left. News Flash. I’ve changed.”

He looked at her, jaw clenched like he had something to say but wasn’t sure if he should.

She didn’t give him time to find the words. “The girl you knew,” she said. “She thought the world was gonna wait. Thought people stuck around if they said they would.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but something cracked in it. “Turns out, people leave. Even the ones who promised not to.”

Oscar’s eyes dropped. “I didn’t promise-”

“Exactly,” she snapped, bitter smile flashing. “Smart move.”

He took a breath, slow and heavy. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“Well, congrats. You managed it anyway.”

A beat passed between them. The garage was too still; the weight of silence louder than any engine ever was.

“You act like I didn’t think about you every damn day,” he said finally, voice low. “Like I didn’t watch every message and think- ‘If I go back now, I’ll remember everything I lost, and it’ll be ten times harder to leave again.’ But I still almost did. A dozen times.”

She turned away from him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He took a cautious step forward. “You think I don’t regret it?”

She didn’t look at him. “I think you made the right call. That’s the worst part.”

He blinked. “What?”

She laughed once, no humour in it. “You made it. You left and made it. And you’re good. Really bloody good. I can’t even be mad at that without feeling petty.”

“That’s not-”

“I needed you,” she said, finally facing him. “After Dad, after everything, I needed you. And you weren’t here.”

Her voice cracked at the end of it, barely. Just a hairline fracture. But it was enough. Oscar looked like he wanted to reach for her, say something, fix it. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, like someone watching a fire burn too far to stop.

She shook her head. “You don’t get to come back and act like nothing changed. You don’t get to touch my car or talk like you still know me.”

He glanced toward the half-built machine under the tarp. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Not just a car.”

She didn’t answer.

“You built it without him,” Oscar said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “I built it for me.”

He looked at her, properly now. “You never showed anyone.”

“No,” she said. “Not everything has to be for display.”

Silence again, heavier this time.

“He would’ve been proud.”

Her laugh was sharp, cutting. “Don’t you dare.”

Oscar flinched.

“You don’t get to say that,” she said. “You didn’t even come back. Not once. Not even for the wake. Not for the funeral. Not for me.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said, voice quiet.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” she snapped. “You just had to show up.”

The words hung there. Raw. Final.

Oscar looked like he wanted to argue. Or explain. Or at least try. But whatever words he had fell short. He swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

And she didn’t look at him again.

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The sterile hum of the hospital waiting room was punctuated by the quiet murmur of a family trying to hold itself together. At nineteen, she’d always seen her father as her steadfast champion, invincible despite life’s many curves. That afternoon, however, the harsh fluorescent lights revealed the first cracks in that fortress.

She sat on a row of uncomfortable chairs, knees jiggling, the vinyl squeaking beneath every shift. Her mother sat to her right, posture too upright, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded tight in her lap. Her determined smile was brittle. Her eyes had gone glassy and faraway, as if she were staring straight past the walls.

To her left, Eli and Jackson slouched in oversized hoodies, their small limbs tucked in like they'd rather vanish into the fabric. Eli swung his legs restlessly, trainers tapping a dull rhythm against the tile. Jackson hugged a toy car in both hands, a battered Hot Wheels thing, bright blue, its wheels worn from years of races down garage ramps and hallway baseboards.

“Can I get a can of coke?” Jackson asked suddenly, not quite whispering.

“Not now,” she said, automatic.

“I’m thirsty.”

Her mum blinked like she was coming out of a fog. “There’s water in my bag.”

“I don’t like that water.”

Eli elbowed him. “It’s just water, idiot.”

“Don’t call him that,” their mum snapped.

“Sorry,” Eli muttered, quieter.

Oscar stood a few seats away, his hands in his coat pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked out of place in the sterile hallway, too tall, too real, like he’d been dropped into someone else’s tragedy. But he wasn’t a stranger. Not to them. He’d driven them here. He’d held her hand on the walk in, brief, not for show. Jackson had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the wait and Oscar hadn’t moved the whole time.

Now, though, Oscar’s usual fire had dulled to embers. His jaw was set, but his eyes were soft, full of something heavy. He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the boys. Watching their mum. Watching the whole room crack open.

The sound of footsteps drew them all upright. The doctor appeared in the hallway like a verdict, clipboard in hand, expression calm, prepared, devastating.

The words came in carefully measured doses. Aggressive. Treatment options. Time is uncertain. None of it landed cleanly. Her mother’s fingers tightened around the armrest. Jackson squirmed in his seat. Eli looked at her, wide-eyed, waiting for someone else to react first.

She felt Oscar step closer, just behind her now, his presence suddenly grounding against the sterile hum of the corridor. The harsh hospital lighting didn’t soften anything, not the ache in her chest, not the sting behind her eyes, but he did.

“This isn’t how we imagined today,” he murmured, his voice thick with something unspeakable.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves like she could anchor herself to the moment. Still, she was grateful he was there. Grateful he hadn't filled the silence with apologies or promises he couldn't keep.

Then, slowly, she felt it, his hand brushing against hers. Not a grab, not even a touch, really. Just the barest graze of skin, tentative and uncertain. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t respond either. Not at first.

His hand stayed there, barely touching, like he was asking permission without words. Waiting. She exhaled, shakily. Let her fingers unfurl from the fist she hadn’t realised she’d made. And then she let him.

Their hands found each other with aching slowness, fingers threading together like it hurt. His thumb moved once, softly over her skin, a gesture that asked nothing but said everything. She still didn’t look at him. Just stared straight ahead, toward the blank white wall and the door they’d both been too afraid to open.

Her father was just down the hall, behind a closed door. She imagined him lying there, awake now, or not. Breathing easily, or not. She hadn’t seen him since the scan. She’d thought it would be hours still. She wasn’t ready.

Jackson tugged on her sleeve. “Is he gonna come home today?”

Eli gave him a look. “Don’t ask that.”

“I was just-”

“Enough,” she said gently, pulling her arm away. “We don’t know yet.”

Her mum stood, finally, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she needed to keep something inside. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded at the doctor and followed him down the corridor, her steps small, uneven.

The boys stayed on the bench, suddenly quiet. Jackson leaned his head on Eli’s shoulder, and Eli let him. Neither said a word. The toy car slipped from Jackson’s fingers and rolled in a lazy arc under the chairs. Oscar bent to catch it before it disappeared, handed it back without comment.

Jackson took it, nodded. Eli gave his brother’s shoulder the softest nudge. Not rough. Just something that said: I'm still here too. Oscar sat beside them, hands clasped between his knees, eyes forward. The silence pressed in again.

Her own hands were shaking. She shoved them into the pockets of her jacket. Her thoughts spiralled, unfocused. Words caught in her throat like gravel. She didn’t want to go in yet. She didn’t want to see her father like that. Smaller. Dimmer. She didn’t want to hear the quiet way he might say her name. Or not say it at all.

Oscar reached out, quietly, resting one hand on her knee. His thumb moved in a slow, absent motion. Not asking. Just anchoring. She didn’t cry. Not yet. But she let her head drop against his shoulder, just briefly.

Across from them, the hallway light flickered once. Then stayed on.

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The garage smelled like heat again. Not the good kind, not motor heat, not track heat, but the stale kind, the kind that came from a space that hadn’t been aired out in days. The kind that came from silence.

Oscar had been back every day since, but he’d kept his distance. Especially from the corner.

Now, he was sitting on the bench near the old toolbox, elbows on his knees, watching her work like he was waiting for a green light that might never come. She was under the hood of a hatchback she didn’t care about. Tinkering more than fixing. Avoiding.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean to step on anything. I just-” He hesitated. “It was stupid.”

Still, she kept her head down, arms elbow-deep in useless adjustment.

He added, “It’s a hell of a car.”

That earned him a glance. Quick. Neutral.

“You didn’t see all of it.”

“Didn’t need to.”

She tightened a bolt that didn’t need tightening.

“I overreacted,” she said, too casual to sound sincere, too flat to be nothing.

He looked up at that.

She added, “You were just being nosy. You’ve always been nosy.”

“True.”

“And smug.”

He grinned. “Deeply.”

A small beat passed.

Then: “But also right,” he added. “About the car. It’s something.”

She wiped her hands on a rag. “It’s mine.”

“I know.”

She looked at him again. Longer, this time. The light through the windows caught the dust in the air, made it move like smoke.

Then, quiet: “You really want to drive it?”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then tossed the rag onto the bench.

“You can drive it.”

He stood, surprised by how fast she said it.

“But,” she said, already walking toward the tarp, “I’m coming too.”

He smiled. “You don’t trust me?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Not with the car. And definitely not with the wheel.”

Oscar stepped forward, eyes on her. “Where are we taking it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just peeled back the edge of the tarp and looked at the machine beneath, her machine, like it was a secret she was almost ready to show.

Then, softly: “The old track.”

Oscar’s smile softened. “I remember.”

The tarp came off slowly. Like unveiling something holy. Oscar didn’t reach for it. He just watched.

The frame was welded clean, the lines sharp and purposeful. No paint yet, just raw metal and taped notes on the panel seams. The engine was only half assembled, but the wiring loom was already tucked tight, routed with care. It looked like something caught mid-transformation, feral and unfinished.

He let out a breath. “Damn.”

She didn’t smile, but her hands moved with less tension now. She crouched to unlock the jack stands, then handed him a socket without being asked.

“You built this from scratch?” he asked.

“Started with scraps,” she replied. “Salvaged parts. A few things from the old kart.”

Oscar blinked. “Our kart?”

“Some pieces still worked.”

He knelt beside her, checking the front suspension. “Steering feels stiff.”

“Needs adjustment. It's deliberate.”

He glanced up. “You always did like control.”

She gave him a flat look. “You always did need it.”

He laughed softly, then dropped it. The mood didn’t break, but it bent. They kept working. Wheels. Brake lines. Torque checks. They passed tools back and forth with an ease they hadn’t earned back yet. Each movement was a ghost of a hundred Saturdays before it.

“I kept meaning to ask,” he said after a while, his voice softer. “Why that track?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just twisted a wrench a half-turn too far and leaned back.

“I like the corners,” she said eventually.

Oscar gave her a look. “You hate those corners.”

She shrugged. “I like knowing what I’m up against.”

That made him pause. Something in the way she said it, something in the torque she used on that bolt, pulled at a memory. A night. A fight. A version of her standing at this exact distance, arms crossed, words sharp.

He reached for the next tool, but his hand hovered instead. She noticed. Her eyes flicked to his. Everything in the room stilled. Like a scene about to replay itself.

But not yet.

Not yet.

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The hospital room was dim. A small lamp glowed on the windowsill; the only real light left. Everything else had gone quiet. She sat on the edge of the vinyl chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her knees were pulled up, ankles crossed, eyes fixed on the bed.

Her father looked smaller under the sheets. The kind of small that came from pain and the slow fading of someone who used to fill every room with his laugh.

He stirred, eyes fluttering half-open. “Hey.”

She straightened. “Hey.”

“You’re still here.”

She gave a tired smile. “You think I’d go somewhere better than this?”

His mouth curved weakly. “Could be worse.”

They both knew it already was.

She reached over and adjusted the corner of the blanket, not because it needed fixing, but because she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.

He was quiet for a while. Then, softly: “Your mum’s gonna need help. And the boys.”

She nodded.

“But not forever,” he added. “Don’t let this place trap you.”

“I’m not trapped.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I know how it happens.”

She swallowed hard, blinked up at the ceiling.

“You were gonna go,” he said, eyes still half-lidded. “You and that boy.”

Her throat tightened. “Oscar left.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes clearer now. “What?”

“He got offered something. Overseas. He left yesterday.”

His chest rose slowly, then fell. “I see.”

“He didn’t know… how bad things were.”

“Did you tell him?”

She didn’t answer.

He watched her a long moment. “You should’ve told him.”

“I was tired of people leaving.”

He gave a quiet, painful breath of a chuckle. “Well. Some of us don’t get a choice.”

She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. Then, quieter: “He cared about you. Still does.”

“I liked that kid.”

“He left.”

Her dad reached out. His hand shook, but he managed to place it over hers. “He’s not the only one who’ll want you.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t-”

“Don’t close the door just because he couldn’t walk through it,” he murmured. “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She couldn’t speak. Just stared at their hands. A spasm passed through him, sharper this time. His fingers gripped tighter.

“Hey,” she said, sitting forward. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

He winced. Jaw tight. Trying to fight it.

“Dad-”

“I just want you to be okay,” he whispered, tear falling on his cheek.

“You’ve done that,” she said, voice shaking now. “You said everything. You said it all.”

Another flicker of pain crossed his face. She leaned closer, brushed his hair back like she used to do as a kid.

“If it hurts… you don’t have to stay. I’ll take care of them. I’ll take care of everything.”

His eyes fluttered.

“You can rest now,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

She kept her hand over his until his grip faded, even then, she didn’t move. The monitors didn’t beep. There was no drama to it. Just a quiet kind of ending. The room didn’t feel any different. But she did.

She sat there for a long time, still holding his hand, forehead resting against the edge of the bed. Her shoulders began to shake, no sound, just the sudden, overwhelming collapse of it all.

He was gone.

And she hadn’t cried until now.

The wrenching sobs came fast. She tried to cover her mouth with her sleeve, to stay quiet. But there was no stopping it. Her ribs felt too tight. Her throat raw. Her whole body folding in on itself as the truth landed hard, brutal, final.

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like something she’d say out loud and regret the second it left her mouth. Like if she kept her eyes closed, maybe he’d still be here, asleep and snoring like usual. Just tired.

But when she looked again, the shape of him didn’t move. She sat there until the weight of silence became unbearable.

Then she stood. Wiped her face with both sleeves.

Pulled his blanket back up to his chest. Smoothed the pillow.

Her hands were steady again by the time she stepped into the hallway. The light was harsher out here. More real.

She found her mum curled up on the waiting room couch, arms wrapped around both boys. One asleep, the other blinking groggily at a cartoon on the wall screen. Her mother looked up the second she walked in.

Didn’t speak. Just searched her face.

And her daughter nodded.

Once.

Enough.

Her mum's arms tightened around the boys. Her face collapsed quietly into their shoulders.

She walked over and sat on the floor beside them, legs folded, head leaning against her mother’s knee like she used to when she was little.

No one said anything for a long time. They just held on.

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The airport hotel smelled like disinfectant and overripe fruit. The kind of generic comfort that didn't comfort anything. Outside, a Spanish winter pressed cold against the windows, but inside the room it was all fake warmth, dim lighting, beige walls, and the quiet hum of nothing important.

Oscar sat on the floor between the bed and the desk, knees drawn up, one arm hooked over them, still in his base layer from the sim test earlier that morning. His travel bag was unzipped beside him. His race gloves stuck out the top, half-dried, still tacky with sweat.

His phone was in his hand. Her name was on the screen. He hadn’t opened it yet.

He’d stared at it for the last twenty minutes, thumb hovering just over the play icon, heart doing that thing it used to do when she stood at the edge of the track with her arms folded, pretending not to watch his laps. Except now, it wasn’t adrenaline. It was fear. Guilt. That cold pressure behind his ribs that said if you listen to this, you can’t take it back.

He hit play.

"He’s gone."

That was it. Just her voice. Flat, drained, the edges of it frayed in a way he hadn’t heard before. No sobbing. No explanations. No details. Just two words and a pause at the end, like she didn’t know whether to hang up or break down.

Then silence. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. The ceiling above him had a water stain shaped like a continent he didn’t recognize. The laptop on the desk still glowed faint blue. The flight itinerary was open.

He could still make it. If he left now, grabbed his bag, told the team manager he had to go home for a few days, they’d understand. They wouldn’t like it, but they’d understand. He could be there by morning. Stand in the back of the service. Offer some half-version of comfort.

But then what? Walk in with nothing to say? Stand beside a grave he hadn’t helped dig? Try to tell her he was sorry in the same voice he’d used to say goodbye?

He stared at the screen until the gate info blinked up. The room buzzed around him like a distant track on warmup laps, close, but not immediate.

Oscar stood slowly. Walked to the window. Pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

The voicemail played again in his head. He’s gone.

Her dad. The man who handed him wrenches before he was tall enough to reach the pegboard. Who taught him to find torque by feel. Who called him out when he was being cocky and praised him when he shut up and listened. Who let him into that garage like it wasn’t borrowed space.

The man he should’ve come back for. If not for her, then at least for him. Oscar picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over her name.

He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t move.

Instead, he reached for the laptop, closed the lid, and slid the boarding pass into the bin beside the desk. He sat back down on the floor and stared at the blank carpet like it might offer absolution.

It didn’t.

That night, he didn’t sleep. He just lay there, arms crossed over his chest, listening to the hum of the hallway outside, trying to convince himself that leaving things broken was less painful than showing up too late to fix them.

He told himself it wasn’t cowardice. But he never listened to that voicemail again.

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The track hadn’t changed. The painted lines were faded, the curbs chipped at the corners, weeds feathering out through the cracks. The stands were empty, half-collapsed in places, and the flag post leaned a little more than it used to, but the smell was the same.

Petrol. Dirt. Rubber. Memory.

The sky was soft grey above them. The kind of morning that held back light like it wasn’t ready to commit. Oscar stood by the driver’s side, helmet tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on the roof of the car like he wasn’t sure he belonged touching it.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just walked around to the passenger side, the soft scuff of her boots on gravel the only sound.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said.

Oscar nodded; jaw tight. He slipped into the seat. She followed. The doors clicked shut. The windows fogged a little at the edges. And then the silence grew loud. She adjusted the harness. Tighter than she needed to.

He looked over at her, helmet already in place. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

She flexed her fingers on her lap. “Adrenaline.”

He didn’t push it.

The ignition clicked. The engine coughed once, then roared to life, raw and eager. She felt it all through her spine.

Oscar glanced at her one last time. She gave him the smallest nod. And they rolled out onto the track.

The car took the first corner like it was born for it. Tight. Clean. No drag. No protest.

She felt every inch of it, the way the rear tucked in just enough, the low hum under her boots, the rumble that wasn’t noise but language. Her hands braced against the dash like she could feel the pulse through the frame.

Oscar didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hands moved with the wheel like he was dancing with it. Confident, but careful. Like he knew she was watching every twitch.

They hit the first straight, and the engine opened up. The sound of it filled the cabin, low and rising, as if the car was proud of itself. She almost laughed. She hadn’t expected that. The thrill. The spark. The joy.

“You feel that?” Oscar shouted over the noise, grinning like a kid behind the visor.

She didn’t shout back. Just nodded. Wide-eyed. Because she did. She felt all of it. Every piece of metal, every wire, every stubborn bolt and long night and skinned knuckle, it all mattered. It all worked.

The car was hers. And it was alive. They hit the back curve faster than she would’ve taken it. Her breath caught, but the car held. So did Oscar.

He wasn’t cocky behind the wheel now. He was grateful. Driving like it meant something.

Mid-lap, she turned to him. No helmet. No mask. Just her.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” she said.

He glanced at her. “Not with this one.” And pushed.

The engine screamed into the next gear, the tires kissing the track edge as they clipped the apex. She leaned into the motion, and for the first time since her dad died, since Oscar left, since the world stopped asking what she wanted, she let herself feel it:

Pride. Freedom. Love.

She looked at the track unfolding ahead of them, the straight stretch, the air vibrating through the shell, and her eyes blurred. And then, Oscar said it.

Quiet. Like it didn’t need to be shouted.

“I thought about this,” he said. “All the time. You. Me. This car. I wanted to believe we’d still make it here.”

Her breath stilled.

“I thought if I saw you again, I’d forget what it felt like to leave.”

He downshifted. Took the next curve.

“But I didn’t forget,” he said. “I never forgot. Not a single day.”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. She looked ahead, blinked hard, and let the tears fall anyway. Not loud. Not messy. Just there.

Because he was right and because she hadn’t let herself believe that anyone, especially him, remembered what she’d lost.

Oscar’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “I loved you back then.”

She looked away, fiddling with the edge of her jacket. “Yeah? I’m not sure you really knew what that meant.” Her tone was light, but the edge was there, sharper than she wanted.

He let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to find the words he didn’t have. “Maybe not. But I never stopped.”

She met his eyes, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and ache. “Me neither. Even if I wanted to.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty, it was full, thick with all the things they never said. The hum of the engine faded into the background, the car still resting beneath them like a quiet witness.

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, fingers tracing the worn leather. “I thought if I came back, everything would be easier. Like we could pick up where we left off.”

She bit her lip, staring out at the cracked asphalt stretching ahead. “I wanted that too. But sometimes, the past isn’t a place you can go back to.”

He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “I was scared. Scared I’d make it worse.”

“By coming back?” Her voice cracked, just for a moment. Then she masked it with a small, bitter laugh. “You walked away when I needed you the most. You weren’t just scared, you were gone.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “I thought it was what you wanted. What you needed.”

She looked down, hands tightening into fists on her lap. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It still does.”

For a long moment, they just sat there, two people tangled up in regrets and love, unsure how to bridge the distance time had made.

Oscar’s voice was quiet, steady. “We’re here now.”

She finally gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Stubborn enough to be here.”

He chuckled, a lightness returning to his tone. “So, what now?”

She shrugged, eyes sparkling despite herself. “I don’t know. But I’m glad you asked.”

And as the morning light finally spilled across the track, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they were ready to find out together.

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The garage smelled like oil, sweat, and something else, something electric, like the air itself was charged just for them.

She lay stretched out on the cold concrete floor, knees bent, arms propped behind her head, watching the underside of the car they’d just finished tweaking. Grease streaked across her collarbone, drying into her skin like a second language. The hum of the overhead fluorescent lights was steady, almost hypnotic, as she caught the faintest scent of Oscar’s aftershave mixed with the grime on his sleeves.

Oscar was crouched beside her, one arm hooked around a suspension spring, head tilted back to study the mechanics, but every so often his eyes flicked down, meeting hers through the shadows.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he said eventually, voice low, the kind that made her heart flip and her cheeks warm.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, elbow nudging his arm. “Says the guy who just tried to convince me the clutch was on backwards.”

He grinned, brushing a hand through his tangled hair. “Details, details. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Barely,” her eyebrow arched. “You nearly reversed us into the hydraulic lift.”

They fell quiet then, the only sounds the occasional drip of oil and their steady breathing. The air between them thickened, charged like a live wire. Without thinking, she shifted closer, her bare arm brushing his sleeve, skin sparking at the contact. He caught the movement, eyes locking with hers through the shadows.

The breath she took felt thick in her lungs.

“Careful,” she whispered. “You’re getting dangerous.”

Oscar’s smile softened, something real behind it now. “Only for you.”

Silence. The kind that knew what it wanted but waited anyway. His hand did not move yet. Hers stayed braced against the floor like it could keep her grounded.

