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pucksandpower · 2 months ago

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The Shape of Your Silence

Max Verstappen x deaf!Reader

Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard

The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.

You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.

You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.

You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.

And you are not going to mess this up.

The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.

You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.

Hard.

Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.

“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.

You blink up.

He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.

Max Verstappen just ran into you.

You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.

You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.

Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.

Behind you, Max is frozen in place.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.

“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.

Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.

“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.

Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”

Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”

Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”

Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”

Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.

“She’s what?”

“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”

Max doesn’t respond right away.

He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.

It shouldn’t bug him.

But it does.

“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.

Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”

“And she works here now? Like … full time?”

“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”

Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.

“I think she hates me.”

Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”

Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.

He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.

You didn’t.

You just signed and left.

Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.

“You are.”

“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”

Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.”

Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”

Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”

Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.

You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.

You’re also annoyed.

Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.

You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.

Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.

“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.

You nod.

He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”

You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.

Charles grins. “He never does.”

You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.

Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”

You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.

But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.

Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”

You follow him, head held high.

You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.

And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.

He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.

***

The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.

You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.

You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.

“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.

You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.

“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.

Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.

You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.

“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”

“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes.

The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.

Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.

He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”

You sign, So are you.

He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.

You’re not expecting it.

For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.

You think he’s proud.

But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.

Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.

But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.

Finally, you sign, Say it.

He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”

You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.

He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”

I know.

“It’s not a forgiving job.”

You nod. I know.

Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”

You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.

“That’s different.”

Why?

His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”

Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”

Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”

“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.

“You’re all thinking it.”

You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.

They all fall silent.

You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.

Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”

Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”

And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.

“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”

You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”

“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.

Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”

You don’t get to protect me from my own future.

He flinches.

Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”

You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.

Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.

“To you.”

You smile.

It’s soft. But real.

***

Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.

A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!

Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”

Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”

Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”

“Since today.”

“… Because of Charles’ sister?”

Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”

“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, “you ran into her.”

Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”

Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”

Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”

“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”

Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Lando howls with laughter.

Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”

Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”

“She didn’t hear you.”

“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”

“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”

Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”

Max is quiet.

Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.

The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”

***

Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.

Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.

Charles breaks the silence.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You glance over.

The job?

He nods.

I love it.

He nods again, slower this time.

Then he signs, You’re amazing.

Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.

Thank you.

And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.

***

The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.

Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.

One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.

Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.

It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.

They’re starting to see you.

Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.

You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.

You turn.

It’s him.

Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.

You raise an eyebrow.

His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.

H … E … L … L … O.

Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.

You stare at him.

It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.

And then it hits you.

He’s signing in ASL.

Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.

And whatever Max just spelled?

It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.

You blink.

He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.

You burst out laughing.

Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.

Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.

You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.

Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.

You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.

He takes it, cautiously.

10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.

Wrong language, Verstappen.

Max reads it. Then blinks.

Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”

You shake your head, still grinning.

He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”

You sign, slow and clear. LSF.

“Is that … French?”

You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.

Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”

You shrug, amused. It’s cute.

He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”

You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.

Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.

Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”

You don’t have to.

“I want to.”

You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.

That’s new.

You cock your head. Why?

He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”

You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.

He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.

Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”

You nod. Always.

He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”

You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.

Only if you promise not to run into me again.

He nods solemnly. “Deal.”

***

Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.

He taps your shoulder.

You turn.

He signs hurriedly. You okay?

You nod. Then sign back, Why?

He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”

You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.

Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”

You grin. Exactly.

He shakes his head. “This guy.”

He tried. It was sweet.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”

He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.

Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”

You give him a look.

His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”

You raise both brows. Of what?

He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”

Confident men?

“Cocky men.”

You mean men like you?

He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.

Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.

He watches you go.

Isa sidles up next to him.

“She’s good,” she says.

Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”

“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”

Charles stares at you across the garage.

You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.

You’re not just holding your own.

You’re leading.

Charles lets out a slow breath.

Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”

She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”

***

That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.

The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.

Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.

“… Mate.”

Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”

“You switched languages.”

“Yes.”

“You really like her, huh?”

Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”

Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”

He stares at it for a long time.

Then goes back to the beginning.

Again.

***

The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.

You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.

The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.

Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.

But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.

You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.

And then-

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s there.

Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.

Your brow lifts. Coincidence?

He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.

Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.

You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

He grins.

You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.

He shrugs. Maybe.

You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?

He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:

Bonjour

Comment ça va?

Travail

Voiture

Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant

You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.

Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.

10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.

He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.

Still failing, though?

You scribble back. Barely passing.

Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.

He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.

Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.

He pulls out his phone again and types:

Can I ask you something?

You nod.

What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.

Your brows rise.

Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”

Not many ask what you do.

You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.

I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.

You pass the napkin over.

Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.

You grin. Correct.

He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?

You nod. Probably.

He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?

That one takes you off-guard. You blink.

Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.

He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.

You stare at the napkin.

He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”

You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.

People don’t usually talk to you.

They talk over you. Around you. At you.

They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.

No one asks about your code.

No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.

Except him.

You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”

You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”

You nod. I get that.

You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.

Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.

You turn to him.

“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”

You blink. You researched it?

He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”

You don’t reply.

Mostly because you don’t know how.

It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.

But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.

He asks how it feels.

You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.

You hesitate.

When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.

You push it across.

He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.

Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.

Your throat tightens.

You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?

He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”

You don’t say anything.

But your smile says enough.

***

It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.

He types something on his phone, then holds it up.

Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.

You hesitate. Then nod.

The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.

When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.

Max stops beside you.

You pull out a pen one last time and write.

10/10 effort tonight.

He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?

You shake your head, smile wide.

9/10, at least.

And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.

But not before you look back.

***

The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.

You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.

Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.

But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.

All weekend.

And not in the proud big-brother way.

In the circling hawk way.

You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.

You sigh.

Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”

You frown. Now?

He nods. “Now.”

You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.

You fold your arms.

Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”

Your stomach drops.

What thing?

“You’ve been spending time with him.”

So?

“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”

You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.

That’s not your choice.

Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.

“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”

He’s not like that with me.

“How do you know that?”

Because I pay attention.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”

You sign faster now, sharper.

What, and you think I can’t handle it?

“That’s not-”

You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.

His jaw tightens.

You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.

“That’s not fair-”

No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.

Silence stretches between you.

Your fingers are trembling.

Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You stare at him.

Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.

And you walk away before he can answer.

***

The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.

You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.

You hate that your hands shook.

You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.

You hate that people still don’t listen.

You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The voice is quiet. Familiar.

Max.

You turn your head slowly.

He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.

For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.

Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.

Are you okay?

You stare at it.

Then shake your head. Once.

He nods.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.

You. Matter.

Your chest pulls tight.

He signs again, a little slower this time.

You. Matter. To me.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods.

Then signs, I mean it.

You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.

Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.

He swallows. His jaw ticks.

He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.

Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.

You keep writing.

You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.

He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.

You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.

He stares at the words. Then at you.

When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.

I want to learn how to do this better.

You nod.

Then sign back, softer now. So do I.

He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.

Your breath catches. The wind shifts.

You don’t need words right now.

You just sit with him in the quiet.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.

***

Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.

Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.

He sees the way Max sits beside you.

Sees the stillness. The peace.

And something in his expression finally starts to change.

***

You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.

Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.

No context.

By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.

Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.

To her left sits the interpreter.

You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.

Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.

You nod once, eyes already narrowing.

Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.

Luc mirrors them in LSF.

You frown. What kind of chatter?

The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.

Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?

Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.

Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.

Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?

Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.

Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.

We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.

You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?

“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”

You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.

I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?

Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.

Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”

But it’s exactly what you’re implying.

Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”

You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.

UNFAIR.

They don’t have a response.

***

You don’t cry.

Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.

You’ve survived harder things.

But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.

Gone with a headline.

Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.

Just gossip.

***

The press conference is livestreamed.

You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.

A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”

Max cuts in. Instantly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”

The room stills.

Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.

“I think it’s pathetic.”

A murmur ripples through the journalists.