The lights buzzed overhead. A tool dropped somewhere deeper in the garage, loud, then gone. Still, they didn’t speak Then his fingers curled gently around her wrist. Slow. Testing. Not claiming, just asking.

Her breath hitched, the heat in her chest spreading, making her skin tingle in a way the garage grease never could.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured, voice rough, as if the words themselves held a secret promise.

She swallowed, eyes wide and heart racing. “You remembered.”

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist now, rhythmic. Calming or trying to be.

“How could I forget?” He shifted closer, the warmth of his body pressing against hers, sending an electric pulse straight through her.

They were tangled in shadows, the world outside forgotten, the garage a cocoon of scent and whispered promises. His lips brushed her temple, soft but claiming, a contrast to the roughness of his hands as they moved to her waist, pulling her closer, deeper into the quiet heat of the moment.

She arched up against him, breath mingling with his, the sharp tang of motor oil and skin and something dangerously sweet filling her senses.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, voice trembling between a plea and a dare.

His laugh was low and dark, a sound that promised mischief and more. “Oh, I wasn’t planning to.”

Fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his kiss, fierce and slow, a promise that this night was theirs alone, unspoken but understood.

The world narrowed to the press of skin and the rush of heat between them, tangled bodies and whispered names in the dark.

No need for words. Just the quiet, raw language of two people who had waited far too long to let go.

His lips crashed into hers, hungry and deliberate, the taste of him, spearmint and gasoline, flooding her senses. The concrete bit into her back, but she barely noticed, too lost in the way his fingers tangled in her hair, possessive and desperate.

A groan rumbled low in his throat as she nipped at his bottom lip, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his grease-streaked shirt, tracing the taut muscles of his stomach. A wrench clattered somewhere nearby, the sound sharp in the charged silence, but neither of them flinched.

Oscar’s mouth trailed down her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear, and she arched against him with a gasp. His breath was hot against her skin, lips leaving a searing trail down her collarbone as her fingers tightened in his hair.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of sweat and motor oil, but all she could focus on was the rough drag of his calloused hands sliding under the small of her back, lifting her just enough to press her harder against the concrete.

Her top rode higher, the fabric catching on the edge of a bolt they’d dropped earlier, and she shivered as cool metal kissed her skin. His mouth followed the path his fingers had taken, tongue tracing the dark smudge of a grease streak along her hipbone, tasting salt and the sharp tang of engine work. She gasped when his teeth grazed the sensitive dip of her waist, her own fingers leaving prints on his shoulders as she dragged him closer.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of her work trousers, rough knuckles dragging against her overheated skin as he peeled the fabric down in one slow, deliberate motion. The air between them crackled, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the cool garage air hit her bare thighs.

His calloused palms skimmed the curve of her hips, pausing just long enough to catch the edge of her underwear with his thumb, the lace snapping taut before yielding. She lifted her hips in silent permission, the concrete rough beneath her, every scrape and grind of it only heightening the ache building low in her stomach.

The lace gave way with a whisper of fabric, his breath hot against her newly bared skin. She gasped as his mouth found the inside of her thigh, teeth scraping just enough to make her hips jerk off the concrete. His laugh was dark, vibrating against her skin as he pinned her down with one broad hand, the other tracing slow, maddening circles higher, always higher, until her fingers twisted in his hair, desperate. Fluorescent light flickered above them, casting jagged shadows across his shoulders as he dragged his tongue over her in one slow, filthy stroke.

Her back arched off the concrete as his tongue circled her clit, slow and teasing at first, then relentless, the same rhythm he used when polishing chrome, all focused pressure and knowing precision. The wrench lay forgotten nearby, its metal gleaming under the flickering lights, but all she could hear was the slick, filthy sound of his mouth working her, the groan vibrating through his chest when she rocked against him.

His fingers dug into her thighs, holding her open as he dragged his tongue lower, tasting her in slow, deliberate strokes, each one wringing a broken noise from her throat. The scent of motor oil clung to his skin, mingling with sweat and her arousal, thick enough to drown in. Her thighs trembled against his ears as his tongue pressed deeper, the flat of it dragging against her with the same slow precision he used to torque bolts, just shy of too much.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of gasoline and her, the taste of her sharp on his tongue as he curled two fingers inside without warning. Her gasp fractured into a moan, her hips lifting off the concrete only for his free hand to shove her back down, the rough pad of his thumb circling where his tongue had just been.

"Good girl," he rumbled against her skin, the vibration sending another shockwave through her. His tongue slowed to torturous swirls, savouring the way her thighs trembled around him.

His thumb pressed harder, the rough edge of his callus dragging just where she needed it while his tongue flicked mercilessly. "Look at you," he growled, pulling back just enough to watch her clench around his fingers, glistening under the garage lights. "Pretty little thing falling apart on my tongue."

The garage air hummed with the sound of her panting as his tongue curled deeper, the wet heat of his mouth wringing another broken cry from her lips. His fingers twisted inside her, dragging against her walls with the same rough precision he used when threading stubborn bolts, just enough friction to make her toes curl against the concrete.

The scent of her clung to his face, smeared across his lips as he pulled back just long enough to watch her squirm.

"Close," she gasped, her thighs shaking where they framed his shoulders, the muscles in her stomach tightening like coiled wire.

His grin was all teeth, wicked in the flickering light. "Not yet."

His fingers withdrew with a slick sound, leaving her clenching around nothing as he shoved his own trousers down just enough to free himself, thick and flushed, his cock bobbing against her inner thigh.

"Won't let you finish," he started, dragging the leaking head through her, "not till I’ve felt you." Her breath hitched as he notched himself against her entrance, the blunt pressure just shy of pushing in. The garage air clung to them, thick with oil and sweat and her, his calloused grip bruising her hips as he held her still.

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan that vibrated through her chest. The concrete bit into her shoulders as he pinned her down, every ridge and vein of him carving itself into her walls.

She gasped, half pain, half blinding pleasure, her nails scoring red lines down his sweat-slicked back as he began moving. No finesse now, just the brutal drag of him pulling out until just the head remained before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin drowning out the hum of the garage lights.

He fucked her like he raced, relentless, precision-guided chaos. Every thrust was a victory lap, every moan a trophy ripped from her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel: the sting of concrete beneath her, the heat of his sweat dripping onto her skin, the way his hand slid between them to circle her clit again, fast and filthy.

"Fuck, you feel-" he bit off the end of the sentence with a groan, his forehead pressed to hers, lips brushing as he moved. "So fucking good, always-"

She tugged him closer, wrapping her legs high around his back, forcing him deeper. Her body arched to meet his every thrust, slick and shameless, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

“Say it,” he panted, voice rough with need. “Tell me this is mine. All of it.”

She sobbed out a “Yes-yours, always-” as he slammed into her, the drag of him too much and never enough. He kissed her then, wild and hungry, tongue tasting every desperate sound she made.

Her orgasm hit like a slammed door, violent, all-consuming, her whole body tightening beneath him as she shattered. She clenched around him, dragging a broken curse from his mouth as he lost rhythm, stuttered, and spilled into her with a low, feral groan.

The air between them hung heavy, buzzing like static. For a long moment, they didn’t move, just breathing hard, tangled in sweat and oil and heat.

Oscar finally let out a shaky laugh, forehead still pressed to hers. “Happy birthday.”

She laughed too, breathless and wrecked, hands still tangled in his hair. “Best gift I’ve ever had.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, lips brushing hers like a secret. Then he pulled back just far enough to look at her, really look at her, his voice rough around the edges. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

She blinked, eyes wide, raw with something that had nothing to do with lust. “I know,” she whispered, pulling him close again. “Me too.”

And in the quiet aftermath, lying there on the cold garage floor, covered in grease and sweat and each other, it felt like the most honest place in the world.

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She was smiling when they rolled to a stop.

The engine ticked quietly as it cooled, metal softening in the hush. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that almost felt calm. Her fingers relaxed; her boots planted steady on the floor. Oscar had already unbuckled, helmet resting in his lap, breath fogging the glass.

And still, she smiled.

Because for a second, for just that heartbeat on the straight, it had felt like before. Like they were invincible again. Like grief had never burned a hole in her chest, like he hadn’t left, like maybe there was still something here worth saving.

Then the smile broke.

She didn’t mean for it to. It cracked, barely, and then her throat tightened. Her hands started to tremble. Not from adrenaline this time.

Oscar noticed. “Hey. You okay?”

She shook her head, wiped her face, and laughed, sharp and wet and wrong. “Why am I crying?”

He reached for her instinctively, but she flinched away, throwing the door open instead. The cold hit first. Then the rain. A slow drizzle that grew fast, soaking into her jacket, her hair, her skin like it was trying to wash something out of her.

Oscar followed, stepping into the gravel and rain, not bothering with a jacket. “Talk to me.”

She spun on him. “About what? About how I finally let myself feel something and it just made me fall apart?”

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

She scoffed. “I’ve been doing it alone for years. You don’t get to waltz in and fix it with a lap and a couple of words.”

His voice was low, but firm. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

That stopped her. Not softened her, stopped her.

She blinked rain from her lashes, jaw tight. “Don’t say that like it’s a promise. You said you loved me back then, too. Right before you left.”

“I had to leave.”

“You didn’t have to leave me.”

The rain picked up, drumming on the roof of the car, filling the silence.

Oscar took a step forward. “I never forgot you.”

“You keep saying that. Like it’s supposed to undo everything.” Her voice rose, frayed and full of ache. “You don’t get to show up now and act like I’m still yours.”

“But you are,” he said, helpless. “You always have been.”

Her breath hitched, too fast. Too shallow. She tried to speak but her chest was collapsing inward, ribs locking up like a vice. Her hands went to her knees, the gravel swaying underfoot.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Oscar knelt beside her, water pooling at their feet. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

She couldn’t. Not properly. Not through the panic or the pressure or the weight of everything she hadn’t let herself feel until today.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t-”

He didn’t touch her, just sat close, voice steady. “In. Out. Match me, alright?”

It took time. Too much of it. But eventually, the air found her again. Rushed in like it had been waiting on the edge. She sat back, soaked and shaking, and didn’t resist when Oscar put his jacket over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she said, small. “I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

He looked at her with something tender and broken. “You don’t have to hold it all together for me.”

Silence again. Then the kiss.

Raw, desperate, teeth and breath and rain. A collision, not a comfort. It didn’t build; it broke.

His hands tangled in her hair like he didn’t know how to let go. Hers fisted in his collar, dragging him down, as if closing the space between them might fill the chasm time had carved open. Their mouths met like a question without an answer, too late, too much, too soon.

It tasted like rain and salt and memory. He kissed her like he was drowning. She kissed him like she was trying to forget. And for a second, just one stolen, selfish second, it felt like maybe that was enough. But it wasn’t.

It could’ve been more. Maybe it was more. But it wasn’t peace. It wasn’t healing. It was fire, not warmth. Burn, not balm.

When they finally tore apart, breathless and shivering, it was with bruised mouths and glassy eyes, and the unmistakable sense that something had broken open between them, something fragile and vital that couldn’t be put back the same way.

He kept his forehead pressed to hers. Their breaths synced. Rain ran between them like blood from a split lip.

“I never stopped,” he said, barely a whisper. “Not for a second.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, really look at him. He looked wrecked. Beautiful and broken in a way that made her ache.

“I know,” she said. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t enough. She looked down at her hands, still trembling. “But we can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. Final.

They stood there for a long moment. Rain washing everything. The air between them thick with what-ifs and never-agains.

Then, slowly, she shrugged off his jacket and held it out to him like a flag of surrender.

He took it. Didn’t speak.

She turned. Walked toward the garage with shoulders squared and spine straight, as if leaving him again didn’t hurt this time. As if it didn’t kill her. Rain slicked her face, cleaned her of everything she didn’t say.

“Don’t go,” he said, voice cracking like thunder in the downpour.

She froze. Just for a second. Just enough for him to catch up.

“I need you,” he said, chest heaving, soaked through. “I need you, and it’s killing me, watching you walk away like I didn’t fight hard enough to stay.”

She didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

“I know I broke something,” he went on. “I know I left you when you needed me most. But I’m here now. I came back. That has to count for something.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “It does,” she whispered. “But not enough.”

“I love you,” he said. “I mean it, you know. I love you, and I’m yours. Forever. Every race, every podium, every win it is all for you”

She turned then. Slowly. Eyes full of grief, not doubt. “I believe you. But I had to grieve you like I grieved him. My dad. You left, and I lost both of you, one after the other, like the world was trying to prove I could survive it.”

He flinched like she’d hit him. Because she had. Just not with her hands.

“I might be able to forgive you someday,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I’ll never forget that I had to learn how to live without you. And I did.”

“I never wanted you to-”

“But I had to.” Her tears ran hot even under the cold rain. “And now I don’t know how to need you without remembering what it cost me.”

They stood there, hearts unravelling in the storm. Then she stepped back. And this time, when she turned away, she didn’t freeze. She didn’t falter.

And even though it tore through her like wreckage, she kept walking.

And this time, he let her go.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage door groaned on its runners as she forced it open, the sound slicing through the morning stillness like it didn’t belong. Dust motes swirled in the streaks of light pouring through the slats, dancing in the quiet. The air was thick with the scent of oil, old rubber, stale sweat, and grief.

She stood at the threshold for a long time. Just… stood. Then she dropped to her knees like the ground had been ripped out from under her.

The first sob tore through her like a jagged knife, raw and ragged, cutting through the silence with brutal force. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a desperate, guttural cry that ripped from deep inside, shaking her whole body. Another burst followed, violent and uncontrollable, wracking her ribs and twisting her insides until she couldn’t catch her breath.

Her hands clawed at the concrete beneath her, scraping at the cold, unforgiving floor as if she could gouge away the pain. Fingers curled tight into the frayed fabric of her hoodie, nails biting into skin, desperate for something real to hold onto.

She convulsed, shoulders trembling violently, chest heaving with sobs that tore at her throat and left her raw, broken, ragged, like a storm tearing through the last shreds of her control.

Her world had shattered.

Her dad was gone. Oscar was gone. And the garage, their garage, was still here.

That felt like the cruellest part.

Eventually, when her body stopped shaking, she sat back on her heels. Wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket. The floor was cold. The silence, colder.

She looked around.

Tools still hung on the pegboard in his careful, labelled rows. Coffee mug, “#1 Race Dad,” still perched on the workbench, crusted with forgotten dregs. The old tarp still half-covered the kart she’d helped him build when she was eleven.

Her chest ached. But she stood.

Slowly, she started tidying. Not because it needed to be clean, but because he would’ve wanted it that way. Bolts sorted into jars. Rags thrown out. The rolling stool finally fixed so it didn’t squeak when you moved.

She moved like a ghost, hands remembering what her heart couldn’t bear to think about. Like how her dad used to whistle off-key while tuning engines. Or how Oscar used to pop in unannounced, grease on his jaw, some half-eaten protein bar in his hand, asking if he could borrow the torque wrench again.

He never returned it. She found it, later, in a box of his old things. She kept it.

After a while, she climbed up on the workbench and pulled the tiny chain that turned on the old boxy TV in the corner. It buzzed to life like it was waking from a coma. She fiddled with the aerial until the image came through. Static. Then a track. Then him.

Oscar. His first F1 race.

Her breath caught in her throat as the commentators rattled off stats and history, as the camera cut to his face in the cockpit. He looked calm. Sharp. So far away.

She remembered that helmet. Remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor while her dad adjusted the chin strap and told him not to let his elbows flare too wide on exit. She remembered Oscar rolling his eyes and doing it anyway and winning.

The lights went out. The engines screamed. The race began. And she… smiled.

Through everything, through the hollow ache in her chest, through the blister of abandonment, through the mess of mourning and oil and dust, she smiled. Because he made it. Because they all did. Once.

She watched in silence as the laps ticked by.

Then the camera cut to the pit wall. A sea of engineers and race staff. And there, in the middle of it, an empty space.

That’s where her dad would’ve stood. Arms crossed. Headset on. Watching his boy.

She reached for the coffee mug on the bench, still half-covered in grease. Held it in both hands.

“Hope you’re watching,” she said quietly. “Because I am.”

And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel quite so empty.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The roar of engines and the bustle of the paddock were a world away from the cracked asphalt and peeling paint of that old garage. The smells had changed too, now a sharp blend of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and polished carbon fibre. It was a different kind of chaos, one polished and precise, but it still made her heartbeat faster.

She moved with a confident grace beneath the towering garages and sprawling hospitality tents, every bolt tightened, every engine checked, every system calibrated. She was no longer the girl who’d broken down on a cold concrete floor, drowning in loss and anger. Now, she was a high-level mechanic for one of the top F1 teams, sharp-eyed and relentless, earning respect in a world that demanded nothing less.

Oscar watched her from the edge of the paddock, the crowd and noise a blur around him. He saw the way she worked, the focused intensity, the flicker of fire in her eyes when the car was ready to roar back to life. She was in her element. Unstoppable.

He remembered the words her dad had once told her, the way they echoed through his own mind now:

“Don’t let this place trap you.” “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She had taken those words to heart. She had carved out her own path, far from the ghosts of their past and the silence left behind in that faded garage. It was both a relief and a sting to see her moving on.

Oscar let out a slow breath, the weight of years pressing down on him. He still held on to a sliver of hope, fragile but persistent, that maybe, someday, she’d come back. Not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. That maybe, after all the pain and distance, there might still be a place for him in her story.

But for now, he watched quietly, proud and aching, knowing that her future was hers alone to claim

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The late summer sun hung low above the track, casting long golden streaks over the tarmac and shimmering off the car’s metalwork. She was crouched by the front wing, grease smudged on her cheek, sleeves rolled to the elbows, completely focused. Her fingers moved confidently, coaxing bolts into place like she was born doing it.

Her dad stood on the overlook, arms crossed, a proud shadow cast behind him. He was pretending to be checking the line through Turn Three, but really, he was watching her.

Oscar came up beside him, hands in his pockets, pretending to watch the track too. They stood in silence for a moment, two generations of men who loved her, in different ways.

“She’s got your stubbornness, you know,” Oscar said, nudging her dad lightly.

Her dad huffed a short laugh. “Poor girl.”

Oscar hesitated. “I’m gonna marry her someday.”

Her dad raised a brow, but didn’t turn.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

Oscar looked down at her, her hair pulled back messily, singing quietly to herself as she worked, utterly in her element.

“Yeah,” he said, simple and firm. “I love her.”

A beat passed.

“She’ll make you work for it.”

Oscar smiled. “I know.”

Below them, she called up, “You two done brooding? Car’s not gonna fix itself.”

Her dad chuckled, then started down toward her. Oscar followed, jogging to catch up.

When they reached her, she stood and wiped her hands on a rag, one brow raised like she already knew they’d been talking about her. Her dad pulled her into a side hug, planting a kiss on the crown of her head, arm strong around her shoulders.

And as she leaned into the embrace, Oscar reached for her hand.

She didn’t hesitate. Their fingers twined together, warm and sure.

And in that moment, with her dad’s arm around her, Oscar’s hand in hers, and the sun dipping behind the track, it felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

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metranart · 1 year ago

Text

"(Y/N), you've been in there for over forty minutes," you heard Gojo state from the other side of the door, "and the shadow under the door tells me that you're still in this world," the chuckle from Geto furrowed your eyebrows, "—maybe you should let us give you a hand."

ft. Gojo & Geto x reader, All sorcerer's x reader, Toji x reader. Isekai where you are transported into jjk universe and your way back to your world is cumming.... poor little, shy reader.

JJK Men X Reader (Isekai Shameless smut teaser)

It had been a hard day at the office, your work was sometimes too boring and tedious, and although at twenty-something you should be going out since it was Friday night, you preferred to ignore the text messages from your friends and go back to relax in your apartment with a nice bubble bath, your favorite anime, Jujutsu Kaisen, a pint of your favorite ice-cream and a bottle of delicious wine.

The sky roared in the distance with the threat of a storm, and the smell of rain invaded your nostrils, it tended to be so relaxing to sleep with the sound of the rain around you. Every second that passed your evening got better and better.

Taking your favorite bath salts, you opened the bathroom window to place a scented candle in the rim. Your apartment was not a big deal, but you adored it, it had the right spaces and somehow always made you feel as if all the rooms were connected. Allowing you to take a bubble bath and watch TV from the living room at the same time.

Wrapping yourself in a soft towel, you took a large rubber toy – your sister’s latest Christmas gift– and danced into the living room taking the remote, the pint of ice-cream and a spoon and an expensive glass from the kitchen along with a freshly open bottle of red wine. You carefully placed all on the small table by the tub and shed from the towel immersing your leg in the water to test the temperature –perfect– diving fully, enjoyed the heat on your skin for a few minutes before opening your eyes and set to play a Jujutsu Kaisen episode.

Taking the remote, lazily began to switch between the episodes, season one was great but season two had a charm that you couldn’t deny. You had loved it, it had made your eyes drip more than once, Gojo and Geto were your favorites, and Toji and Nanami... Ugh! It was unfortunate that many of these had died in the series and that was why in your mind you imagined it differently.

In your mind it was a utopia. Geto didn't die or turn evil but instead became a teacher along with Gojo. Toji did not die but made a truce with the Zenin Clan to take care of Megumi. Nanami didn't die— NO ONE died! Even so, the rest of the story remained the same and that's how you liked to imagine it.

Playing one random episode, you returned your attention to the ice cream and wine, the storm was already here. Thunders interrupted the peace from time to time and droplets of rain hit the window harmonically, the voices of Gojo and Geto coming from the TV helped your imagination fly, and your hand went for your rubber friend.

Your fingers slid under the hot, bubbling water until they reached your warm center where they delved between your folds and began to caress, your ears paying special attention to Gojo and Geto’s voices as slowly started to pump, in and out, it wasn’t enough and your rubber friend joined the party, slipping inside you with a single thrust. Thunder interrupting from time to time, as your imagination did its trick.

Slowly, your moans began to gain volume, but still were drowned out by the storm around you. Perfect, that way you wouldn’t have to worry about the neighbors. You accelerated enthusiastically, and your thumb pressed over your clit. Fuck! You were close, and closer and closer…. And suddenly Gojo was laughing, and that bubbly sound makes it for you. Now, you were coming, hard and glorious. The excitement making you lose your balance, as a loud and magnificently, thunder roared and sparked the night sky, at the same time, your frame spasmed while cumming.

Your body submerged under the hot water, and you felt as if were sinking into the sea, the water covered you completely for a moment too long and the need for oxygen catapulted you out, grabbing frantically to the edge of the tub, gasping and heaving, in a combination of post-orgasm and suffocation. Hanging from the porcelain, unable to refocus your eyes, you were still seeing white, stars behind your eyelids when you heard Suguru Geto's voice again.

“Satoru, why did you call me if you had a girl in the bathtub, you perv?”

You didn't remember those dialogues, what episode were you watching?

“A girl in the bathtub?” Now you heard Satoru Gojo's voice reply in confusion, “I think I’ll know if I had a girl in the tub—”

A flash of lightning interrupted his sassy comeback and finally your eyes focused again, your center continued to palpitate in pleasure and for a moment, you thought you were in a wet dream, because Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto were standing in front of you—In person! In the flesh! Were you dreaming? Had you drowned and this was heaven?

“……Hello, t-there….” Gojo spelled, dumbfounded, mouth hanging open “…. pretty girl….in my tub?” he drawled, like trying to make sense to the vision in front, “—not that I’m complaining but….” He took a few, slow steps closer and you could only stare, “….h-how? - how did you get in here?”

You couldn't believe your eyes, how could this be!? You looked around and noticed that you weren't in your apartment. This wasn't your tub, nothing was familiar, except for the storm outside.

“—So, you didn't invite her?” Geto asked an astonished Satoru, who shook his head before spelled, “—if I had invited her…. I assure you. YOU wouldn't be here.”

Geto snickered a little under his breath, his eyes never straying from you, analyzing you in detail while bikering about the current event, Gojo’s gaze followed his example.

Neither of them looked relaxed as they would have you believe, both seemed tense, fists clenched, pupils dilated, breathing accelerated, eyes unable to focus on anything other than you….

“—Then let's ask her,” Satoru ranted, interrupting the discussion and taking a couple of measured steps towards you, crouched down to be at eye level, you hugged your naked body, and he softened his tone before asking. “Who sent you here? The higher-ups? a clan? some sect?”

Gojo was waiting for your answer, and you had no idea what to say, how could you explain to them that they were the characters of an anime series. While they were arguing you did some thinking, and the only thing that came to your mind was the possibility of having been transported to the Jujutsu Kaisen world, maybe something related to the storm… or something like that?! You had no idea, but this certainly wasn't your world—… but it wasn't the normal anime timeline either… Suguru should be Kenjaku, right?

“…. Kenjaku?” You tried, looking at Suguru and he raised a thin eyebrow. Gojo glanced at him over his shoulder and the black-haired shook his head at him.

“Kenjaku?” Satoru repeated, quizzically. “Who is Kenjaku, darling? Is he the one who sent you?” his hand landed on the rim of the bathtub, “or… is he the one you are running from?”

Fuck! This was a problem, not only had you changed worlds, but you had changed to a Jujutsu Kaisen timeline that you couldn't even predict. This was freaking canon; this couldn't be happening—

“Hey, calm down, everything’s fine. We are not going to hurt you.” Gojo reassured, taking his hand away from the rim of the bathtub to raise both hands in mock surrender wearing a soft, lingering grin on his lips.

Your distress must have shown on your features and Gojo softened his voice even more, “why don't you start by telling us your name,” he smiled warmly this time, and your heart skipped a beat, “…. shit—you are damn cute…” he found himself whispering under his breath, and coming to his senses, added louder. “I-I'm sure it's a pretty name.”

Geto stared down at his best friend for a long moment and out of the blue, left the bathroom, and the two were left alone.

Satoru Gojo's blue eyes were no joke, they were piercing, enthralling and so unbelievable pretty, that you had to force yourself out of the trance to reply.

“…….. (Y/N).”

“(Y/N),” he tasted how your name rolled down his tongue and grinned even wider, “I knew it would be a beautiful name…. so fitting—”

“—Let’s get you out of there, shall we?”

Geto returned quicker than anticipated, with a large towel hanging from his arm, and instead of offering it to you, he stepped closer, stopping in front of the tub next to Satoru where waited for you to come out. Your gazes crossing for a long, greedy second before he turned around.

“Come on, we won't look...” he asserted and giving Satoru a little kick for him to get up, “turn around, Toru, so she can get out.”

Satoru stood and then spined on his heels, both facing the other way while Geto held the towel for you to wrap yourself in. The sound of water rattling and drops splashing on the floor let them know that you had trusted them. You wrapped yourself in the soft, warm material and it was when you tried to pull it further that you noticed that Suguru wasn’t planning on letting go, but instead, turned around, your eyes met his chest from the height difference and in a very unexpected motion, the sorcerer collected you in his arms, bridal style.

"I heated the towel in the dryer," he informed you as he walked out of the bathroom followed by the white-haired prodigy, "-I didn't want you to get cold."

You muttered a weak. “T-Thanks,” and you reduced to let him carry you out.

Satoru raised both eyebrows— Going to such trouble for a stranger, Suguru was kind but... was he that kind?

Something was odd. It wasn't just your sudden naked appearance in his bathtub, but also that cozy feeling that had his heart beating a thousand per second, his hands sweating, his stare strapped to you, cheeks warm as if in a fever, skin crawling due to the mere sound of your voice, and that unsettling and equally mesmerizing, thrill.

Satoru Gojo was experiencing a strange and unusual pang of possessiveness that forced him to—

"Dress in one of my shirts," he demanded, in a high-pitched tone, "It’ll surely dwarf you-...since you're so small-"

"Pocket size..." Geto noted, still holding you against his broad chest. The bathroom where you appeared was connected to Satoru’s bedroom, so the bed was the best place to set you…. nevertheless, that didn’t follow through. Suguru Geto had sat on the bed but had not released you, instead had placed you on his lap like a child being dried by his devoted mother.

“I don't want you to get sick,” he claimed when notice you staring, “so I might as well do it.” He claimed with a soft grin, using the extra-large towel to dry you thoroughly.

The grin on his lips felt terribly engrossed like if charmed, sending a festival of goosebumps all over your vulnerable, naked form. You had to look away, and he chuckled. Satoru quickly searched through his drawers to hand you a white t-shirt, “Here! Try this one."

Hesitantly accepting the shirt, your cheeks filled with blood when you noticed that the two of them just wouldn’t quit looking at you.

"I can do it myself," you announced.

"I bet so... but I'm afraid we can't leave you alone," Geto assured, and Gojo seconded him, "we'll turn around to give you some privacy, but we can't leave the room."

You nodded with some reluctance and Geto slipped out from under you to stand next to Satoru and turn his back to you.

After a moment, they both heard the wet towel fall to the floor and the shiver that ran through them was inevitable— what the hell was wrong with them?! why were you so damn irresistible.... they only needed to share one look, for their bestie telepathy to work and quickly realize, both were feeling the same pull.

Satoru peeked to the side a little and Suguru immediately held him by the jaw with a firm grip. "...Don't even think about it, Toru."

The white haired merely shrugged amused, and waited for you to finish.

Satoru's shirt was indeed huge on you, covering up to the middle of your thighs. The rain had stopped and now the moon shone big in the starry sky. You looked out the window and were surprised by how similar both worlds were.

"—How am I going to get back home?"

"Where is home?"

Satoru's voice so close startled you and he was quick to apologize with a chuckle. He walked backward never losing you from his sight and carelessly drop on a nearby couch. Geto soberly sat on the bed, and both flanked you, the only exit a door that you had no idea where it would take you. You sighed heavily.

"This is not my world," you announced firmly, and they both listened attentively, you spinned on your heels to face them, hugging your body. "I know it sounds crazy, but this is not my universe," maybe you were going to leave out the fact that they were characters from an anime, "I belong to another universe where there are no curses, no cursed energy, no sorcerers-"

"-But you still know every term of this world..." Satoru intervened. "Better said 'Secret terms'," Geto added, "-how do you know what cursed energy or curses are?" he inquired, shifting his weight to rest his elbows on his knees, "...... not even a civilian of this world knows that, only those trained in the Jujutsu world."

You felt a lump in your throat. “I-I…. your world is…… a fairytale in mine….” Dammit! that was the best way you could explain it, in so little time. Both sorcerers shared a look. “I know everything about you guys. Even the most intimate details, I mean—”

“How old am I?” Satoru questioned.

“28.”

"When is my birthday?"

"December 7th."

“And Suguru’s?”

“27 years old, his birthday is February 3, you both went to Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical School with Shoko Leiri, Nanami Kento and Yu Haibara,” With each piece of information you released, their skepticism decreased, either you were telling the truth, or you were the best trained spy in history. “Your teacher and current Headmaster is called Masamichi Yaga. You have a sweet tooth, Satoru and Suguru prefers Zaru Soba, Satoru hates alcohol—”

“Okay…” It was Geto who interrupted you, “Let's say that-…let's say we believe you.” He did not seem very convinced of his statement but still continued, “…. I assume your goal is to return to your world?”

He asked and Satoru pursed his lips.

"Would be ideal."

The conversation continued for a few hours, and the excitement of being in the presence of Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto slowly dissipated as you realized that you were trapped in a world where curses ate people or killed them mercilessly. This world had its pros and cons and without cursed energy, the cons outweighed… unless-

“—How do you know if you have cursed energy?”

You were curled up, hugging your legs to your chest while resting against the headboard of the bed, Gojo was lying lengthwise at the end and Geto pacing side to side.

“Do you see curses?” Gojo questioned and you shrugged.

“We can test it out when we take you to the school,” Suguru advised, “so we'll know for sure.”

“Sounds good…. Well, does anyone have any progress on the plan to return me to my world?”

They both pouted their lips and Satoru began to ramble about various ideas, some comical, some too complicated but all really aimed to make you laugh and relax.

“—I seriously doubt that is even legal in any world.” You chuckled and the white-haired grinned pleased while lying on his back, loving the bubbly sound of your cute laugh.

Suguru gave him a playful smack to then sat on the edge of the bed. “Cursed energy leaks from the human body, accumulates, and ferments over time until a cursed spirit manifests.” He explained like a teacher. “This is only the case with non-sorcerers, as sorcerers we are trained to control and channel our cursed energy into jujutsu. Cursed energy becoming our primary power source.”

“Meaning?” Satoru pressed in a bored tone.

“Something akin to the creation of a curse could have happened on her plane," he mused, "...some intense feeling coming from her could have catapulted it... you mentioned that you were taking a bubble bath before being transported here," Suguru held his chin, "maybe you were doing something else while taking the bath?" he wondered, glancing at you from the rim of his shoulder. "Perhaps, something enticing?"

“…Nothing out of the ordinary just a relaxing bath in the tub, with a glass of wine and—”

You stopped your story at once and they both looked at you strangely.

“If you hide information from us, we will not be able to help you.” Suguru stressed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Whatever it is, we won't judge you,” Satoru insisted, “…we're just trying to help you.”

You bit your lip, not wanting to confess that you had been masturbating while listening to their voices from the episode on TV. This was information you would prefer to keep till your dying day.

“N-Nothing, I was just bathing…. I don’t know what else I could be doing-….”

“Masturbating?” Satoru clarified and your face turned beat red.

“We found your…. toy,” Geto confessed, scratching the back of his head, awkwardly. “It was at the bottom of the tub. It seems that dildos are an element that our two worlds share.”

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole, you hid your heated face behind your hands, and could hear their dissimulated chuckles before a stream of encouraging comments began, but no matter how hard they tried, were only making you feel more embarrassed.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, (Y/N)." Gojo kept going, "a lot of girls can't reach orgasm with just their fingers..." Suguru face-palmed but Gojo ignored him, "it takes a special technique, long thick fingers," you curled up further into yourself feeling awfully dizzy, "your little fingers can’t reach the right places,” he pointed out and smashing his closed fist on his palm enthusiastically, beamed, “unless you massage the clit exclusively, that way-"

You heard Gojo choke on his next words and thanks to your position couldn't see Geto smothering him with a pillow as he shot daggers through his eyes. "Thank you for the extensive and highly unnecessary explanation, Satoru-"

Satoru and Suguru began to quarrel like when they were young.

"Unnecessary?” Gojo gasped, feigning be offended, “—I was getting to the point before you interrupted me, Suguru,” he complained, “I think that might be our way to go” quickly added, ".... orgasm is a strong sensation which the body and mind can easily confuse with the feeling of euphoria, if we recreate the event maybe we can return her to her world."

OH MY! Could this be a dream!? You pinch your arm, but nothing happened.

There was a dead silence that prolonged and eventually you peeked through your fingers. They were both looking at you, waiting.

Capturing a lock of hair between your fingers, nervously twirled it to then gulp some spit and a so needed mouthful of air, before saying with burning cheeks. "It-It's worth a try."

No matter how hard you tried, the toy that had traveled with you from another universe refused to start, and you found yourself in the painful need to use your fingers. Satoru had not been wrong in his verdict, it was true that you could not reach orgasm just using your fingers... you were too impatient to hunt for the sensation, too inexperienced to know where to touch exactly and immensely shy to ever ask for some external help that would aid you in your homework. So, there you were, locked in Satoru Gojo's bathroom, playing the strings but not getting the glorious notes.

Knock! Knock! knock!

It was the third time they interrupted you.

You flung open the door and to your surprise, Gojo didn't even flinch. Almost as if he had been anxiously waiting for you to give up on your efforts and beg for his support.

"-Are you suggesting that I let two strangers jack me off in order to return to my world?"

Those were the last words you thought you would ever say.

Geto hid an amused smirk behind his hand, but Satoru was more brazen, and his smirk didn't shy away.

“We're not strangers, (Y/N),” Satoru said very confidently, gently putting a strand of your hair behind your ear, “you know us better than we know ourselves, don't she, Geto?”

"I had already forgotten how much I like Zaru Soba," Geto commented from his spot on the bed, broad back leaning against the headboard as he munched away an instant Zaru soba soup that he found in Satoru's pantry "-I am immensely grateful to you for reminding me, pretty."

"See," Gojo bit down a laugh that would surely only help to get you madder, "we're not strangers, besides it's not like you have any other options, do ya?"

You pouted your lips and your brow wrinkled, to what Satoru's invasive thumb quickly smooth it out gently, sliding motion that felt way too lovingly as it went up and down your skin. His face now inches from yours.

"Let us help you," his minty breath caressed the tip of your nose, and you felt a shiver run down your spine, "you didn't appear in my bathtub by accident," maybe it had something to do with the fact that you were masturbating while listening to their voices but that was classified information that they would only get out of you with torture, "...as we see it, we are in charge of you until we can return you to your world," Satoru straightened up and wrapping your wrist in his big palm began to guide you towards the bed until the back of your calves bumped with the mattress, "-so, our mission is to help you in any way possible."

There was something extremely captivating in the sweetly way in which he was looking at you, and glancing at Geto, you recognized this same warmness reflected in his raven eyes. Would it be possible for them to find you attractive? Or to find you as irresistible as you found them…

"Will you allow us to take care of you, little one?"

*READ THE 9000 WORD COMISSION IN MY PATREON. (Includes lots of smut content and NSFW art from scenes of the fic. Plus, lot of JJK NSFW content)

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thevoicefromanotherworld · 16 days ago

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Could you write a fic with Sonny where the reader is the only female driver and she gets hurt bad in a race !

"NOT ON MY WATCH, DARLING"

Hi anon! ofc I can! I love this request sooo much omg!

Here's the fic, I hope you like it! 😊🖤☝

The Losail circuit in Qatar was a web of twists and turns that tested even the most experienced drivers.

That day, representing the APX team, you and Hayes were ready to put on your driving suits and hit the track to burn some rubber.

You were the only female driver on the track, but far from making you uncomfortable or nervous, that gave you the strength to keep going.

The support you received from everyone was exceptional, but the person you felt most connected to was him.

Sonny watched you out of the corner of his eye as you zipped up your suit, feeling very proud of you and what you had become: a true F1 driver, with whom he loved teaming up.

Joshua was retired due to an injury he sustained in the last race, so when they brought you in as a backup and Sonny met you, he couldn't have been happier.

Every time you entered the workshop, you lit up everything with your presence, an effect he wasn't entirely sure you knew you were causing.

"Okay, guys, everything's ready," the technical director announced. "Get in the cars and let me know if anything goes wrong before the race starts."

"That's what we'll do, thanks, Joyce." You smiled as she left again behind the screens in the technical area.

You grabbed your helmet and took a few deep breaths, an action that didn't go unnoticed by your teammate, who came over to support you as he always did.

"Hey," he whispered gently. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's just… this track," you murmured. "It's worrying me, you know?" – you sighed – I know the wing will work and I know that in the pits they have the necessary tires prepared for each lap, but… I don't know, I have a feeling that something is not going to go well

“If you say this before the race, you're dooming something to really happen,” he replied, looking at you firmly. “Nothing will happen. I'll be with you on the track a few positions behind, I hope,” he joked, making you smile slightly. “We'll use the C3s to start,” he reminded you. “They'll adapt to the terrain and we won't have to worry about them wearing out until the third or fourth lap.” His clear eyes looked into yours. “Everything will be fine, I promise”

“Thanks, Sonny, for everything,” you whispered. He winked at you before getting into his car.

Once you were inside the vehicle, the noise from outside disappeared for a few moments before the technical director's voice filled your mind through the headphones inside your helmet.

You watched as the red lights lit up and began to dim slowly, until there were none left.

Then you pressed the accelerator and let your awareness shift from you to the car, as it always did when you got behind the wheel.

When you were driving, it was just you and the car; the rest of the world didn't matter for a few seconds… until you saw the other drivers in front of you and to the sides trying to pass you.

"You'll reach the first corner in three minutes," Joyce announced through the communicator. "Take it easy."

That's what you did.

You watched as Sonny overtook Leclerc and moved into fifth place, not bad for the first lap.

You swerved to the right when you saw Alonso trying to pass you, which you didn't allow.

You continued to hold that position until the end of the first lap.

At the start of the second lap, you let the Spanish driver overtake you, giving him false hope, as moments later you did the same, placing yourself in front of him.

You were now eighth in the standings.

"Distance to first place?" you asked, the answer coming quickly. "20 meters," the technical director announced. "Your tires are already warm. Can you…"

"I know," you interrupted more abruptly than you had planned. "I'm waiting for the right moment"

As if fate had heard you, Norris pulled into the pits at that moment to repair his worn tires, which gave you enough of an advantage to overtake him and take his position.

"If I keep going at this pace, I'll soon be back in the lead," you commented excitedly. "How is…?"

You didn't have time to finish your sentence.

A hard blow against the side of your car made you lose consciousness.

The vehicle was thrown across the track, causing your body to fling itself sideways, limply, like a rag doll.

"Joyce, what happened? I heard a crash," Sonny demanded over the communicator. "Joyce!"

"It's Y/N," she murmured, shocked by what she was seeing. "Her car… she… she's…"

"Fuck!" she cursed, pulling off the track to park her car on the stones that formed the shoulder.

He quickly took off his helmet and, ignoring the fatigue and the heat, ran to where the safety car and ambulance were.

The flames covered everything, so he couldn't see you or know how you were.

He panicked, as he started to think about what he'd done wrong.

Then he realized you wouldn't have wanted him to do that, and that was what made him react.

"Let me through!" he blurted out, pushing his way through the crowd.

"Sir, we can't let you past this point," said one of the medics who had gotten out of the ambulance. "It's not safe."

"With all due respect, beautiful, I don't give a shit" she growled, pointing at the burning car behind her. "My colleague was inside! I… I have to…"

"Your colleague is alive," the medic murmured. "She's unconscious and has suffered second- and third-degree burns, but with proper care, she'll be able to drive again in a couple of months."

"Do you mean she's going to recover?" The girl nodded. "Can I see her?"

"I'll tell the ambulance crew to let you go with her to the hospital."

"Thank you," he whispered, following her to the vehicle.

When he sat down next to you and saw you lying on the stretcher like that, he almost burst into tears.

The skin on your knees and arms was badly burned, as the temperature of the fire was so high it had melted your suit, even though you'd been prepared for it

He held your hand in his, hoping that even if you weren't conscious, you could feel his presence beside you.

You slowly opened your eyes, and Hayes sat forward, entering your field of vision.

"Sonny…" you gasped with difficulty

"I know how much you like to talk, but it's best if you don't right now," he blurted out. You gave a weak smile.

"What happened?"

"You've had an accident," Sonny replied, speaking as gently as he could. "But it's okay," he whispered, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Am I going to die?" you questioned, since, given the pain you were feeling all over your body, it seemed like you didn't have much time left.

"Not on my watch" he murmured with a smile.

"Of course, because you're like my guardian angel, right?"

"Right," he whispered, smiling. "We'll be at the hospital in a few minutes. Until then, it's best if you get some sleep"

"Sonny?"

"Yes darling?"

"Thank you for being here with me" you whispered. "You didn't have to be here"

"Of course I had to, you're my partner," he murmured. "I'd do anything for you"

"Then don't go, please," you murmured, swallowing hard. "I don't want to be alone"

"I'm not going anywhere" he assured her, holding your hand tightly in his, sealing that promise

#byvoice #writters on tumblr #writterscommunity #my fic writing #sonny hayes x reader #sonny hayes #brad pitt #f1 the movie

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finorchem · 1 year ago

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justlemmeadoreyou · 1 year ago

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intertwined* (hockey player!harry x figure skater!y/n)

summary: harry practices at the local ice rink every night, but lately, all he can think about is a specific figure skater that he admires from a distance. when she asks him for some "private" lessons on ice, will they give in to the stolen glances and undeniable tension?

words: 6k

warnings: smut, fluff. p in v sex (on the ice rink 🤭), kissing, dirty talk, cursing, creampie.

Harry tied the laces on his hockey skates tightly. His fingers were rough and calloused from years of practice. He could hear sounds coming from the rink - ice being scraped by skates, pucks hitting the boards, the coach's whistle. Harry gave his laces one final tug before grabbing his stick.

He paused for a moment, taking in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells. The chilly air made goosebumps form on his arms. The rink was like a second home to him. Hockey wasn't just a sport - it was a huge part of who he was.

"Harry! Get out here!" one of his teammates yelled from the rink. They had already started drills.

Harry grinned and headed out of the locker room. The cold air hit his face. He breathed it in deeply. The icy smell, the rubber pucks, the sweaty aroma - it all felt comforting to Harry. To others it might smell bad, but to him it smelled like the game he loved.

Harry stepped onto the ice and immediately relaxed. Gliding across the smooth surface, he fell in line with his teammates. They were doing intense drills - racing across the ice, passing pucks back and forth. Harry focused hard, practicing his puck handling, skating agility, and wrist shots.

"Keep it up, Styles! Work hard and you'll make it to the big leagues one day!" Coach Bradford yelled from the bench in his gravelly voice.

Motivated, Harry accelerated with a burst of speed. He weaved through cones and ripped slapshots on goal. By the end, he was drenched in sweat, hair matted to his forehead.

Finally, the coach's whistle blew, signaling the end of practice. Harry stayed out, picking up scattered pucks, while his teammates headed off the ice. Their skates dug trenches as they went.

"Coming for pints later, Styles?" one of the guys called out to him with a grin.

"Think I'll stay and get some more practice in," Harry replied, already lining up pucks.

His friend chuckled and shook his head. "Course you will, ya hockey nut!"

Harry smiled to himself as he readied his stance at the face-off circle. He took some calming breaths, then launched slapshot after slapshot. Hockey was his happy place.

Suddenly, the sound of classical music echoed through the rink. Harry looked up, distracted, and saw a figure gliding onto the ice. It was Y/N, looking like an ethereal vision in her shimmery white skating outfit.

Harry had seen Y/N around the rink before, but had never really paid attention. Now, he found himself utterly transfixed as she began gracefully spinning and leaping across the ice. Her every move was mesmerizing.

From his side of the rink, Harry gaped at Y/N in awe. He gripped his stick tightly as she performed effortless jumps and intricate spins. Her dance across the ice was like a carefully choreographed masterpiece.

Harry couldn't take his eyes off her. He watched, slack-jawed, as she launched herself into a triple lutz, rotating three times in the air before landing smoothly. Her practice was spellbinding.

Y/N finally caught Harry staring at her from across the way. A flush spread over her cheeks, obvious even from a distance. She looked surprised to have an audience.

The tension broke when a rogue puck trickled across the ice, coming to a stop by Y/N's skates. She glanced down at it, then back at Harry.

"S-Sorry, didn't mean to bother you," Harry called out, feeling sheepish.

But Y/N just gave him a shy smile that dazzled him. "No worries, the rink's for sharing."

And just like that, the Hockey stud and the figure skating beauty shared their first interaction and smiles across the expanse of frozen ice.

Over the next few nights, Harry intentionally stayed late after hockey practice. Sure enough, Y/N was always there too, gracefully practicing her routines to soaring instrumental music.

At first they kept their distance, staying on opposite sides of the rink. They exchanged polite hellos and "excuse me's" anytime they ventured close.

But Harry couldn't resist furtively watching Y/N whenever she attempted a jump or spin. The way she commanded the ice captivated him. Her movement was powerful yet delicate, athletic yet graceful.

For her part, Y/N tried not to overtly gape at Harry as he drilled his hockey skills. But it was difficult to ignore his intensity and ferocity as he powerfully strode across the ice, ripping slapshots or stickhandling between cones.

Little by little, over those next evenings together, Harry and Y/N started making small adjustments. They angled their practices closer and closer to the center of the rink. Neither commented on it, but some unseen force seemed to be drawing them in from opposite ends.

One night, as Y/N spun directly in front of where Harry prepped pucks, he gasped audibly. "Wow..."

Y/N looked up, making accidental eye contact. Their gazes locked and she couldn't help but give him a tiny, coy smile before whipping around seamlessly into her next spin sequence.

Mesmerized, Harry felt his heart thump in his chest. He knew firsthand how much work went into athletic excellence like Y/N's skating. But there was also an indescribable artistry to the way she moved in tune with the music. It was spellbinding.

Harry was shaken from his trance by a puck smacking his shinguards. "Earth to Styles! You still with us, mate?" one of his teammates chirped with a grin from the bench.

Embarrassed to be caught ogling, Harry just sheepishly rubbed his neck. Over the past week of sharing the rink with Y/N, he had definitely lost some focus during team practices.

He took a steadying breath and refocused on drills with renewed intensity. But even as he rejoined his linemates, he couldn't stop sneaking peeks through the corner of his eye at the lithe figure skater.

Later, just as the music crescendoed to a finish, Harry heard the distinct whisper of skates approaching him. He turned to find Y/N gliding to a stop nearby, cheeks delicately flushed from exertion and wispy hairs stuck to her neck with perspiration.

"You have really great puck control," she remarked shyly.

Harry's mouth went a little dry at her proximity and floral scent mixing with the icy air. "Th-thanks. And your skating is just...amazing."

Y/N let out a tinkling laugh at his flustered words. "Actually, I was going to ask if maybe you could give me some hockey tips sometime? It could really help with my edgework and connecting to the ice."

"Yeah, seriously? Of course!" Harry eagerly agreed before she even finished asking. He would've said yes to virtually any request to spend more time around this entrancing girl. "But uh, I should warn you...I'm a pretty intense coach," he added with a lopsided grin.

Y/N just playfully rolled her eyes. "I can definitely handle you."

She skated backwards a few strides, flashing him a brilliant smile that made his heart flutter. "So I'll see you out here again tomorrow night then...Coach?"

Harry nodded, unable to contain his own wide smile. "It's a date."

A strange new energy seemed to crackle between them in the cold rink air. Harry's gaze lingered on Y/N as she glided off elegantly, unable to tear his eyes away from the hypnotic sway of her hips beneath her gossamer skating skirt.

As soon as she disappeared into the locker room, Harry let out a long exhale he didn't realize he'd been holding. He felt completely bewitched by this girl - her beauty, her talent, her effortlessly disarming presence.

For years, hockey had been Harry's sole obsession, his all-consuming priority. But in this moment, he could feel another obsession taking hold - one with this sublime, mysterious figure skater who had seemingly materialized into his life.

Gathering up the scattered pucks, Harry definitely sensed that tomorrow's "hockey lesson" was bound to be interesting...

***

The next evening, Harry arrived at the rink extra early, feeling uncharacteristically anxious. His stomach was doing bizarre somersault twists - an unusual sensation for him before stepping out onto the ice. Normally the rink was his haven, the one place he felt most at home and at peace. But tonight, he was practically vibrating with nervous anticipation.

Harry had been distracted all day, struggling to focus during classes and his morning workout at the gym. Tonight's private "lesson" with Y/N kept replaying over and over in his mind like a maddeningly catchy song stuck on repeat. He couldn't quite put his finger on why the prospect of helping her with hockey drills made him so jittery. It's not like he'd never tutored teammates or younger players before.

But something about the thought of being alone on the ice with the lithe, beautiful figure skater sent Harry's heart fluttering in a way he'd never experienced. Usually so self-assured and confident, Harry was uncharacteristically self-conscious as he laced up his skates tonight. He fussed over making sure his wild chestnut hair didn't look too disheveled, and discreetly applied some of his musky cologne before leaving the locker room.

Stepping out onto the dimly-lit rink, Harry gave himself a little pep talk to quell his inexplicable nerves. "Come on, Styles, get it together. It's just a bloody skating lesson, for fuck's sake. You've been playing hockey since you could walk! What's there to be nervous about?"

But then his breath hitched as he spotted Y/N already out on the ice, gently coasting along with her arms hugged around herself. She seemed to almost glow in the soft lighting, a breathtaking vision in her sleek athletic attire that clung to every tantalizing curve. Her lithe form effortlessly flowed with each stride across the smooth ice.

Sensing she wasn't alone anymore, Y/N slowed to a stop and turned to face Harry with a shy smile. "Oh! Hey there, Coach. Shall we get started then?"

"Y-Yeah, of course! Let's do this," Harry replied with an overcompensating bravado, giving his head a little shake as if to dispel his nerves.

Y/N giggled at his awkward bravado, the tinkling sound making Harry's heart skip a beat. "Don't look so tense! It's just me."

Her teasing only made Harry feel more flustered as a smile tugged at his lips. "Exactly. It's...just you."

They both let those words hang there heavy between them for a moment, their eyes locked together across the wide ice. Then, as if through unspoken agreement, they simultaneously broke into laughter at their own silly tension.

"Right, okay then! Let's start with some basic stickhandling and power skating drills," Harry finally announced in his best "coaching" voice, scooping up a few pucks.

"Lead the way, Coach Styles!" Y/N gamely agreed with a grin.

For the next little while, some of Harry's nerves settled as he fell back into that familiar pattern of running drills, feeling assured and authoritative in his element. He put Y/N through a series of intense stickhandling routines - dribbling the puck between complicated cone patterns, making tight turns while handling the puck in circles, deking around obstacles with fast crossovers.

To her credit, Y/N worked diligently and didn't complain once, even when sweat began dampening her brow. Her exceptional skating prowess and coordination definitely helped her pick up hockey skills quickly. But the occasional fumbles and slips still drew some gentle teasing from Harry.

"Not quite, figure skater! You've got to keep your edges lower on crossovers," he tutted, flashing her a smirk as she wobbled slightly after messing up a pivot.

"Oh do forgive me, your Highness! Some of us don't have as much practice making aggressive cuts back and forth, you know!" she shot back with a laugh, planting her hands on her hips.

"No excuses, no excuses! How else are you gonna improve?" Harry quipped, skating lazy circles around Y/N while she caught her breath. His gaze kept drifting down to the sheen of sweat glistening along the graceful curve of her neck.

They fell into an easy back-and-forth banter, with Harry analyzing her form and gently course correcting when needed. For her part, Y/N chirped right back and seemed utterly unafraid to get a little sassy with her "coach."

At one point, after completing a rapid succession of puck handling sequences, Harry noticed a few loose strands of Y/N's hair had escaped her French braid to stick damply against her flushed face and neck. Before he could even really process the impulse, Harry found himself reaching out to gently brush the damp locks behind her ear.

Both of them froze at the sudden intimate gesture. Harry opened his mouth to quickly apologize for the overstep. But the words died in his throat when he glanced up and found Y/N gazing at him through hooded lids, her coy smile and flushed cheeks making his heart restart with a hard thud.

"I, uh...think you're ready to move on to some shooting drills now," Harry rasped in a low tone, reluctantly taking a step back and scooping up a few pucks.

They settled into the familiar rhythm of Harry rapidly feeding Y/N pucks while she whipped shot after shot towards the empty net. Her skating power and edgework were superb as she leaned into the lightning-fast wristers, putting her full body weight behind every blistering attempt on goal.

But as the drill progressed, Harry could see Y/N's form gradually getting sloppier as fatigue set in. Her shots lost some of their zip, her tight core beginning to hunch over. When one weak wrister fluttered harmlessly wide of the net, Harry blew his whistle to pause the action.

"Take a break for a minute, get some water," he urged in a tone much gentler than his usual coaching bark. Harry skated over to the bench and grabbed his own water bottle, downing a long pull. He watched Y/N do the same out of the corner of his eye as she bent over, those same wispy strands of hair falling to curtain her flushed face once more.

As she straightened back up, Harry felt his breath catch in his throat at the way Y/N's tight athletic top clung to her curves, damp with perspiration. He subconsciously licked his lips, feeling his mouth go dry with a sudden burst of dizzying arousal. Quickly looking away, Harry scrubbed a hand through his wild locks and cleared his throat roughly.

"Not bad at all for your first go with hockey drills. You've definitely got the fundamentals down pat."

Y/N shot him a radiant smile, seeming utterly unaware of the effect she was having on her coach as she smoothed back her sweaty hair. "Well, I do have an awfully good teacher pushing me hard."

"Don't sell yourself short," Harry countered, feeling his pulse spike at her playful flirtiness. He tried to keep his tone casual, but his voice still came out a bit lower and rougher than intended. "Your strong core, killer edges, and flexibility from skating give you a really solid base for hockey skills."

"Why Coach Styles, are you saying I have...a killer body?" she teased, enjoying how flustered she could make the supremely confident hockey stud.

Harry's jaw dropped open, her boldness utterly disarming him. "I-I, well I didn't...that's not exactly what I-"

But Y/N just giggled and skated backward, waving him off. "I'm just joking around! Let's keep going, yeah? But maybe take it a little easier since it's my first time handling your...stick."

She drew out the last two words with a salacious wink, throwing Harry completely off his game. His face reddened instantly, sputtering incoherently as an entirely different kind of tension suddenly clung thick in the air between them.

Seeming to realize she'd flustered her coach a bit too much, Y/N reigned in her playful teasing with an apologetic smile. "Too far?"

"No! No, it's...it's all good. Just caught me off guard is all," Harry said quickly, giving his head a little shake to clear it as a lopsided grin formed. Two could play at this flirtatious game. "Let's just say I'm happy to give you a few pointers on stick handling whenever you need it."

Y/N sent him an exaggerated wink, taking her position again. "Looking forward to it, Coach."

And just like that, the heavy undercurrent of sexual tension dissipated again as they refocused on their drills. But it was like a lingering spark had been lit between them, little flirty moments flickering to life occasionally as the practice session wore on.

At one point, Harry skated past closely behind Y/N to scoop up a rogue puck, making sure his firm chest brushed along her back ever-so-slightly. He definitely didn't miss the shiver that licked down her spine at the brief contact, even in the chill of the rink.

Another time, as he demonstrated a proper shooting stance with a high wrist shot, Y/N sidled up to his side. "Like this?" she murmured huskily, purposely pressing her lithe body flush against Harry's sculpted torso as she mimicked his firing motion.

Harry gulped thickly at their sudden intimate proximity, feeling his breath quicken. "Y-Yeah, just like that..." he rasped out, unable to tear his gaze from the delicate slope of Y/N's neck just inches away.

Oh, the smell of ice mixed with her intoxicating perfume, all he wanted to do was take a bite.

With a wicked grin, Y/N slowly extracted herself from Harry's personal space, leaving the poor guy almost dizzy and aching for her warmth again. This girl was going to be the death of him.

After nearly two hours of rigorous back-and-forth drilling, skating lap after lap across the rink, they were both finally drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. Y/N paused for a long pull from her water bottle before tossing it aside carelessly and gliding right up to Harry with a gleam in her eye.

"I've got one last request for my hockey tutor..." she said in a low, sultry tone as she drew closer and closer until the heat of her body mingled with Harry's.

He swallowed hard, feeling his heart thundering beneath his sweat-soaked jersey. "Y-Yeah? What's that?"

With a sly grin, Y/N reached out and boldly rucked up the hem of Harry's jersey until it bunched up beneath his armpits. Then she openly raked her heated gaze over every toned inch of his sculpted abdomen and chest now deliciously exposed.

"I want you to show me..." she purred in a low, gravelly tone, "how you celebrate after scoring a big goal."

Harry felt like all the air had been punched from his lungs as her words and blazing look washed over him. He stood there frozen, abdominal muscles twitching beneath her roaming eyes. When she slowly dragged her tongue across her plump lower lip, Harry was utterly undone.

In one swift motion, he grabbed Y/N by the hips and hauled her flush against his body as he crashed his lips onto hers in a searing, desperate kiss. She gasped in surprise against his hungry mouth before instantly melting into the embrace, her fingers fisting into his damp hair.

Their kisses were immediately messy and uncoordinated, all instinct and pent-up longing as they finally gave in to the thick tension that had slowly simmered during their private lesson. Harry angled his head, deepening their liplock as his hands gripped Y/N's lithe waist almost punishingly. She rolled her hips shamelessly against the unmistakable bulge in his athletic pants, earned a guttural groan from Harry.

"Fuck...you're going to be the death of me, you bloody tease," he growled against the sleek column of her throat as his lips blazed a hot trail across her overheated skin.

Y/N laughed breathlessly, the sound shooting straight to Harry's groin. "I'd say I'm sorry...but I'm really, really not."

Growling again at her cheekiness, Harry abruptly spun them both and shoved Y/N up against the dasher boards, pinning her there with his body as his large hands roamed greedily over her petite frame. Bunching up her sleek workout top, he leaned down to trail openmouthed kisses along the soft swell of her belly and up between the lace-capped valley of her breasts.

Y/N squirmed and writhed shamelessly against Harry, little whimpery pants escaping her bitten lips as his calloused hands roamed every inch of her overheated skin finally bared to his wandering touch. Threading her fingers through his wild hair, she tugged his mouth back up to hers for another messy clash of dueling tongues and harsh breaths.

"Harry..." she whined out between electrifying kisses. "I want...I need..."

"What, love? Tell me what you need," he rasped against the swell of her parted lips, hips rutting shamelessly against her core as he pinned her harder to the unforgiving boards.

She gazed up at him through heavy-lidded, lust-darkened eyes, chest heaving. In answer, Y/N boldly reached down and cupped the bulge tenting the front of Harry's pants. An audible groan punched out of him at her touch, his forehead thudding weakly against the brows by her head.

"Jesus...are you sure? Here on the rink like this?" he questioned, even as his hips grinded shamelessly into her exploring palm.

"I've never been more sure of anything," Y/N whispered urgently. She nipped at his kiss-swollen lower lip, peering back at him through dense lashes. "I want you so fucking badly right here, right now. Please, Harry...I need you inside me."

That was all the encouragement Harry needed before crashing his lips back to Y/N's in another messy, fiery kiss. One large hand slid around to cup her arse, grinding her core more firmly against the rigid length of him. She rewarded him with a broken whimper into his mouth.

With his free hand, Harry blindly tugged Y/N's leggings and knickers down in one impatient tug until they were a rumpled pool around her ankles. She quickly kicked them aside, spreading her thighs wantonly as Harry settled in the cradle of her hips.

They both groaned in unison as the their centres made contact, Harry's clothed length nestling snugly against Y/N's slick, molten heat. Reaching between their flush bodies, Y/N deftly freed Harry's straining cock to spring free from the confines of his pants. She traced the plump velvet head teasingly, drinking in Harry's desperate whine against her lips.

"Fuck me..." Harry panted, rutting shamelessly against her hand. "Y/N, please let me fuck you, baby."

That was all the encouragement she needed before guiding his broad tip to her entrance. They both cried out in unison as Harry bottomed out in one slick thrust forward, his thick cock fitting snugly inside her with a soft punch of air. The thick length prodded into her deliciously, kissing the back of her damp cervix. They stilled together for a wild heartbeat, trembling mouths and sweat-dampened foreheads pressed flush as they adjusted to the heady feeling of being so intimately connected.

Harry was the first to move, withdrawing his hips in a slow grind before slamming back home, driving a guttural moan from Y/N's parted lips. He set a punishing pace, his strong arms and thighs flexing with the effort of moving them both against the rigid boards. Y/N wrapped her toned legs high around his flexing hips, nails raking down his rigid back as he jackhammered into her welcoming body over and over.

“Oh fuck, Harry-just like that, like that, yeah–” Y/N moaned once more, grinding her hips against his pelvis, his cock twitching isnide her cunt at the sensation.

“Oh Jesus, you’re so damn hot, you know taht?” he panted into her mouth, their damp clothes sticking togtehr in a sweaty mess. But the way they made each other feel, it was all worth it.

They panted out harsh, shuddering breaths, slick skin slapping together obscenely in the silence of the empty rink. Y/N babbled out breathy moans and curses, struggling to muffle the loud echoes with her face buried in the sweaty curve of Harry's neck. She bit down on it occasionally, earning a groan from him as she paired it with desperate clenches around his length.

But her unraveling cries only spurred him on, his cock driving into her with rougher, more frantic strokes until they were both hovering right on the edge.

With a few more powerful snaps of his hips, Y/N’s back arched like a bow and screamed out her climax, creamy inner walls fluttering spastically around Harry's thick length. The sudden gripping contractions yanked Harry's own orgasm from him in hot bursts as he brokenly shouted out his release, teeth sinking into the supple juncture of Y/N's neck and shoulder, something he had been waiting to do since teh night they met.

They clung together in a sweaty, panting jumble of sated limbs, chests heaving as they slowly drifted back to earth. Little aftershocks still rippled through them both until finally Harry drew his head back, blissfully dazed as he gazed at the thoroughly rumpled and glowing girl in his arms.

"Well...I'd say you definitely scored one hell of a goal," Y/N panted out breathlessly after a moment, trying for a coy smile despite her wild disarray.

Harry tipped his head back and laughed, the sound bright and carefree as he peppered fresh kisses along Y/N's heated cheek and jaw. "Lucky shot, beautiful..."

They held each other for a long stretch, neither willing to break the intimate embrace just yet despite the chilled rink air now raising goosebumps across their sweat-slickened skin. Harry nuzzled deeper against Y/N's neck, breathing in her lingering floral scent heavily tinged with sweat and arousal.

Eventually though, Harry reluctantly eased Y/N's trembling legs back to the floor, steadying her with a firm arm around her waist. Looking around the dim rink with a lopsided smile, he gave a low chuckle at the state of complete disarray - sopping workout clothes, towels, and water bottles strewn everywhere around them, plus a naughty new addition of Y/N's lacy panties lying crumpled against the boards where their heated frenzied began.

Y/N looped her arms loosely around Harry's neck, her coy eyes sparkling with mirth as she gazed back at him adoringly. Harry leaned in again to capture her lips in a sensual, unhurried kiss, reveling in the taste and feel of her. When they finally broke apart again, he pressed his forehead to hers with a contented sigh.

"Fancy grabbing a pint with me when we're done cleaning up this unholy mess?" Harry murmured, pressing his forehead to Y/N's with a contented sigh. "I'll even let you order me around a bit more."

"Is that supposed to be an incentive?" Y/N countered with a throaty chuckle, lazily trailing her fingertips through the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. "Because I was rather enjoying calling the shots just now."

"Oh you cheeky minx," Harry growled playfully before surging in to capture her lips in another heated kiss. He walked them backwards until Y/N's back hit the boards again with a dull thud, caging her in with his body as his large hands roamed eagerly over her bare curves.

Y/N mewled softly into his ravenous mouth, welcoming the slide of his tongue stroking intimately against her own. Her limbs felt heavy and lax, muscles still tingling from the mind-blowing release mere minutes ago. But she could already feel a new ember of need beginning to stoke low in her belly as Harry's sweat-slicked skin glided feverishly against hers.

One of his big hands boldly slid down to cup her arse, hauling Y/N's pliant body flush to grind against the feel of his new arousall. She gasped at the electrifying friction, breaking their liplock on a broken whine.

"Harry...already? I can barely feel my legs!"

"Sorry love, what was that?" he rumbled right back, swirling his hips in a deliberate grind to drag his impressive length along her drenched folds. "Did you want me to stop?"

"No! God no, please don't stop," Y/N hurriedly corrected on a breathless keen as Harry sealed his mouth over her thundering pulse point. His other large hand boldly palmed her breast, callused thumb rasping over her peaked nipple until she shuddered.

"Good girl," he praised in a gravelly tone before biting down sharply on the tendon at the base of her throat.

Y/N jolted with a strangled cry at the tantalizing sting, her back bowing sharply away from the unforgiving barrier at her spine as her legs instinctively scissored wider around Harry's hips. Lust roared through her veins again, thick and heady as their slick skin slid together with the beginnings of a fervent grind.

Lips and teeth clashed in a heated duel once more, the rink filling with harsh pants and whines muffled against sweat-dampened skin. Harry was already throbbing and more than ready to bury himself back inside Y/N's snug, fluttering heat. But he purposefully held off, delighting in slowly winding them both into a lascivious frenzy with nothing but sinuous rolls of his hips and fervent caresses.

"Need you inside me," Y/N groaned at last, using her heels to dig into Harry's firm arse and pull him infinitesimally closer until his rigid length prodded against her drenched entrance. "Harry please, I can't wait anymore. Fuck me again, love."

He gave a gruff sound of approval at her shameless pleading, the authoritative command fueling his already ravenous lust into an outright inferno. Capturing her mouth in another seering kiss, Harry easily hitched Y/N's leg up over his hip before finally sheathing himself inside her with one powerful snap of his hips.

They both cried out in unison at the feeling of being so intimately reconnected, Y/N's sweet whimper swallowed by Harry's desperate groan. He set an immediately brutal pace, pulling nearly all the way out before pounding back in with punishing strokes, letting the delicious tension coil and crescendo.

Y/N's broken whimpers and moans filled the rink, echoing back at them from the vacant rafters as her petite frame was pinned and jolted by Harry's fervent tempos. One hand scrabbled at the abused boards behind her, trying in vain to find purchase as the other fisted and yanked wildly through Harry's sweat-dampened locks.

"Yes! Yesyesyes..." she babbled mindlessly on each jarring upstroke that grinded deliciously against that molten front wall of nerves. "Oh fuck, Harry...just like that, god yes!"

Harry only growled in response, using his bulk and powerful thighs to hammer into her molten core with somehow even more brutal strokes. His teeth found purchase on the feverish juncture of Y/N's neck and collar, sucking a blossom of arousal to the surface as his hips snapped forward in a punishing grind.

It went on that way, the only sounds filling the rink their harshly mingled cries and the thunderous squelch of flesh meeting slickly in an unforgiving, wild rut. As they spiraled ever higher towards their mutual crescendos, Harry and Y/N's movements turned almost frenzied and animalistic in their unbridled need.

With a few more piston thrusts of his hips, Y/N detonated first. Her eyes rolled back and mouth dropped open on a guttural, sobbing cry of rapture. Every muscle in her lithe body locked up in an archway of pure ecstasy, inner muscles fluttering as she fell over the sweet euphoric release, her stomach tingling with adoration as he looked at her like she was the oly woman in the world.

“Fuck me…” she giggled, but it was immediately transformed into a broken moan as his hips snapped into her quivering entrance once more, her back arching towards his mouth as he latched onto her swollen nipples once again.

His hips snapped inside her–once, twice, thrice–before he was spilling himself inside her, her warmth clinging to him like a comforting embrace that made both their hearts skip a beat.,

***

After their intense intimate encounter on the ice, Harry and Y/N took a few moments to catch their breath and bask in the afterglow. They held each other close, exchanging tender kisses and caresses as their rapidly beating hearts eventually began to settle.

Looking around at the state of disarray they had left the rink in - scattered equipment, towels, water bottles strewn about - Harry chuckled softly against Y/N's tousled hair. "I'd say we've properly christened this ice in a completely unholy way."

Y/N laughed lightly, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. Even amid the chill of the rink, she felt deliciously warm and content cocooned in Harry's strong embrace. "Well they do say no place is too sacred for certain activities."

"Cheeky thing, you are," Harry murmured affectionately, trailing his knuckles along the gentle curve of her flushed cheek. He dipped his head to capture her lips in another lingering kiss, savoring her taste and the feel of her body melting against his.

Eventually they knew they should disentangle and start cleaning up the rink before someone came across the incriminating scene of their tryst. With some reluctance, they separated just enough to hastily redress in their rumpled athletic wear.

As Y/N shimmied back into her leggings, she sent Harry a coy look from beneath her lashes. "So...did I pass my hockey training with flying colors then, Coach?"

Harry snorted at her playful quip, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I'd say you earned an A+ for effort...among other things," he replied with a lopsided smirk.

They fell into an easy back-and-forth banter as they straightened up the rink, tossing towels and equipment into haphazard piles. Every so often, their gazes would meet and linger with a lingering heated undercurrent simmering between them.

Once they had restored some semblance of order, Harry tossed his duffel over his shoulder and took Y/N's hand, lacing their fingers together. "C'mon, let me buy you that pint to celebrate your...excellent performance review."

"Mmm, I do love a good performance incentive program," Y/N quipped, falling into step beside Harry towards the exit.

An easy, companionable silence fell over them as they made their way out of the deserted rink and into the crisp night air. Stealing a glance at the beaming beauty beside him, Harry felt a contented calm settle over his usual manic hockey intensity.

He wasn't sure what this new...relationship?...with Y/N would hold. But in that moment, just reveling in her presence and their newfound intimacy, Harry found he didn't really care about the future. He was happy to just bask in the feeling of her hand in his and the memory of her cries of pleasure echoing through the rafters.

As they strolled along, their joined hands swung lightly between their bodies. Harry grinned to himself, already wondering if he could convince Y/N of a repeat "lesson" very soon...

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

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formulafanfics13 · 18 hours ago

Text

The Secret Girlfriend - Chapter 20

Masterlist

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

The air over Silverstone was thick with Sunday morning stillness and the threat of another downpour. The clouds were low and moody, the kind that always made photographers sigh and lighting techs pray, but it didn't matter. Not to Lily, anyway. She was too busy focusing on each careful crutch step, the soft click of rubber against tarmac, the weightless balance of keeping herself upright without falling on her arse in front of every engineer, media rep, and camera in a five-mile radius.

Lando walked just behind her, close enough that his hand kept brushing the small of her back like instinct. He carried her shoulder bag, her paddock pass, and every ounce of emotional patience in the building. His other hand reached forward to scan both their passes as they stepped past the turnstiles and into the beating heart of the paddock. Engines hummed low. Coffee cups clinked. Radios buzzed. The Sunday buzz was kicking in.

Then they rounded the corner.

And there, parked like a teenage valet outside a beach resort, sat Oscar Piastri. In a golf buggy. One arm slung dramatically over the wheel, sunglasses on despite the total lack of sun, and a smug little smirk plastered across his face like he'd been waiting for this moment all morning.

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. "What the fuck is this?"

Lily tilted her head, eyes narrowing at Oscar. "Why do you look like a 12-year-old going to prom?"

Oscar straightened up, pushed the sunglasses to his forehead like he was about to make an announcement. "Toto gave me the keys."

Lando raised a brow. "Toto gave you the keys."

Oscar nodded, smug. "Told me to make sure Lily has the best possible first race day experience. VIP vibes only. Golf cart included."

Lily stared, amused. "He gave you permission to drive me around?"

Oscar beamed. "I have a license."

Lando choked on a laugh. "You also nearly crashed into the catering tent yesterday."

"That was a gust of wind."

"It was a tray of croissants."

Lily stepped forward carefully, balancing on one foot and raising an eyebrow at the buggy. "Is this... safe?"

Oscar stood and offered his hand like he was inviting her to the Met Gala. "Ma'am, this is Formula 1. We've got safety down to an art."

Lando sighed, leaned forward and carefully helped Lily into the passenger seat, one hand steadying her cast, the other placing her crutches across her lap like she was royalty being armed for battle. She settled into the seat with a quiet sigh, tucking her bag in beside her and adjusting the hem of her dress over her good knee.

Lando climbed onto the backseat, tossing both their credentials and her sunglasses onto the dash. "This is gonna be chaos."

Oscar adjusted the mirror with exaggerated focus. "This is gonna be luxury."

He pulled away with the world's slowest acceleration. The golf buggy crawled forward at approximately the speed of a drunken snail. Lando immediately groaned. "Mate. What are you doing?"

Oscar didn't take his eyes off the imaginary road. "I'm being careful."

"You're being sedated."

"I don't want her to fall out."

"She's literally wearing a seatbelt."

"I don't want her to bounce."

Lando leaned forward, arms draped over the backrest, glaring. "She's a human woman, not a fucking water balloon."

Oscar shrugged, unmoved. "I'm aiming for a five-star Uber rating."

Lily, barely holding in a giggle, turned to Lando with a mock-serious expression. "He's trying his best."

"He's Oscar," Lando said dramatically, leaning back with a groan. "He's legally incapable of speed."

Oscar raised a hand without looking. "Insult the driver again and I'm taking you through the gravel."

Lily bit back a laugh as they passed a group of engineers outside the Aston Martin garage. A few of them turned and did double takes at the sight of Lily James, in papaya-orange leather, being chauffeured across the paddock by a grinning Oscar Piastri, with Lando Norris riding shotgun like he'd lost a bet.

"I feel like a fucking celebrity," Lily whispered, eyes dancing as a couple more cameras clicked.

"You are a celebrity," Lando muttered.

"Not like this."

"Everyone's looking at us."

"That's the point," Oscar said proudly. "You're the main character today."

"I was the main character yesterday."

Lando nodded. "And the day before."

"And every day before that," Lily added sweetly.

Oscar sighed. "Well today I'm the supporting comedic relief."

"And the designated driver," Lando quipped. "Like always."

Lily looked out at the gridlines of the paddock, the sky bruising overhead, the flash of team polos and lanyards and camera rigs. And she grinned.

Because she wasn't walking. She wasn't limping. She wasn't hiding behind sunglasses and painkillers and Lando's hoodie. She was being driven, like the most dangerous girl alive, like she mattered, by the softest boy in the slowest cart. And the boy she loved was right behind her, holding her bag like he'd always done, smirking through the chaos, ready for whatever came next.

Oscar turned the buggy toward McLaren hospitality, rounding the corner with a speed that felt like crawling in molasses. "Next stop: luxury," he said like a tour guide.

Lando shook his head. "Next stop: your driving test."

Oscar grinned. "I'll pass with flying colours."

Lily leaned her head against the seat and smiled. "This is already the best race day of my life."

McLaren hospitality was already alive with the low, electric buzz of race day by the time the buggy rolled up. Team staff moved with sharp intent, camera crews positioned themselves at vantage points, and the smell of fresh espresso and tyre rubber clung to the humid air like tension waiting to crack. But none of that mattered to Lily when Oscar, careful as ever, helped guide the golf buggy to a gentle stop right in front of the entrance.

Lando hopped off first, grabbing her crutches and bag like it was second nature now. He extended a hand toward her with the kind of quiet instinct that had once been born out of secrecy but now just lived in muscle memory. She took it. Let him help her down with ease, cast protected, balance steady, hair swept back under her McLaren cap.

Oscar moved around the front, grabbing the pass from the dashboard and swinging it back around his neck with a pleased smile. "Five-star trip. No potholes. No collisions."

"No speed either," Lando muttered, but the corner of his mouth curved as he slipped his hand around Lily's waist and ushered her inside.

They moved through the familiar glass doors into the cool, polished warmth of the hospitality space. The McLaren crew barely looked twice now, she was part of the furniture. The girl in the papaya jacket, the girl with the cast, the girl they all watched Lando look at like she'd invented oxygen. A few smiles, a couple of waves. Zak was already gone, somewhere deep in the race strategy meeting, but Andrea popped his head out of the engineering office just long enough to give them a warm smile and a quiet thumbs-up. He didn't even have to ask. He just pointed toward the driver suite.

Lando and Oscar helped her up the stairs slowly, Lando's palm pressed gently against her back again like she might fall through the floor. But they made it. No missteps. No awkward stumbles. And when the door to his driver's room clicked shut behind them, she exhaled softly like she hadn't let herself all morning.

He set her things down, adjusted the little pillow on the sofa and nodded toward it. "You okay to chill here for a bit?"

She sat with a grateful sigh, stretching out her good leg. "More than okay. Go do your thing."

Lando hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he said, "George messaged earlier. Carmen's going to pop over in a few minutes to keep you company. She's already on her way from Mercedes."

Lily raised a brow. "You guys really do treat me like I'm on babysitting watch."

Oscar was checking his reflection in the mirror, smoothing down a stray hair. "You are. And we're proud."

Lily laughed, leaning back. "Seriously. Go. I'm fine. I don't need a chaperone."

Lando crossed the room and kissed the top of her head. "You say that, but last time we left you alone, you ended up in a group chat cult."

"Worth it."

Oscar swung the door open dramatically. "Don't move. Carmen will be here any second."

"I'm literally in a cast."

"Exactly. Don't even breathe."

They left with a wave of papaya orange and smugness, and the door clicked softly behind them. But as they moved down the corridor, race suits zipped to their waists and data screens awaiting them in the debrief room, Oscar turned to Lando with a quick glance over his shoulder.

"I wasn't joking about visiting," he said, quieter now, more serious than usual. "If you guys don't mind, I'd love to come to Monaco sometime. Just... hang out. Bring my Lily."

Lando looked over, eyebrows raised, and then smiled. Really smiled. "Mate, you're always welcome. Seriously. Come whenever."

Oscar exhaled, relieved. "She's dying to meet yours. Keeps asking if it's weird to have two Lilys in the same team."

"Only weird if you mix them up mid-conversation."

Oscar grinned. "She's nervous. Thinks your Lily is, like, cool and untouchable and terrifying."

"She is," Lando agreed, laughing. "But she's also going to love her. And your Lily's got that quiet genius thing going for her. Mine's a chaotic icon with a vape and no filter. They'll balance each other out."

Oscar nodded as they reached the meeting room doors. "You got plans later this week?"

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. "Max's Fewtrell and Pietra are coming to stay Tuesday night. She's doing a shoot for Missus Swimwear on Monday, and they're crashing at ours after."

Oscar blinked. "Pietra. That's Max's girlfriend, right?"

"Yeah," Lando nodded. "And Thursday, Max asked if we'd do breakfast in Monaco. Said Kelly and Penelope will be there. Finally wants Lily to meet them."

Oscar grinned. "Should I fly in Wednesday, then?"

"You can fly in Tuesday if you want. Stay with us," Lando offered. "We'll get brunch Thursday and get kicked out of the café for being too loud."

Oscar smirked. "Deal. But I'm claiming the guest room with the balcony."

"You can have any room as long as you stop calling yourself her babysitter."

"No promises."

The doors swung open in front of them and the lights of the debrief room flickered to life. Engineers. Screens. Strategy. Lap data already glowing on monitors. But even in the quiet hum of race day focus, Lando felt it, that shift. That soft click of the world realigning.

His life was here. But hers was woven through it now. Even Oscar knew that.

The door to Lando's driver suite opened with that soft pneumatic whoosh, and Carmen stepped in like a breeze of well-curated calm. Her hair was tied back into a soft ponytail, Mercedes team lanyard bouncing against her chest, and she had that easy smile that made her instantly likeable, the kind of woman who knew the exact difference between small talk and sacred gossip.

Lily lit up immediately. "Hi!"

Carmen crossed the room and hugged her gently, careful of the cast and crutches tucked at Lily's side. "Hi, gorgeous. Look at you. Papaya looks good on you."

Lily grinned. "You too. How's Susie?"

Carmen sat beside her, adjusting her linen trousers. "She's not here today, unfortunately. F1 Academy stuff. I think she's in Geneva. Meetings all day but flyong back later this afternoon for the meal."

Lily nodded, sipping from the iced coffee Andrea had sent up earlier. "She's magic. I like her."

"She likes you too," Carmen replied easily, then added with a grin, "Oh, and Toto asked if Oscar picked you up in the buggy this morning."

Lily cackled immediately, hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my God, he did. And he drove like we were on cobbled roads with no suspension. I think we were overtaken by a man walking his dog."

Carmen laughed. "He's too polite to drive recklessly. He's scared of hurting you."

"I felt like a protected artefact," Lily said, leaning back. "I love him. But next time I'm driving."

"You'd kill him," Carmen said, then bumped her shoulder. "So? How are you feeling really?"

Lily tilted her head. "Honestly? Good. Lando's been... ridiculous. And being here's actually helped. Everyone's been so fucking nice it's unsettling."

Carmen smiled, nodding slowly. "You're going to change this place. I can already feel it."

The hour passed quickly. They chatted about everything and nothing, about fashion week, Carmen's uni days, the time George tried to cook risotto for her and nearly set fire to their Airbnb in Tuscany. They compared shoes, swapped perfume recommendations, and argued about the best type of oat milk. It was the kind of conversation that only happened when both people understood fame but didn't worship it. Just two women, finally colliding in a world full of boys and noise.

Then the door clicked open again. Lando walked in first, race suit peeled halfway down, fireproofs damp at the collar, curls slightly flattened by his helmet and still stuck in that intense post-debrief haze. But his eyes softened the second they landed on her.

He crossed the room in two steps and dropped onto the sofa beside her, one hand curling around her knee gently, the other tucking her hair back. "Hey," he murmured. "You okay?"

Lily smiled at him. "I'm good. Carmen's been keeping me company."

Oscar entered behind him, dropping his bottle of water onto the table with a thud. "Told you she wouldn't even notice we were gone."

"She did," Lily said, fake-pouting. "I missed you. A lot. I was so bored and alone and unloved."

Oscar rolled his eyes and grabbed one of the McLaren fleece blankets from the corner, throwing it dramatically over her lap like she was a princess and he was a servant. "There. You're pampered again."

Lando smirked, then turned back to Lily, his voice casual but warm. "Hey, so... quick heads up. Max and Pietra are staying at ours Monday night."

Lily raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"And Oscar's gonna fly in Tuesday, stay a few days," Lando continued. "Max wants us all to do breakfast Thursday with Kelly and Penelope. Says it's essential you meet them. Apparently P's a fan."

Lily flushed faintly, then nodded. "Thursday's perfect." Then she paused. Like her brain was buffering something in the background. She sighed.

Lando noticed immediately. "What?"

"The group's coming over Wednesday," Lily said. "For the night."

Lando groaned and let his head fall back against the cushion. "Oh fuck. Is it the last Wednesday of the month?"

She nodded, sheepish. "It's the full-moon dinner."

Oscar looked between them, intrigued and mildly terrified. "What group?"

Lily grinned. "My friends. You know. The ones that make Vogue editors panic. Kendall. Gigi. Barbara. Taylor. Bella. Maybe Jude. Depends if he's still in Spain."

Oscar blinked. "That's... a group."

"We do it every month. Dinner, drinks, themed outfits. Last time we did 'childhood trauma.'"

Lando winced. "They brought wigs. I had to leave halfway through."

"You cried laughing," Lily corrected.

"I cried because Kendall told your therapist my star sign."

"She guessed correctly."

Carmen was silently howling on the other sofa. Lily turned to Oscar with a soft smile. "It'll be chaotic. And loud. And possibly feral. But you can still stay if you want. You can have a guest room to yourself, I promise. We'll even hide your shoes so no one borrows them."

Oscar looked overwhelmed. But pleased. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Carmen laughed. "Oh God, you've already been adopted."

"Fully," Lando said. "There's no going back now."

An hour later, the garage buzzed with quiet intensity, a low hum of machinery and minds at work. Lando leaned back against the tyre warmers, rolling out his wrists and neck like muscle memory, his fireproofs zipped to the collar, eyes scanning telemetry screens across the room even though he wasn't really seeing them. The air smelled like rubber and adrenaline, and Oscar was perched on a stool nearby, stretching his arms behind his back, trying to look relaxed even though his foot was tapping a little too fast.

"Hey," Oscar said casually, flicking a glance sideways. "You sure it's alright if I crash at yours in the week?"

Lando looked over, the ghost of a grin curling his mouth. "Mate, of course. You don't have to keep asking. You're welcome any time."

Oscar's mouth twitched like he didn't quite believe it. "You sure Lily won't mind?"

Lando let out a quiet chuckle, running a hand through his curls. "She literally invited you herself. You could show up with a suitcase and a pet turtle and she'd make you pancakes."

Oscar grinned. "That's... oddly specific."

"She made Jude pancakes once because he showed up at 6AM in a cowboy hat," Lando said, deadpan. "Nothing surprises me anymore."

Oscar nodded slowly. "Alright. Good to know."

"And you can bring your Lily too," Lando added. "If she ever wants to come."

Oscar glanced up, surprised. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Ours is a chill place. We've got room, a killer view, and a fridge full of questionable snacks. She'd like it."

Oscar tilted his head. "You sure the house can handle two Lilys?"

Lando smirked. "We'll label your mugs."

Oscar exhaled a quiet laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. Then, more softly, "What about her friends? Are they... cool with guests?"

Lando looked down, smiling faintly like he was already picturing the chaos. "If you don't leak anything you see, they'll love you."

Oscar blinked. "Leak anything I see?"

"You've seen Barbara's instagram," Lando reminded him. "That is tame."

Oscar looked horrified. "That's tame?"

Lando gave a lazy shrug. "Let's just say there's usually champagne, themed outfits, suspicious playlists, and three different people crying for entirely unrelated reasons. If you behave, they'll probably braid your hair and make you sign an NDA."

Oscar stared. Then, very cautiously, "Are these like... the polaroid nights? The ones Lewis mentioned?"

Lando bit back a grin. A knowing, dangerous kind of grin. The kind that made Oscar wish he hadn't asked. "Yeah," he said finally, voice low and amused. "Exactly like those."

Oscar blinked. "Fuck."

"Exactly," Lando said, smirking as he pushed off the wall. "You still wanna stay?"

Oscar didn't hesitate. "Fuck yes."

In the distance, through the haze of pitlane noise and camera shutters, Lily sat at the pit wall like she belonged there. Draped in papaya, her cast resting on a pillow Will had stolen from someone's office, headset settled over her freshly styled hair, and an untouched espresso in front of her as she listened to Andrea, Zak, Tom, and Will chat strategy like she was the most important person in the room. And maybe she was. Because even surrounded by data, noise, and a thousand moving parts, she looked over at Lando just then, caught his smirk across the garage, and smiled. The kind of smile that said she'd seen chaos. Built a life with it. And come out gilded.

Lewis won. It was anticlimactic only in the way that a Lewis Hamilton win could be, inevitable, sleek, controlled chaos turned elegance. The garage had erupted, the crowd had screamed, and Lily had actually whooped loud enough to scare the intern beside her. Lando crossed the line P4, Oscar came in just behind, and everyone else more or less survived. Her cast had two new smudges on it from where Zak had high-fived her ankle.

And now they were back at the hotel. Late afternoon glow bleeding into early evening, the suite lit with golden light and the rumpled silence that followed every Sunday.

Lily sat on the bed, one crutch leaned against the nightstand, her leg stretched out across the duvet as she re-did the clasp of a gold ankle bracelet just above the cast. Her dress was a soft lavender silk halter that Lando said made her look like a wet dream in a Vogue editorial. Her hair was down, slightly curled at the ends. She looked up when Lando stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, frowning.

"I hate these fucking dinners," he muttered.

Lily raised an eyebrow. "You hate every team dinner."

"Because they're always the same!" Lando tossed the towel onto the chair and rummaged through the closet, muttering under his breath. "Pierre and Charles will be whispering shit in French like they're in a high school comedy, Oscar'll be mentally playing chess or asleep, Max will down five gin and tonics and forget how to speak English, Christian and Toto will start arguing about brake ducts or wind tunnel allocations or some dumbass regulation from 2009-"

He emerged with a dress shirt and pointed at her dramatically. "And then Zak'll butt in just to wind Christian up. Like he lives for it. He's like a chaos goblin. And George will be trying to have a serious conversation about tyre politics and the FIA while everyone else is literally just trying to make it through the bread basket without throwing themselves out a window."

Lily blinked. "That was... a lot."

"I'm just saying," Lando said, dramatically collapsing onto the edge of the bed beside her, shirt still in hand. "It's boring."

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "It's not boring. It's tradition."

"It's hell."

She rested her chin on his shoulder, her voice soft. "Baby, I'm injured. We can't go clubbing or sneak out on a scooter tonight. It's a dinner with your friends. It'll be nice to see everyone outside of the paddock."

"We see them in the paddock constantly."

"Ihavent," she said. "Not when everyone's a little calmer. Not when they're not sweaty and in fireproofs and being followed by cameras. Just... human. Quiet. I want to know them like you know them. Beyond lap times and interviews."

Lando turned to look at her, hair still damp, expression softening. "You already know Max and Oscar."

"And Lewis," she added. "But even then, I've only seen Max and Lewis outside of the paddock. That's it. Everyone else... it's like I know them in theory, but not in practice."

Lando exhaled. "You're going to hate it."

She smiled, brushing a hand over his chest as she leaned back slightly. "Maybe. But I'll hate it with you. And I'll look hot doing it."

He rolled his eyes, but the edge of his mouth curled. "You're insufferable."

"And you're dramatic."

"I'm valid."

She kissed his temple. "Now put that shirt on properly before you get distracted and I have to do your buttons for you again."

He grumbled, but stood. "I'm going to tell Max you're bullying me."

"Max'll side with me. He knows good taste when he sees it."

Lando just shook his head, already buttoning the pale blue shirt. "God help us."

The hotel suite buzzed quietly with soft music, the hum of a hair dryer from the other room, and Lily's occasional teasing comments about how this was going to be her Roman Empire, watching Max and Charles get progressively more drunk while George tried to filibuster about track limits.

The night had only just begun.

The restaurant was candlelit, rich with hushed chatter and the soft clinking of glassware. Private dining room, obviously, they weren't idiots, but even still, the energy felt low and warm and intimate in that unmistakable post-race way. Most of the grid had arrived already, scattered down the long table that ran almost the full length of the room. At the far end: Toto and Christian, already mid-debate, arms crossed, wine untouched. Zak was seated across from them with a grin like a troublemaker in detention. Susie sat beside Toto, calm and elegant. Geri Halliwell, glowing in white, laughed at something Fred had just said. Carmen was perched halfway down beside George, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and smiling wide when the door opened.

Lando stepped in first, hand outstretched to hold the door. Behind him, Lily James, in a cream silk midi dress that clung perfectly above the edge of her cast, papaya-orange leather jacket over her shoulders, and her crutches tucked neatly under one arm. Her hair was up, soft tendrils around her face, and her makeup was that effortless glowy thing she'd mastered years ago. She looked like she'd stepped out of a British Vogue editorial and directly into a boy's team dinner.

Every head turned. Lando, dressed in a pale open-collar shirt and light blue trousers, sunglasses still hooked into the collar despite the evening hour, gave a little nod to the room as he took her crutches and let her lean into him. "Evening," he said casually, but the room was already reacting. Carmen lit up. Max gave a lazy salute. Charles smiled, nudging Pierre. Oscar, already seated, raised both eyebrows like a smug little brother watching the popular girl walk into prom.

Lily made her way down the table with Lando's arm steady around her, offering small smiles and quiet hellos. But the first real stop was Lewis, seated in his usual effortless corner, rings and diamonds sparkling, glass of sparkling water in hand.

Lily stopped beside him and smiled warmly. "Congratulations, by the way. That last lap was poetry."

Lewis stood immediately, grinning. "You watched?"

"Watched, screamed, made Zak spill his espresso," she said.

He laughed, leaned in for a quick hug. "Thank you, darling."

Christian, already eyeing their arrival with raised eyebrows, stepped forward slightly and gestured toward the woman beside him. "Lily," he said, tone weirdly reverent, "this is my wife, Geri."

Lily turned to her like royalty meeting royalty. "I know," she said, smiling. "It's so lovely to meet you."

"You too," Geri said, delighted. "You're even more beautiful in person."

"God, thank you," Lily replied, eyes wide. "I've had my hair up for twelve hours and I think my ankle's about to fall off, but that just saved me."

Geri beamed, instantly warming to her. "Sit by us next time."

Lily promised she would, then let Lando guide her the rest of the way. Their seats were at the heart of the table, intentionally placed between chaos and calm. To their left sat Max and Oscar, with Susie and Zak just across. To the right, Pierre, Charles, Andrea Stella, and a very smug-looking George.

No sooner had Lily sat down and propped her leg up slightly than Pierre leaned in, eyes wide. "Okay," he said, not even pretending to be chill. "So. Be honest. Was it hard pretending not to exist for the last two years?"

Lily blinked, then laughed. "I don't think I was pretending not to exist. I just didn't exist in your world."

"But you did," Pierre argued, "just secretly. Like an underground legend. We thought you were dating Jude Bellingham. You had a penthouse no one knew about. You were literally being passed around like a royal scroll this weekend and none of us even clocked it. That's insane."

"She's a very good secret," Lando said, completely unapologetic, sipping from the glass of wine someone had already poured for him.

Charles elbowed Pierre lightly. "Slow down, mate."

"What? I'm curious!" Pierre threw his hands up. "I have questions!"

Lily raised an eyebrow. "That was only one?"

"Oh, I've got more," he said. "But I'm pacing myself. I've already been told I talk too much."

Charles sighed into his drink. "I told you that this morning."

"I'm self-aware!"

"You're obsessed."

"Who wouldn't be?" Pierre said, turning back to Lily with a smile. "Sorry. But I am a fan."

Lily smirked. "It's okay. I'm a fan of your girlfriends' Instagram."

Pierre's entire face lit up. "You know Kika??"

"Not personally," Lily said, "but she wore a dress to a Jacquemus show last year that made me believe in miracles."

Pierre looked genuinely moved.

Lando leaned into Lily's shoulder. "See? This is why I kept you a secret. I wanted to hoard the serotonin."

George, across the table, looked between them, shook his head, and muttered, "You're a menace, Norris."

Oscar, was already texting something under the table. Further down, Christian was arguing with Toto over a regulation clause from Baku 2021. Geri was sipping rosé like it was a performance art piece. Zak was watching with barely contained glee. And Lily? Lily was right at the centre of it now. No cameras. No runway. Just a long table, full of champions and chaos, and a chair with her name on it.

The meal had settled into that warm, golden rhythm of clinking cutlery and overlapping conversations, the kind of dinner where every plate was half-abandoned between laughs, and waiters stopped trying to keep up with wine refills. The drivers were relaxed in a way they rarely were during a race weekend, and the team principals had, against all odds, surrendered their power struggles to low murmurs and dessert menus.

Lily now sat nestled between Lando and Oscar, her crutches tucked behind her chair, her cast peeking out from beneath the edge of the tablecloth, now marked with a few new drawings from Pierre and George, done during starters. Her drink was fizzy, something citrusy and bright, and she was halfway through a conversation with Susie about how paddock espresso didn't count as actual caffeine when a familiar voice piped up from a few seats down.

"Lily," Yuki said, leaning forward with his whole upper body like he was trying to swim through the air. "Can I ask a question?"

Lily blinked, smiling. "Of course."

Yuki glanced at Max, who was already grinning, then looked back at her. "Okay. Models. The diet thing. Like- do you eat normally? Because I eat like six times a day. I get nervous for you guys."

A few heads turned, amused. Lily tilted her head, playful. "I absolutely eat normally. I probably eat more than Lando."

"She does," Lando confirmed without hesitation. "Easily. She'll eat a bagel before dinner. Then a chocolate bar in bed."

Pierre snorted.

Yuki blinked. "Wait- really?"

Lily nodded. "I don't follow any kind of model diet. Never have. If I want a burger, I'll have a burger. If I want a cupcake, I'll eat six."

Oscar looked impressed. "Powerful."

Max raised his glass. "You ate a whole pack last week."

There was a pause before Alex, across the table, spoke a little more cautiously. "So how do you, like, stay in shape? If you don't have a diet or training plan or anything?"

Lily didn't seem offended. She just shrugged. "Honestly? Fast metabolism. Good genetics. I don't say that to be annoying- it's just always been like that for me, but i do love working out."

"She burns through food like it's air," Lando added. "She eats more than I do and still wakes up looking like a campaign."

"That's not fair," Pierre muttered.

George grinned, cutting into his dessert. "Are you friends with any of the big designers? Like properly good friends?"

Lily smiled, dipping her spoon into her sorbet. "Most of them, really. They're all so nice."

A ripple of amused disbelief ran down the table. Charles blinked. "Wait. Like who?"

Lily shrugged, clearly unbothered. "Like... Donatella. Anna. Olivier. Maria. I did Chanel for years before Karl passed, and he was my favourite."

Geri, who had been half-turned chatting to Susie, paused and turned back. "Karl Lagerfeld?"

Lily nodded softly. "Yeah."

Geri blinked. "He was your favourite?"

"He was hilarious," Lily said, fondness tugging at the corner of her mouth. "He always said Lando and I would end up together. Even before Lando and I were close."

Geri actually choked a little on her wine. "Sorry, what?"

Lily laughed. "Yeah. He'd always say, 'Ah yes, the young one with the curls. You will end up with him, I see it. The chaos one.' He called him the chaos one for, like, years."

Several of the drivers were laughing now, especially Pierre and Max. Geri turned to Lando. "Wait, did you meet Karl?"

Lando smirked. "More than once. He used to call me a pussy."

Charles raised both eyebrows. "Sorry, what?"

"He'd say I was too much of a pussy to ask Lily out," Lando said. "Every time I was backstage. He'd give me that look and say, 'You are letting her be stolen, you little fool. Grow some balls.'"

Oscar looked halfway between mortified and amazed. "Karl Lagerfeld bullied you into getting with your girlfriend?"

Lando nodded proudly. "Yup."

George leaned forward, fascinated. "So you actually know designers now? Like through Lily?"

Lando glanced at Lily and nodded again. "Most of them. Probably 90% of the ones she works with. They're actually all really nice. Even Anna Wintour."

"Anna Wintour," Charles repeated slowly, like Lando had just said he was best friends with the Queen.

Lando shrugged. "She treats me like her child. She makes sure I'm never in the sun at shows."

"She once gave him a fan," Lily said, smirking. "A literal handheld fan."

"And made sure I had snacks," Lando added. "While she was managing Lily doing eleven runways in one week."

Pierre was already pulling his phone out. "We need to start a group chat. For fashion gossip only."

"Fashion and food," Yuki said.

"And drama," George added.

Geri shook her head fondly, raising her glass. "Well, if Karl predicted this," she said, gesturing between Lily and Lando, "I'm glad he was right."

"He always was," Lily said, quietly, almost to herself.

Susie reached out and touched her arm, smiling. "He'd be proud."

The candles flickered slightly with the movement of servers clearing plates. The table had dipped into a quiet, hazy glow, food finished, drinks flowing, and stories trading hands like shared secrets. Pierre had just launched into a questionable story about nearly missing a flight to Singapore because he'd left his passport in a freezer bag full of skincare products when Max suddenly straightened in his seat, half-empty glass in hand, the tipsy sparkle of chaos glinting behind his eyes.

"No, no, sorry," Max interrupted, waving a hand. "You think that's a good story? Nah. You lot haven't heard about Lily's post-op smoothie crawl."

Lando's fork clinked against his plate.

Lily, mid-sip of wine, paused. "Don't."

Max grinned like the devil. "Oh, I'm telling it."

George leaned forward. "Please do."

Oscar's eyes were already wide. "Oh my God, I forgot about this."

"I didn't," Max said proudly. "Because it lives in my brain rent-free. Okay, picture this- Lily, post-ankle surgery, drags herself across the floor, on her hands and knees, like she's a haunted Victorian child looking for revenge."

Several people choked. "She was trying to make a smoothie," Max continued, unfazed. "Refused help. Refused reason. Looked me dead in the eyes and said, 'I'm not helpless,' while dragging a crutch behind her like it was a war trophy."

Lily groaned, head hitting Lando's shoulder.

"She crawled," Max said, dramatically, "because Lando was upstairs running her a bath like a very good, very domesticated boyfriend."

Lando was shaking with laughter now, his face in his hands.

"I had to pick her up," Max added. "Leg in a cast, smoothie in one hand, straw in her mouth. Looked like the final boss of health food. And when Lando walked in? He just went, 'What the fuck is going on?'"

"She wanted a smoothie," Oscar mumbled through laughter.

"She wanted war," Max said proudly. "She nearly fell off the counter and still tried to argue with me about portion sizes."

Pierre was crying. "I can't breathe."

"And then," Max said, eyes alight, "then. The bath thing. This man-" he pointed at Lando, who was trying to hide behind a breadbasket, "-this man calls me and says, 'Hey, can you bring Lily her vape?'"

George blinked. "What?"

Max nodded solemnly. "She was in the bath. He was sat next to the tub, like her bodyguard-slash-boyfriend-slash-nurse. And he couldn't leave her because she'd made him swear not to let her slip or drown."

"She had one leg in a cast!" Lando yelled, half-laughing, half-defensive.

"She had bubbles up to her neck!" Max shot back. "I walked in with the vape like it was a hostage exchange. I kept my eyes on the ceiling. She waved at me like a fucking siren."

Lily covered her face. "I told you not to tell this story."

"Too late," Max grinned. "Everyone needs to know the truth."

"He literally walked in with his hand over his face," Lando said. "Like he was entering a nuclear facility."

"I said 'tell me when it's safe!'" Max yelled. "And she said 'Hi Maxie' like she was about to ruin my life."

The entire table was in hysterics now. Even Christian was laughing, and Susie was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. Geri was leaned over Pierre's arm, wheezing.

"She took a hit of the vape," Max added, "and exhaled like a Bond villain. In the bath. In front of her boyfriend. While I stood there like a priest in a sex dungeon."

"It was cherry ice," Lily muttered, deadpan.

"She looked divine," Lando said, dreamy. "She was glowing."

Max stared at him. "You're so far gone it's tragic."

"She's my girlfriend," Lando said, smug.

"She's a war crime," Max corrected. "And I say that lovingly."

Susie raised her wine glass. "To Lily," she said. "May she never change."

Geri clinked her glass against it. "God bless that girl."

And at the centre of it all, Lily James sat in a circle of millionaires and motorsport giants, sipping her wine with one working foot, the softest smirk curling across her face.

She looked at Max. "Next time I'm in the bath, you're bringing snacks too."

Max held up his hands. "I'm not your butler."

"You're already my vape courier," she said sweetly. "Might as well go full concierge."

Charles raised his hand. "I volunteer for next time."

"Charles!" Alex hissed, half-laughing, half-mortified.

And just like that, the meal descended into chaos all over again.

#formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 smut #f1 grid x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #lando norris #lando x reader #ln4 #mclaren #the secret girlfriend ln4

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annaswrites00 · 1 month ago

Text

The Chase

DR3 x reporter!reader

(2.7k)

Summary - A rookie reporter. A seasoned driver. Between the races and the interviews, something electric builds until neither of them can outrun it anymore… warnings… suggestive content

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Barcelona - 2015 - Pre Season Testing

The paddock was waking slowly, light diffusing over the sea of trailers and tents like warm honey spilled across cracked pavement. You stood just beyond the bustle, clutching your microphone , the nervous weight in your stomach shifting between anticipation and something else—something taut, almost electric.

Daniel Ricciardo was already there, near the Red Bull garage, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his team jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched the mechanics fuss over the car. The famous grin was absent this morning, replaced by something quieter, a calm sharpened by focus.

Your steps faltered for a fraction of a second before you crossed the short distance. Your voice was softer than you’d planned.

“Good morning, Daniel.”

He turned, eyes catching yours like a spark against the dim. For a moment, the world around you—the hissing of the pneumatic guns, the murmur of last-minute preparations—seemed to fall away.

“And you are,” came his smooth question.

“With F1 TV,” your reply was soft and quick.

Daniel’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to pin you down in his mind. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile, he nodded.

“F1 TV, huh? That means you’re the new voice we’re all supposed to get used to.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of how close you’d stepped. “Something like that.”

He stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward the cluster of engineers and the car itself. “Well, rookie, think you can handle the heat out here? It’s not all fun and games.”

“I like a challenge,” you replied, matching his tone with a confidence you only half felt.

Daniel’s eyes twinkled, that mischievous glint returning. “Good answer. I’ll hold you to that.”

Before you could find the words to reply, the cameraman’s steady presence drew near, a quiet interruption to the charged stillness. He moved with practiced ease, his equipment slung over one shoulder, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Morning,” he said, nodding respectfully to both of you. “Ready to get this started?”

Daniel’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, the trace of a smile softening his features. “She’s ready,” he said, voice low, rich with something unspoken.

The cameraman positioned himself carefully, adjusting the camera lens as the first light filtered softly through the Red Bull awning. The morning air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of fuel and freshly warmed rubber—a smell both harsh and intimate.

“2014 was your first year with Red Bull, yeah?” You began, voice measured, like a calm river cutting through stone. “That must have been quite the shift—from Toro Rosso to the main team. How did it feel?”

Daniel exhaled slowly, eyes distant, as if recalling the weight of that transition. “It was… a different pace. Everything accelerated. Expectations weren’t just whispered anymore—they were shouted. You learn quickly that the margin for error disappears.”

You moved a little closer, feeling the warmth of the sun mingling with the quiet tension in the space between you. “Did that pressure ever feel like too much? Like it might break you?”

His eyes met yours, steady and unflinching. “It could have. But there’s a kind of clarity that comes with it. Like standing at the edge of a cliff—terrifying, but also… freeing. You either leap, or you don’t.”

The cameraman captured that moment—Daniel’s quiet strength framed by the soft light and the hum of the paddock awakening around you.

He then shifted his gaze toward you, his expression thoughtful. “And you? First year out here—how do you keep steady when everything’s moving so fast?”

You considered the question carefully, voice calm but edged with vulnerability. “I try to find stillness where I can. Moments of quiet amidst the chaos. It’s the only way to keep from being swallowed whole.”

Daniel’s smile was slow, genuine. “Good answer. That kind of balance—that’s what separates the noise from what really matters.”

The interview carried on. You got in a few more questions about 2015, the upcoming season, what Red Bull supposedly had in store.

Daniel’s gaze drifted toward the car, its sleek lines shining under the rising sun. “Expectations don’t really get lighter. If anything, they pile up, brick by brick, until you wonder how much more you can carry. But you get smarter about carrying them. You learn where to let them rest, and where to fight them.”

Your pulse quickened, the way his voice softened when he talked about battles, about control. You stepped a fraction closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his.

The cameraman, sensing the intimacy, silently adjusted his angle, giving you both a little more space—though the air remained charged.

“I bet not many people see that side of you,” you said, eyes locked on his. “The part that’s fighting, learning, struggling.”

Daniel’s smile was slow, teasing, but his eyes held a deeper fire. “I’m not exactly good at hiding it. Just good at picking when to show it.”

Your laugh was quiet, almost a breath. “I’ll make it my job to see more of that, then.”

He lifted a brow, amusement and challenge twined in his gaze. “Is that so? Rookie reporter, already aiming to unravel the great Daniel Ricciardo?”

You shrugged, eyes bright. “Someone’s got to. Otherwise, you’d just be another name on the grid.”

Daniel’s grin returned—warm, genuine, and a little dangerous. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re interested.”

You met his look, the briefest flicker of heat sparking between you. “Maybe I am.”

The tension hung there for a heartbeat longer before Daniel’s phone buzzed, pulling him back to the day’s demands. He sighed softly, stepping back but not breaking eye contact.

“Alright, I better get going before the engineers start thinking I’m slacking off.”

You nodded, your own smile lingering despite the sudden professional barrier sliding back into place.

“Thanks for this, Daniel. Looking forward to seeing what you do this year.”

“Likewise, rookie.” His voice dropped just a notch, intimate and promising. “Don’t be a stranger.”

As he walked away, shoulders squared and that unmistakable Ricciardo bounce in his step, you felt the weight in your stomach shift again—this time, a delicious anticipation.

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Hungarian Grand Prix - July 2015

The sun beat down relentlessly over the Hungaroring that July afternoon, the heat shimmering like a mirage above the asphalt. The paddock was thick with the familiar scents of burnt rubber and sweat, the air dense and heavy as if the track itself was holding its breath.

You stood near the Red Bull garage, the hum of celebration buzzing faintly in the background. Daniel Ricciardo, fresh from the podium, was wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel, his race suit half-zipped, the unmistakable grin—equal parts triumphant and mischievous—curling on his lips.

“Third place,” you said, stepping forward, the microphone in your hand feeling suddenly light in the stifling heat. “Not bad for a day that started so hot and sticky.”

Daniel laughed, a sound full and easy despite the exhaustion. “Not bad at all. Hungaroring always tests you, but today it felt… right.”

You caught the sheen of sweat glistening on his sun-kissed skin, the way his eyes sparkled beneath the heavy lids, alive with adrenaline and relief. The paddock noise seemed to dull around you, narrowing to just the two of you in that moment.

“So,” you began, voice low, “how does it feel to stand on the podium here? After all the pressure, the heat, the noise?”

He paused, gaze steady on the horizon, where the crowd still roared faintly. “It’s like… everything else disappears. The heat, the pain, the doubts—they melt away for those few moments. You just own it.”

You stepped a little closer, the space between you charged and tight like a taut wire.

The ambient noise of the paddock crept back in—the chatter, the clatter of tools, the distant cheers—but in this pocket of time, there was only that quiet exchange, like a breath held between two people who understood the weight of what they did here.

“Any regrets today?” you asked, voice low, wanting to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

Daniel thought for a beat, then shook his head. “No regrets. It’s a step forward. Sometimes that’s all you can ask for.”

You smiled, feeling something deepen in the space between you—a shared understanding forged not just by words, but by the unyielding heat of ambition and the fleeting relief of victory.

The cameraman gently reminded you the next segment was ready, and Daniel glanced at the approaching crew, the race day duties pulling him back.

He straightened, the mask of the professional slipping back into place, but his eyes held that spark—the promise of more to come.

“Thanks for sticking with me,” he said, voice low enough for only you to hear. “This year’s going to be something.”

You returned the smile, heart a little lighter despite the heat pressing down. “I’ll be watching. And I’ll be asking the questions that matter.”

He nodded, the quiet confidence of a man who knew his path but welcomed the challenge.

As he turned to the crew, you stood for a moment longer, the July sun warming your face, the taste of that fleeting, electric moment lingering like a secret you both shared beneath the relentless Hungarian sky.

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Singapore Grand Prix - September 2015

Singapore buzzed with a different kind of energy—electric, raw, and suffused with tension that matched the tight, unforgiving circuit winding beneath the floodlights.

You found yourself near the Red Bull garage again, the after-race clamor swelling around you like a tide. Daniel Ricciardo emerged, still in his fireproof suit, the faintest traces of sweat gleaming on his brow, his smile a flicker of triumph tempered by exhaustion and something heavier.

“Second place,” you said, voice steady but carrying the weight of the season’s unspoken charge. “Your best finish this season. How does it feel after the race?”

Daniel huffed a breath, dragging his towel across the back of his neck. “Feels… complicated.”

“Really,” your voice was laced with genuine curiosity.

“One step closer. Still not there yet. Fans love a neat story. A clean win, a hero’s ending. But second place?” His smirk deepened, dark and knowing. “That’s where things start to get interesting.” He stated.

Your heart skipped, not from the heat of the paddock but from the weight of his gaze—the way it lingered on your mouth before sliding back up to your eyes.

“And here I thought you didn’t care about stories,” you teased, pretending to check your notes when really you just needed a second to collect yourself.

Daniel’s voice dropped, the noise around you blurring into a hum. “I care about the right ones.”

The space between you buzzed, the months of interviews, brief touches, quiet smiles, and loaded silences tightening around you now, thick and inevitable.

Your cameraman cleared his throat from a polite distance, but didn’t approach. You’d trained him by now—he knew when to give you room.

“So,” you pushed, your voice soft but challenging, “what’s the right story here? The second-place podium? The battle with Seb? Or the one where you’ve been—what— circling something all season without actually getting there?”

Daniel’s grin was slow, dangerous, his tongue darting briefly across his lower lip as if savoring the tension. “Maybe I’m just pacing myself.”

“Or maybe you’re avoiding the finish line altogether.”

His eyes flicked to the side, noting the crew still milling about, some glancing your way, but none paying close enough attention. He leaned closer, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your cheek.

“You think I’m the type to back off when it matters?”

You held your ground, even as your pulse drummed high in your throat. “I think you like the chase more than the catch.”

His laugh, low and rumbling, vibrated somewhere deep in your chest. “Rookie,” he murmured, “you have no idea what I like.”

The weight of the moment hung thick between you, months of teasing and half-dared confessions threading through the charged silence.

Daniel glanced toward the garage, then back at you, something unspoken settling in his expression.

“Come with me,” he said, casual on the surface but edged with heat.

You hesitated only long enough to flick your microphone off and murmur to your cameraman that you were done for the evening.

Daniel was already moving, weaving effortlessly through the paddock, his pace just quick enough that you had to keep up. No one stopped you. No one questioned it. Maybe they’d seen it coming. Maybe they hadn’t.

His driver room was tucked in the Red Bull hospitality area, small but private, door clicking shut with a quiet finality behind you.

For a beat, neither of you spoke. The distant noise of the paddock bled through the walls, but in here, the air was thick and still.

You opened your mouth to say something—something light, maybe, something that could buy you time—but Daniel was already stepping in, closing the distance with a kind of surety that made your breath catch.

His hands came to rest lightly on your waist, fingers curling just enough to remind you of their strength. His grin flickered, sharp but lazy. “Still think I’m avoiding the finish line?”

You swallowed, your hands finding the rough fabric of his race suit, still damp and smelling faintly of fuel and heat and him. “I think you’re about to prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped, velvet-soft. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. All those interviews, all those almosts…”

Your pulse thundered as his thumb brushed a slow, deliberate line just under the hem of your shirt. “Almosts build character.”

Daniel’s mouth quirked into something darker. “Almosts build tension.”

You didn’t flinch when he pressed you back until your hips met the edge of the small bench lining the wall. Instead, you arched slightly into his touch, drinking in the rare sight of him—helmet hair mussed, fireproofs clinging to his frame, skin still humming with post-race adrenaline.

“I should probably tell you,” you whispered, your voice trembling just a little from the tight coil of anticipation, “this could complicate things.”

His hands slid lower, coaxing you closer. “Sweetheart, things have been complicated since Barcelona.”

His mouth found yours before you could shoot back a reply, and it was not a gentle kiss. It was months of restraint snapping in half, of barely-there touches and lingering glances finally crashing together.

You moaned into him as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. His lips were hot, demanding, the scratch of his stubble delicious against your skin as he mapped a trail along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

Your hands fumbled with the zipper of his race suit, and he laughed, breathless, the sound curling low in his throat.

“Impatient?” he teased, lips brushing your ear.

You tugged his undershirt up, savoring the press of bare skin beneath your palms. “Months of buildup will do that to a girl.”

“Yeah?” His teeth grazed your collarbone, his voice molten. “Good. ’Cause I’m not planning on taking this slow.”

He helped you out of your shirt in one swift motion, his hands sliding reverently over the newly exposed skin like he’d been imagining this exact moment for longer than he’d care to admit.

When he lifted you onto the bench, you hooked your legs around his waist instinctively, your breath catching at the unmistakable press of him, hard and insistent, between your thighs.

His kisses deepened, rough and searching, his hands everywhere—your ribs, your waist, your thighs—as if trying to make up for all the time you’d spent carefully not touching.

You broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Daniel…”

His thumb traced lazy circles on your skin. “Say it again.”

You shivered. “Daniel.”

His eyes darkened, the weight of your name on your tongue sending something feral through him.

“Been waiting to hear you like that,” he rasped, before capturing your lips again.

The world outside—the paddock noise, the season, the weight of what came next—faded into nothing.

Here, in the quiet pulse of his driver room, the only thing that mattered was the exquisite unraveling you allowed yourselves—finally, completely, without restraint.

And somewhere, tangled in the heat of it all, you both knew this wasn’t the end of the chase.

It was only the beginning.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Thanks for reading!!!

#daniel riccardo x reader #daniel riccardo imagine #dr3 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #dr3 fic

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hrtwayne · 4 months ago

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Tokyo Drift || Giselle (Aespa)

Pairing: Giselle x Drifting Driver!Girlfriend

Summary: Where Giselle’s girlfriend has a tendency to bet things she can’t afford to lose.

Note: English isn’t my first language.

Warning: Nothing!

Masterlist | Kpop Masterlist

Winter in Tokyo wasn’t just cold—it was cutting. A freezing wind snaked between the buildings, dragging snowflakes that clung to the fogged-up windows of parked cars. The asphalt, wet and dark, reflected the neon streetlights like a shattered mirror, turning every curve into a trap waiting for a mistake.

You leaned against the hood of your car, the metal so icy it felt like it was burning your skin through your jacket. Your breath formed white clouds in the air, dissipating quickly, as if the weather itself wanted to erase your presence. Your hands, shoved deep in your pockets, clenched the car keys so tightly your knuckles went numb.

The snow fell slowly but relentlessly, blanketing everything in a deathly silence. The distant sound of traffic seemed muffled, as if the world beyond the illegal racetrack had ceased to exist. The only thing breaking the void was the occasional roar of an engine revving—a warning of the challenge ahead.

Giselle stood a few paces away, wrapped in her own aura of determination, but even she seemed smaller against the cold that sucked the warmth from your bones. Her eyes met yours for a moment, and you saw in them the same flicker of worry that pulsed in your own chest.

I'f I slip… if the car doesn’t respond…

The ice wasn’t just on the asphalt—it was inside you. Every breath was a knife of frozen air, every heartbeat a hammer against your ribs. Adrenaline burned in your veins, but the cold insisted on reminding you: the problem wasn’t losing the race. It was losing the car that had once belonged to your father.

You adjusted your grip on the wheel, feeling the icy leather beneath your fingers. Your car, a sleek black-and-silver machine gleaming under the streetlights, was warmed up, ready for another night.

You were known as the Drift Queen, the racer who mastered turns as if dancing with the asphalt. Your name was feared in the underground scene, your technique flawless. But tonight wouldn’t be like the others.

"You ready for this?" Giselle appeared beside you, lips curled in a challenging smirk. Her tight leather jacket emphasized her narrow shoulders, and the fire in her eyes burned as bright as the headlights of her Nissan GT-R.

You smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"You know I never lose, babe."

"Except to me." Giselle laughed, tugging you by the collar into a quick kiss. She tasted sweet, like the mint candies you both always chewed during races.

But the warmth between you lasted only a moment. Because here, in this abandoned parking lot on the edge of the highway, a greater challenge awaited.

"Y/N!" A voice cut through the crowd. A tall man in a red jacket pointed at you. "Y/N, the race is about to start. And the opponent wants your car."

Giselle squeezed your hand.

"You don’t have to accept."

You looked toward the horizon, where the city lights shimmered like fallen stars. You knew the risk. If you lost, it wasn’t just your reputation on the line—it was everything you’d built.

"I accept."

The roar of engines filled the air. The snow began to fall harder, turning the track into a treacherous battlefield. You took a deep breath.

Then—the green lights flashed.

The engines roared like cornered beasts, tires shredding snow and asphalt in a scream of rubber. You felt the car tremble beneath your hands, the wheel alive, nearly wrenching itself from your grip as you accelerated straight ahead. The other driver was already half a meter ahead—his car was faster on straights, but you knew the curves would decide everything.

The first turn hit like a punch.

You yanked the handbrake, spun the wheel, and felt the rear of the car slide out deliberately. The perfect drift — the wet asphalt and ice becoming allies, not enemies. The smell of burning rubber filled the car, mixing with the scent of the iced coffee Giselle had left in the cupholder. For a moment, you heard the muffled cheers of the crowd outside, drowned out by the engine’s growl.

But the man wasn’t behind you. He overtook you on the next curve, his rear bumper gleaming under the lights like a mocking grin.

"Shit!"

The dashboard showed your speed dropping—you needed more RPM. More control. More audacity.

Giselle always said you drove like you weren’t afraid to die.

Maybe it was true.

The final curve approached—a sharp right, followed by the home stretch. The man was already there, blocking your path, forcing you to brake.

Then you saw it.

A sliver of space between his car and the guardrail.

But drifting wasn’t about logic—it was about instinct.

You accelerated.

The man’s car swerved, but it was too late—you threw the weight left, then right, your bumper scraping against the guardrail with a metallic shriek. Smoke, snow, screams — and then, the finish line.

Your speedometer crossed half a second before his.

Silence.

Then—chaos.

The crowd flooded the track, Giselle among them, her eyes blazing with pride. You could barely hear your name being chanted. Your hands still trembled on the wheel, fingers numb from cold and tension.

"You’re incredible." Giselle grabbed your face, her cold lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted like gasoline and victory.

You grinned, breathless.

"Told you I never lose."

The throne was still yours.

And the winter, now, felt a little less cold.

#giselle aespa #giselle #aeri uchinaga #fem reader #gxg #aespa #imagine #kpop #kpop x reader

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oofthwoods · 1 year ago

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THE BRAWN GP GARAGE GRAND PRIX! ── ˙ ̟ the echo !!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: jenson button had always been a great commentator, especially when it came to narrating the wild world of imaginary races, where the only challenger was none other than the daughter of his teammate.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: part of the "it takes a paddock" miniseries, that explores moments of echo!reader's childhood in the paddock.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: 1.2k (just a sweet little story)

The Brawn garage buzzed with activity as the team prepared for another day of testing at the Circuit de Catalunya. Mechanics hurried back and forth, checking and double-checking every detail of the sleek white cars that lined the garage. The air was thick with the smell of rubber and gasoline, and the sound of engines revving filled the space, creating an atmosphere of anticipation and excitement.

Amidst the chaos, a quieter corner of the garage served as a sanctuary from the frenzy. There, sitting on a stack of tires, was Rubens Barrichello's daughter, her hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders as she concentrated intently on her coloring book. Her small fingers gripped a crayon with determination, carefully filling in the lines of a picture with vibrant colors.

Suddenly, a familiar voice broke through her concentration, and she looked up to see Jenson Button, her father's teammate, approaching with a warm smile. Her face lit up with excitement at the sight of the man, and she jumped off the tires to greet him with a hug.

"Uncle Jen!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. "Are you here to race today too?"

Jenson chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement as he ruffled her hair affectionately. "Not today, sweetheart," he replied. "Your dad's the one doing the racing. But I'm here to keep you company while he's busy out on track."

The girl's eyes sparkled with delight as she listened to Jenson's words. She admired him greatly, not just because of his talent, but because he always took the time to interact with her whenever they crossed paths in the garage.

"Can we do something fun?" she asked eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement.

Jenson nodded enthusiastically, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Of course! How about we have a little race of our own? I'll be the commentator, and you can be the driver."

The girl's face lit up with excitement as she eagerly agreed to the idea. Jenson wasted no time, quickly scurrying around the garage to gather up cones and spare parts to create a makeshift race track. With deft hands, he arranged the obstacles into a winding course that snaked its way around the various tools and equipment scattered about.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the inaugural Brawn Garage Grand Prix!" Jenson announced with theatrical flair, holding up a makeshift microphone fashioned out of an old wrench. "On pole position, we have the one and only… Y/N Barrichello! And alongside her, it's me, Jenson Button, your trusty commentator for today's race."

The girl giggled with delight as she took her position at the starting line, her tiny hands gripping the imaginary steering wheel with determination. Jenson, playing his part to perfection, took up his position as the announcer, adopting a dramatic tone befitting the occasion.

"Get ready, folks! The tension is palpable as our fearless competitors prepare to battle it out on the treacherous Brawn Garage circuit!" Jenson proclaimed, his voice echoing off the walls of the garage.

With a flourish, he counted down from three, his arm slicing through the air like a conductor leading an orchestra. As his hand dropped, signaling the start of the race, the girl stomped on the imaginary accelerator, her make-believe engine roaring to life as she shot off the line in a blur of excitement.

The garage was transformed into a miniature racetrack, the sound of imaginary engines filling the air as the girl and Jenson darted and weaved their way through the makeshift obstacles. Cones became chicane markers, and toolboxes served as hairpin bends, each turn and straightaway presenting a new challenge for the intrepid racers.

Jenson, ever the entertainer, provided colorful commentary as they raced, his voice rising and falling with the ebb and flow of the action. He cheered the girl on with infectious enthusiasm, his words spurring her on to greater feats of daring as she navigated the course with the skill and precision of a seasoned pro (if there ever was a pro of fake racing).

As they crossed the makeshift finish line, Jenson scooped up the girl in one swift motion, lifting her onto his shoulders. Her laughter filled the garage, bubbling over with unrestrained joy as she clung to him, her tiny hands gripping his shoulder.

"Congratulations, champ!" Jenson announced, his voice booming with theatrical flair. "You've just won the first-ever Brawn Garage Grand Prix!"

The mechanics, who had been watching the impromptu race with amused smiles, erupted into cheers and applause. They clapped their hands enthusiastically, their cheers mingling with the sound of engines revving in the distance.

"Way to go, kiddo!" one of the mechanics shouted, giving the girl a thumbs-up.

Some of the mechanics rushed forward to offer high-fives to the victorious little girl, their faces alight with excitement. Others pulled out their phones, eager to capture the moment for posterity. Flashbulbs popped as they snapped photos of Jenson and the young girl, their bond evident for all to see in the warmth of their smiles.

Jenson, his own grin infectious, basked in the attention, reveling in the joy of the moment. "Looks like we've got ourselves a world champion in the making!" he declared, beaming down at the girl perched on his shoulders.

The girl giggled, her cheeks flushed with happiness. "Thanks, Uncle Jen! That was so much fun!"

Rubens, returning to the garage after his stint on track, couldn't help but smile at the heartwarming scene unfolding before him. His daughter, flushed with excitement and clinging tightly to Jenson's shoulders, looked happier than he had seen her in weeks. And Jenson, with his infectious grin and easy charm, seemed to have cast a spell over the entire garage, filling it with an atmosphere of camaraderie and joy.

Walking over to join the celebration, Rubens wrapped an arm around his daughter's shoulders, pulling her into a warm embrace. "Looks like you had quite the race, huh?" he teased, ruffling her hair affectionately.

The girl nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining with pride. "It was the best race ever, Dad! Uncle Jen said I was the fastest driver in the whole garage!"

Rubens chuckled, shooting a grateful smile in Jenson's direction. "Well, I have no doubt about that. You've got quite the talent behind the wheel, just like your old man."

Jenson grinned, giving Rubens a playful punch on the arm. "Hey now, don't go giving her all the credit. She may have won the race, but I was the one providing the commentary! And let me tell you, it was a masterpiece of sports broadcasting."

The three of them laughed, the sound echoing off the walls of the garage, mingling with the hum of activity as the team prepared for the next session. For a brief moment, all the stresses and pressures of life in the fast lane melted away.

With Jenson by her side, Rubens knew that his daughter was in good hands – and that was a comforting thought indeed.

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed <3) :: @studioreader, @fanficweasley , @stinkyjax , @namgification , @judespoision , @cha-hot , @disneyprincemuke , @itsjustkhaos , @trouble-sistar , @ihateyougunthersteiner , @treehouse-mouse , @cherry-piee , @fangirl125reader , @cassie0sstuff, @be-your-coffee-pot , @elijahslover , @flannelforthetoads , @m0cha-bunny , @ironmaiden1313 , @glitterquadricorn , @spideybv28 , @celesteblack08 , @thatgirlthatreadswattpad , @itscrzy, @canihavemyhoodieback , @eugene-emt-roe, @weirdshinji, @woozarts, @marshmummy, @80sloverry

#f1 imagine #f1 imagines #f1 scenarios #f1 x reader #fem!driver reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 scenarios #formula 1 imagines #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula one imagines #formula one imagine #f1 x fem!driver #fem!driver #formula 1 x reader #x reader #driver reader #jenson button X platonic!reader #⋆⠀᰷ ֹ 🍙 ˓ the echo ﹗

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aldremist · 2 months ago

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Caleb on a dirt bike??

Short fic inspired by this pic, art by twistedfei

Fluff then smut. Mdni

Word count 5952

You leave work two hours early, heart thumping with anticipation. Caleb hadn’t asked you to come, hadn’t even mentioned where he’d be today. But you’d overheard him bragging to one of the rookies yesterday about testing his new gear out at the old arena on Ridgeback Flats. So naturally, you made your way there the moment you clocked out, not bothering to change out of your work clothes—just shoved your ID in your bag, grabbed a bottle of cold water, and ran.

The scream of dirtbikes tore through the heavy summer air like wild thunder, underscored by the sound of people cheering, clapping, yelling. You picked up your pace. Gravel crunched under your boots. Heat shimmered off the packed clay track just ahead, the scent of scorched rubber and churned-up earth wafting over the fences.

And then you saw him.

Caleb.

He was mid-turn when your eyes locked on him, sliding the rear wheel sideways in a perfect drift around the outer loop. The crowd surged with excitement, their voices overlapping into one wordless roar of awe.

It’s impossible to miss him. He moves differently from the others—not just with skill, but with intent. He’s a blur of matte black and orange, his dirtbike growling beneath him like an extension of his will. Each movement is sharp and deliberate, from the way he leans into a tight corner to the way his body tenses before a jump. The others try to match him, but no one even comes close. He flies across the dirt ramps like he was born for this.

And maybe he was. Caleb's always been like this—good at everything he tries, unfairly so. It’s not just talent. It’s instinct. Grit. That razor-wire edge that makes people look twice. That makes you look every time.

Even with his helmet on, even with half a dozen other riders sharing the course, Caleb commanded the arena like he owned every inch of it. Every motion he made on that bike was fluid, effortless, charged with that unmistakable energy only he carried.

Now you stand at the edge of the dirt-streaked viewing line, hands gripping the warm railing, a ragged cloth tarp stretched above to shield only half the sun’s wrath. The air hums with engine growls and the sharp scent of fuel and churned-up earth.

You made it just in time to watch him hit a jump head-on, lifting clean into the air. His body leaned with the bike, and for a split second, he hung suspended under the sun—then landed smooth, without a bounce, without a single inch lost. The others barely made it over the mound behind him.

All around you, people noticed.

Women whistled. Men swore softly under their breath, some in admiration, others in envy. A girl behind you clutched her boyfriend’s arm, murmuring something like, “That’s the one everyone’s talking about—Caleb, right?” Another guy shouted, “Bro, he’s not human. Look at that!”

Someone else giggled, breathless, “I’d let him run me over.”

You roll your eyes, even as your stomach tugs uncomfortably. You know it shouldn’t bother you. It’s Caleb. Of course people are going to stare. He's gorgeous. He’s lethal. He’s out here making every single one of them feel like they’ve never seen anyone ride before. But still—he’s yours. And you hate how easily people forget that.

Then he sees you.

You don’t know how, but his helmeted head tilts just slightly in your direction mid-ride, and something shifts. He leans forward, kicks the throttle—and takes aim at the tallest ramp on the field.

You hold your breath.

He doesn’t slow down. He accelerates. His body tenses just right, a perfect curl of muscle and motion, and the bike lifts into a backflip. A full backflip. The crowd explodes. Dirt sprays outward from the impact of his landing, but he barely flinches. You think you might’ve stopped breathing.

And when he comes back around…

He’s shirtless.

Somehow, between then and now, he’s stripped out of his dark shirt and tossed it off. His body gleams under the brutal sun—cut, lean, streaked with dirt and sweat and power. Muscles roll across his chest and arms as he rides, and right there against the pale gold of his skin, you see it:

His dog tag.

The one you gave him.

It bounces slightly against his collarbone, catching the light with every turn.

The crowd screams louder now, and it isn’t just excitement—it’s hunger. You can hear it in their voices. Men stare openly, some cheering, some shaking their heads in disbelief. Women fan themselves or lean over the barricades, trying to catch his attention. A girl near the fence actually calls out, “Caleb! Take me for a ride next!”

But he doesn’t look at any of them.

He rides straight to you.

Engine rumbling low, dirt speckled across his abs and jaw, Caleb pulls up right in front of you and slides off the bike in one smooth motion. His boots crunch the clay as he walks closer. You’re already holding the water bottle out for him, your expression hovering somewhere between amused and flustered.

He yanks his helmet off one-handed.

His hair is wild, matted with sweat and dust, dark strands clinging to his forehead. His skin glistens, sun-kissed and marked with effort. And yet his eyes—sharp, narrowed, already smirking—are only for you.

“Here,” you offer, holding the water out.

He takes it without breaking eye contact, his fingers brushing yours. His dog tag swings lightly against his chest as he tips the bottle back, his throat works with every gulp, his free hand dragging through his messy hair. The water glints as it runs down his chin, soaking into the dirt smudged along his collarbone, his stomach, vanishing into the waistband of his low-slung riding pants.

Finally, you manage, “What happened to your shirt?”

The roar of engines and voices around you makes it hard to hear. Caleb cups a hand to his ear dramatically, that crooked grin stretching wider as he leans in to shout at you over the noise-

“What was that, pipsqueak?!”

You roll your eyes, heat blooming across your cheeks. “I said, where’s your shirt, showoff?”

When he finally pulls the bottle away, he exhales, smirking again as he leans one arm on the handlebar beside you. “Didn’t want to ruin it,” he says, nodding toward where the shirt’s been abandoned near a tool cart.

You arch a brow. “Or maybe you just wanted everyone to see your shiny muscles.”

“Jealous?” he murmurs, voice low now, voice just for you.

Your cheeks burn. “Of what? The bike or the girls trying to throw themselves onto the track?”

He chuckles, leaning in even closer, his breath warm. “Neither of them get this close to me.”

The crowd roars again somewhere behind you as another rider takes off. But in this moment, it feels like you and Caleb are suspended in your own heat-soaked world, your heart thudding louder than the engines, louder than anything.

You barely have time to register the cheers behind him before Caleb sets the water bottle down and reaches for your hand.

“Come on,” he says, voice still rough from exertion, low enough that it’s meant only for you.

You blink. “Come on… what?”

His eyes gleam, teasing. “Ride with me.”

Your lips part. “I—wait—no, no way. I am not doing a backflip, Gege.”

He laughs then, that warm, velvety chuckle that starts in his chest and makes your stomach flutter like you’ve just gone over a drop.

“No, Meimei,” he says, soft but deliberate. He lifts your hand to his lips and brushes a dusty kiss across your knuckles before tugging you gently toward the bike. “Not for stunts. Just want to show you something. There’s a spot—on the other side of the track. No crowds. You’ll like it.”

You hesitate. “I’m still not sure I trust you with my spinal integrity.”

His grin widens, all crooked charm and glinting teeth. “I’ve held you closer than this on worse terrain.”

You flush.

He turns and grabs his helmet, the bright orange shell streaked with dirt, the inside dark with sweat. He doesn’t even think twice before offering it to you. “Here.”

You take it reluctantly. It’s still warm from his body, the scent of him soaked into the padding—salt and sun and something uniquely Caleb, like gunmetal and citrus and the faintest trace of that cologne he used to wear just for you. You blink down at it, heart skittering.

“Smells like you,” you murmur.

He smirks, wickedly pleased. “Yeah? I’ll sweat in it for you anytime.”

“Gross.”

“Liar.”

You narrow your eyes at him but slide the helmet on. It’s slightly too big, heavy and snug at once, and every part of it carries him. He’s already swinging a leg over the bike again, settling into place with that easy, confident grace that’s second nature to him.

“Climb on, Meimei,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll go slow.”

You scoff but obey, carefully stepping forward and gripping his shoulders as you straddle the seat behind him. The heat of his body radiates through your thighs instantly, and when you finally wrap your arms around his bare torso, it’s like touching fire—his back damp with sweat, muscles shifting beneath your palms, every movement alive with strength.

Your breath catches.

He smells even better up close.

You feel the dog tag where it rests near his heart, cool and hard against your arm, and you press your cheek to his back before you realize what you’re doing.

Caleb doesn’t comment.

But you feel him smile.

The engine growls to life, and your grip tightens instinctively. Your heart is thudding now—not from fear, but from something hotter, deeper. You’re completely pressed against him, legs tucked against the curve of his hips, chest to his spine, your pulse syncing with the vibrations of the bike as he takes off.

He doesn’t speed.

Not this time.

He weaves smoothly across the track, away from the noise, away from the crowd, until the roar fades to a distant hum. You pass one last mound of sunbaked earth, and then suddenly the world opens up—quiet, golden, framed by a shallow tree line and the stretch of empty land behind the arena.

The air smells like dust and wild grass, and the sun hits everything just right.

Caleb coasts to a stop.

The bike settles beneath you, the engine falling silent. You hesitate for a second longer before finally letting go of him. Your hands slide down his sides as you draw back, and you swear you feel him shiver.

He turns slightly, watching you take the helmet off.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, cheeks warm. “Yeah. Just… my heart’s still recovering.”

He grins. “From the ride?”

You meet his gaze. “From you.”

There’s a beat of stillness.

Then Caleb swings one leg off the bike and offers his hand. You take it, and he guides you down slowly, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Around you, it’s quiet. No one else made it back here. No voices. No engines. Just wind, sun, the occasional chirp of cicadas. The sky is high and pale, and the earth below is warm underfoot. Caleb sets the bike’s stand and moves to stand beside you, tall and powerful, still shirtless, his skin golden and streaked with dirt.

You look up at him.

“What is this place?” you ask softly.

He shrugs. “Found it after practice one night. Thought of you.”

You blink. “Me?”

His hand comes up to brush a stray hair off your face, his thumb trailing down the curve of your cheek.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s quiet. It’s hidden. A break from all the chaos. Reminded me of how I feel when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches again—but this time, you don’t look away.

“You’re good at that,” you whisper.

“At what?”

“Making me forget anyone else exists.”

Caleb smirks, but there’s something softer behind it now, almost reverent. His gaze drops to your lips. The dog tag swings slightly between you again.

“Good,” he says quietly. “That’s all I ever want.”

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s you leaning closer without realizing, or maybe it’s Caleb shifting, closing the distance like it’s nothing. But suddenly, the space between you is gone.

The wind is still. Even the cicadas hush.

He watches you for a heartbeat longer, eyes half-lidded, sparkling violet and shadowed under his lashes. Then his gaze drops to your mouth, and his voice comes out low, like he’s still catching his breath from the ride.

“You’re lookin’ at me like I’m about to do something reckless.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Aren’t you?”

That smile—half cocky, half dangerous—tugs at the edge of his lips. “Always.”

And then he kisses you.

Not rough. Not hurried. Just heat and confidence and something a little too tender for someone who’d just launched a dirtbike forty feet into the air.

His mouth brushes yours, testing, and when you gasp—just a little—he deepens it, tilts his head and claims it, slow and full. One of his hands comes up to cradle your cheek, dirt-smudged fingers warm on your skin, the other resting low on your waist like he’s reminding himself not to pull you any closer than this.

The kiss hums through your body like electricity.

He tastes like sun and dust and heat, like adrenaline and something unspoken he’s been holding back for too long. When he finally pulls back, you’re not even sure how long you’ve been standing there. You only know your knees are slightly unsteady, and your heart is no longer beating in any kind of rhythm.

You blink up at him.

He grins.

You stare, dazed, and mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “What—what was that for?”

His voice is a low drawl. “You rode the bike. Had to reward you somehow.”

“You could’ve just said thank you.”

“I did.” He taps your lower lip with his thumb. “That was the thank you. Want to see what the reward looks like?��

You roll your eyes, but your face is burning. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re flushed, pipsqueak.”

“Shut up.”

Caleb laughs softly and takes your hand again, more gently this time, twining your fingers through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “The spot I really wanted to show you’s back this way.”

You glance around. There’s nothing but wild, golden grass and dusty air stretching around the edge of the arena.

“You mean further off the track?”

He smirks without answering, tugging you toward the tree line.

You follow.

The edge of the forest is cooler. The trees are tall and thin, scattered enough to let the sunlight spill through in slanted bars. Everything smells green and sun-warmed, the air quieter here, cushioned by leaves and moss. Caleb doesn’t say much as you walk. Just leads you deeper between the trees, his hand warm in yours, his bare shoulders haloed in the light that filters down through the canopy.

Eventually, he stops.

It’s not a clearing exactly—just a soft dip between the trees, where the sunlight hits just right, and a large, flat boulder is half-shaded under an arching tree. Wildflowers bloom at the edges. There’s the faint sound of a creek somewhere nearby.

Caleb releases your hand and settles on the rock, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His dog tag glints as he leans back on his arms, head tilted toward the sun, eyes closed for a moment. The muscles in his abdomen shift with every breath—still damp with sweat, still dusted with dirt—but something in his posture is relaxed now.

At ease.

You step closer. “You really do come here alone?”

He opens one eye. “Usually.”

“Why bring me?”

He smiles. “Because I wanted you to see what it’s like when everything shuts up.”

You pause. “You mean the crowd?”

He nods. “And the shouting. The adrenaline. The expectations. Out there, I’m someone else. Fast. Loud. Always watched.”

You step beside him, feeling the quiet settle between the trees. “And here?”

He looks up at you with something softer in his gaze. “Here, I’m just… me. And you’re you. And no one’s around to get in the way.”

The wind stirs the leaves above you.

He pats the stone beside him. “Sit with me, Meimei.”

You hesitate just long enough to make him smirk again, but you do. You perch beside him, careful at first, until he reaches out and pulls you just slightly closer—your thigh brushing his, the line of his arm warm where it rests behind you.

The silence stretches, easy and golden.

You steal a glance at him—at the way the light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his smile, the dog tag resting against his chest.

And suddenly you’re thinking less about how hot the day is…

And more about how close you are to doing something just as reckless as him.

The silence in the forest is warm and sweet, birdsong drifting lazily overhead, but you can feel Caleb’s gaze long before he speaks.

He doesn’t look away when you turn your head.

Instead, he tilts his body just enough to face you, one leg still dangling off the edge of the boulder, the other shifting so his knee brushes yours. The proximity sets your pulse skipping again—and then he leans in.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and unhurried, “you never did tell me how you knew I was going to be here.”

Your breath catches.

His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp, glinting with curiosity—and something else, something dangerous. You open your mouth, trying to think of a clever response, but his gaze drops to your lips and your brain decides now would be a great time to shut down completely.

He grins, clearly enjoying this.

“I didn’t exactly broadcast it,” he goes on, slow and smug. “Didn’t post it. Didn’t message anyone. Certainly didn’t tell you.”

You swallow, heart thudding.

“And by the looks of it…” He reaches out, brushing his fingers down the edge of your sleeve like he’s just now pretending to notice. “Those aren’t casual clothes, pipsqueak.”

You stiffen instinctively. “So what?”

“So,” he drawls, leaning in close, “I’d bet anything you left work early. Rushed straight here.”

“I—” You don’t get the rest of the sentence out because suddenly Caleb’s nose brushes your neck.

Not quite a kiss—not yet—just a light nudge, slow and deliberate, like he’s drawing in your scent. His breath hits your skin, warm and unhurried, and your whole body jolts like he touched you with electricity.

“You did,” he whispers against your throat. “Didn’t even stop to change.”

Your breath hitches.

His nose drags up the line of your neck, then along your jaw, until he nudges at your cheek with the same lazy, unrepentant affection. You can feel the edge of a smile against your skin.

You’re blushing. You know you’re blushing, but you’re not sure if it’s the sun or the heat between you or the sheer unbearable closeness of him. It doesn’t matter—Caleb’s already noticed. Of course he has.

“I had a feeling,” you mutter, trying—and failing—to keep your voice even.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, golden eyes gleaming. “A feeling?”

“That you’d be here,” you say quickly. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

“Mhm.”

Your mouth runs ahead of your brain again. “And what about you?” you demand, poking him lightly in the chest. “You clocked me immediately when I arrived, even with your helmet on. There were hundreds of people out there, and you still—”

He laughs, low and rough. “Of course I did.”

You blink.

He shifts closer, so close you can feel the heat of his skin through your clothes. His voice dips into something husky and deliberate, sending another shiver skittering down your spine.

“You really think I wouldn’t notice the moment you showed up?”

Your breath stalls.

Caleb doesn’t stop there. He leans in again, this time pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your jaw. Just one. Light. Barely there.

But it’s enough.

You turn your head toward him instinctively—and now his lips are a whisper away from yours.

“If anyone in that arena had a heartbeat like yours when I landed that flip,” he murmurs, “I would’ve heard it.”

You try to say something, anything, but your voice catches in your throat.

“And by the way,” he adds with a low laugh, “you’re not exactly hard to spot, Meimei. You’re the only one I look for.”

And then he kisses you again.

Not slow this time.

Hot.

Confident.

Teasing.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head as he deepens the kiss, tongue brushing your lower lip before coaxing it open. You melt before you can stop yourself, your hands gripping the edge of the rock—or maybe his thigh—anything to keep steady.

The kiss leaves you dizzy, breathless, full of too many things to name.

When he finally pulls back, he’s smirking again, eyes half-lidded with heat.

“Still jealous?” he asks, all smugness.

You try to answer. You try.

Instead, you squeak out something like, “Shut up.”

He grins. “Didn’t sound like a no.”

You shove him—lightly—but he just catches your wrist, lacing your fingers with his again.

“C’mon,” he says, rising smoothly to his feet and tugging you up with him. “Let’s walk a little further in. There’s a part of the forest where the trees are thicker. Nobody comes out that far.”

You eye him. “And why would we go out that far?”

Caleb lifts his brows, amused. “So we can be alone.”

The deeper you follow him into the woods, the quieter the world becomes.

The roar of engines, the cheers of the crowd—gone. All that’s left is birdsong, the soft hush of leaves swaying overhead, and the steady crunch of your boots against sun-dappled earth.

Boots that are absolutely not meant for this kind of terrain.

You stumble over a gnarled root, cursing under your breath. Caleb doesn’t miss a beat. His hand’s already there, wrapping around your wrist, steadying you like it’s second nature—because it is.

“Tsk.” He glances back with a lopsided smirk. “Those boots were made for desks, not dirt trails.”

You scowl at him, but he doesn’t let go.

His fingers stay wrapped around yours, warm and calloused, thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin as he guides you deeper into the trees. You want to pull away—should—but you don’t.

He’s still shirtless, the sunlight filtering through the canopy catching on the sweat slicking his chest, his arms, his abs. Every time he moves, muscle flexes and shadows shift, making it very hard not to stare.

Which you’re definitely not doing.

Except maybe you are.

And Caleb notices.

Oh, he notices.

When you finally reach the spot he’d mentioned, your breath catches—not just from the walk, but from the place itself. The trees open into a small clearing, ringed with wildflowers and golden grass. The sunlight here is soft and warm, streaming in through high branches like something out of a dream.

You turn slowly, taking it in.

And that’s when Caleb moves.

Before you realize what’s happening, he’s behind you—right behind you—and then you’re being gently, firmly, backed against a tall tree, you quickly spin around and feel the bark cool and rough against your spine. His arms go up on either side of your head, caging you in. One foot slides between yours. The air thickens instantly.

“Nice view, huh?” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “Glad you made it all the way here in those heels.”

“They’re not heels,” you mumble, trying—and failing—to sound irritated.

“Oh? Just office-approved tread then?” He chuckles low in his throat. “You really did come straight from work.”

You grit your teeth. “So what if I did?”

Caleb tilts his head, eyes darkening with something deeper.

“You didn’t even change,” he says softly, like it’s a secret, “didn’t even think about it. You just ran out the door.” His voice lowers another notch. “Just to see me.”

Your cheeks burn, but your gaze stays locked on his.

“And I bet,” he continues, one hand dropping to gently trace the collar of your blouse, the edge of his fingers brushing your skin, “when you saw me shirtless—sweat, dirt, and all—your heart started racing, didn’t it?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Caleb’s grin grows.

“Oh, Meimei,” he drawls, dragging the word out like a promise. “You were looking at me like you were about to fall apart.”

“I was not—!”

“You were.” He dips lower, his nose grazing your jaw. “I saw it. That little flush you got. The way you stopped breathing when I took my helmet off. The way your eyes locked right here—” He presses two fingers to the dip between his pecs, right where his dog tag necklace glints faintly in the sun, slick with sweat and dust. “You kept staring.”

Your fingers curl into the bark behind you. “That’s not fair.”

“Mm,” Caleb hums, leaning closer, his lips brushing your cheek now. “No, what’s not fair is how you expect me to stay calm when you’re out here looking at me like that. With your lips parted. All flustered. Like I could just…” His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “...kiss you senseless and no one would hear.”

Your heart stutters violently.

“You wouldn’t.”

His smirk turns razor-sharp. “Wouldn’t I?”

And then he kisses you.

No warning this time. No teasing brush of lips.

Just heat—searing, consuming, all teeth and tongue and hunger.

You gasp into his mouth, fingers shooting up to grip his shoulders. Caleb groans low, like the sound of your surprise fuels him. He kisses you harder, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your spine until he’s holding the back of your neck, possessive and unrelenting.

When he finally pulls away, you're dizzy—shaken—and very aware of how tightly you're clinging to him.

Caleb doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and fast.

“No one gets to see you like this,” he whispers. “No one but me.”

You nod, barely managing it.

“Say it,” he commands, voice rough and low.

Your lips part, breathless. “Just you.”

Caleb smirks again, but this time there’s no humor in it—just heat and possession and want.

“Damn right, Meimei.”

He presses one more kiss to your cheek, slower this time, and then murmurs against your skin:

“You’re not getting away now.”

His mouth crashes against yours again, but this time there’s no warning—no teasing smirk, no murmured taunt.

Just heat.

Hot, desperate, claiming.

His hands find your hips and grip hard and you respond instantly, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer until there’s nothing but sweat and skin and the furious beating of two hearts in sync.

“Caleb—” you gasp against his lips, but he swallows the sound, tongue sweeping deep, hungry. It’s a kiss that says mine, and when he finally breaks it, his voice is low, rasping.

“ Meimei…”

Your blouse is clinging to you, damp from the heat, sticking to your skin in places—and he’s had enough of it. He tugs it loose, fingers slipping over your stomach, up your sides, trailing fire with every touch.

“Too many layers,” he growls, pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes. “It’s too damn hot. Take it off.”

You hesitate, only for a second—but he’s already undoing the top button, the dog tag you gave him glinting between you as he works down the row, eyes never leaving yours.

By the time your blouse is undone and slipping off your shoulders, you’re trembling—not from fear, not from the heat, but from anticipation.

He drinks you in with a low, rough sound that shoots straight through you.

“God, look at you…”

The backs of your legs brush against the rough bark of the tree again as he presses closer, lips crashing into yours one more time—harder, more insistent. His hands are everywhere now: sliding down your spine, cupping your thighs, gripping your waist. He groans into your mouth when you arch against him, and the sound makes you melt.

“Been thinking about this,” he pants between kisses. “Every time you looked at me like that. Every time you bit your lip while I was training. You don’t even notice what you do to me.”

You gasp as he shifts, hand sliding down and gripping your thigh firmly, hitching it around his waist. The friction sends sparks through you, and your head falls back against the tree as his mouth trails hot, open kisses down your neck.

“You smell like my sweat,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with desire. “You know how much that turns me on?”

You barely manage a whimper.

His hand cups your jaw, forcing your eyes back to his.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I—yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth is back on yours in an instant, while his hands roam with purpose. One slides under your bra, groaning when he feels how fast your heart is racing beneath his touch. The other slips beneath your waistband, fingers moving with wicked intent.

“Been dreaming about the sounds you make,” he mutters against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Want to hear them all.”

You’re barely coherent, fingers digging into his shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours, breathing ragged.

“You always let me tease you, Meimei,” he growls. “But you know I don’t play fair. Not when I finally get you alone.”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Don’t play fair.”

He chuckles darkly. “You sure?”

You nod, dazed. “Please.”

That’s the moment the tension snaps.

Clothes are tugged and shoved away, dirt be damned. Your work pants join your blouse, discarded somewhere beside Caleb’s gloves and his sweat-soaked helmet. The air is hot, heavy with the scent of sun-warmed pine, dust, and him—and you’ve never been more aware of your body.

Or his.

Every muscle under his skin moves like liquid steel, glistening and tight. He kisses you like he owns you—because in this moment, he does.

His voice breaks through the haze, low and guttural as he presses his forehead against yours again.

“I’m not gonna last long,” he warns, breath hot. “Not when you’re like this.”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice nearly lost in the sound of rustling leaves and your own heartbeat. “Just take me.”

And he does.

You gasp softly as he lowers his head to your neck, he kisses the curve of your shoulder with aching tenderness—then bites. Just enough to sting. Just enough to remind you exactly who’s touching you.

“You’re flushed,” he murmurs against your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt from your sweat. “Shaking.” His lips trail higher, to the edge of your jaw, brushing, brushing, before his teeth catch your earlobe.

His hand slides down, warm palm gliding over your stomach, and then lower—until he’s cupping your core. He’s slow, deliberate. Two fingers stroke through the slick heat between your thighs and you instinctively press closer, chest arching into his.

“So wet for me,” he growls, almost to himself. “God, you were made for me.”

His fingers move in smooth, slow circles—tormenting. You whimper, legs already starting to tremble. Your nails scrape lightly down his back, needing more, but he doesn’t speed up. Not yet.

Instead, he watches you. Studies your every twitch, every gasp, every plea caught on your tongue.

Then—snap.

You’re spun around gently, back pressing to his chest now instead of the tree. His hands guide your hips, pulling you backward against him. You can feel how hard he is already, thick and pulsing through the last shred of fabric between you.

His mouth is back at your neck, kissing a line down your spine. “I love how quiet you try to be,” he says low and rough, “when there’s no one around to hear you but me.”

You whimper again as his hand slides around to your chest, fingers brushing over one nipple, then the other, pinching lightly. His other hand strokes your inner thigh, fingers grazing—then sinking inside you, slow and deep.

You cry out softly, and he groans right behind your ear. “That’s it. Let me hear you, Meimei.”

You’re barely standing by the time he removes his hand. You feel the loss, but only for a second—then he’s lifting you, your back flush to the bark now, and you feel him positioning himself between your thighs.

“Hold onto me.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist without thinking, and then—

He thrusts into you, slow at first, a deep, burning stretch that steals the air from your lungs. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, and he groans against your throat.

“Fuck, you feel so good…”

He starts to move, grinding deeper, slower this time—each thrust perfectly angled, purposeful. He knows exactly what he's doing, how to push you to the edge, how to keep you there. You feel every inch of him, every flex of his body pressing into yours, and it’s bliss.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice breathless.

You force your eyes open. His gaze catches yours—burning, possessive, feral.

“That’s it,” he pants, kissing you hard. “Only you get this. No one else. All of them in the stands can look, can scream my name—but you? You’re the one I want. Always.”

Your reply is lost in another moan as he hits that perfect spot again, and again. His rhythm picks up. The control he’d kept all this time starts to fray—his movements becoming more raw, more desperate.

The bark behind you scratches your back slightly, the sun beats down on your skin, and Caleb’s mouth is all over you—your neck, your collarbone, your lips, your chest.

His teeth graze one nipple, tongue swirling, and your whole body arches. He groans at your reaction, rutting harder, more erratic now.

“I need to feel you fall apart,” he rasps. “Right here. On me.”

You’re already so close—so close.

And then his thumb is there again, brushing quick circles where you’re most sensitive, and it’s too much. You shatter with a cry, body seizing around him as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Caleb follows a moment later, slamming deep one last time with a groan torn from his throat—raw and wild. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes clenched shut as he pulses inside you, still grinding slow and deep through the aftershocks.

The forest falls quiet again. Just your breathing, the rustling of leaves, and the steady thrum of your heart.

You stay there for a long moment, clinging to him, forehead against his, trying to catch your breath.

When he finally speaks, it’s soft, hoarse.

“I wasn’t planning on that,” he says with a breathless laugh. “But… damn.”

You laugh weakly. “You said you weren’t done.”

He lifts you gently off him, careful, still holding you steady.

“I’m never done with you.”

#love and deepspace smut #caleb x MC #love and deepspace fluff #lads x reader #caleb fluff #caleb smut #caleb x reader #lads caleb

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