He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”

The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.

“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”

He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.

The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.

Max answers without looking away from the camera.

And just like that, it’s over.

You watch the video again. And again.

You don’t know what to feel.

Until your phone buzzes.

MAX

You free after debrief?

You reply, Yes. Why?

He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.

And nothing else.

***

You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.

You open it.

Snowdrops.

Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.

Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.

Your throat closes.

You sign, slow. How did you know?

He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”

That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.

You touch the petals gently. Then look up.

Why did you do that? At the press conference?

His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”

You stare at him.

He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”

You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.

They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.

“You’re not,” he says.

Then what am I?

He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”

You don’t move.

“You make me want to be better,” he says.

You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.

With something warmer. Something more terrifying.

Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.

Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.

You. Are. Not. Small.

And finally.

You. Matter. To. Me.

You reach for him before you can think.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.

Not for a long time.

***

The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.

The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.

And still, the rain doesn’t stop.

You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.

Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.

You tap your tablet once to get his attention.

It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.

He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”

Which would leave you starting fourth.

He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”

You grin. I might be okay with it.

“I’m not.”

You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.

Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.

He turns to face you fully.

Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.

You glance at him. Okay?

He nods.

Then he takes a breath.

And lifts his hands.

Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.

You stare.

The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.

You blink hard. Then again.

You are not background noise.

Your throat tightens.

You open your hands, unsure where to begin.

You practiced that?

He nods. “All night.”

Why?

“Because I needed to say it right.”

You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.

People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.

He nods, not breaking eye contact.

But not you.

“I never want to be that person.”

You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.

It’s terrifying.

“What is?”

Letting someone see me. Like really see me.

He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”

You blink. Why?

“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.

The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.

You don’t look away from him.

And he doesn’t look away from you.

When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.

You don’t.

His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.

Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss him back.

Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.

When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.

You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.

He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.

***

The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.

The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.

Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.

Charles approaches with purpose.

Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.

For a beat, it’s just them.

Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.

Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.

Max tilts his head. “Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what’s it about, Charles?”

Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”

Max meets his eyes, unblinking.

Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”

“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”

Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.

“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”

“I know what she’s been through.”

“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”

Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”

“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”

“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”

Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”

Charles doesn’t respond.

“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”

He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.

“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”

Silence hangs thick between them.

“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”

***

While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.

The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.

The rumors.

The tension.

The whispers in the garage.

You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.

Luc sits beside you.

Fred barely looks up.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.

You speak with your hands, composed and clear.

Let’s.

“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”

You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.

Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.

“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”

Optics?

He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”

You don’t flinch.

Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?

He says nothing.

If I were a man?

Still nothing.

You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.

Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.

A beat.

I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.

Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.

If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.

It’s quiet.

Very quiet.

Finally, Fred leans back.

“Noted,” he says.

That’s it.

But you know it’s more than enough.

You stand, nod once, and walk out.

Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?

You smile, just a little. Now I am.

***

Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.

You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.

Until later.

You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.

“Wait.”

You turn.

He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.

You sign, What is it?

“I spoke to Max.”

Your brows lift. Okay?

“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”

You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.

Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”

He didn’t. He stood beside me.

Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”

You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”

It hurt. And it made everything too loud.

“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”

You smile. That was a proud day.

He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.

“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”

You pause.

Why did you?

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”

You take a step closer.

But I’m not you.

He nods.

And Max …

“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You smile. Just a little.

So you’re okay with this?

Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”

You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.

He opens his arms, tentative.

You walk into them.

And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.

***

Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:

He trusts me now.

Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”

You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.

He pulls you close.

And under the cooling night, you realize something else.

You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.

***

One Year Later

It rains, as it always does in Belgium.

Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.

You walk through the paddock with Max.

You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.

But you know the truth.

He doesn’t just show up.

He stays.

You sign, You have a hair sticking up.

He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”

You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.

You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.

A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.

He stops.

Looks down.

And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.

Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.

But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”

Max holds up a hand, gently.

And then switches languages.

Does he use LSF?

The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.

You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.

Then he signs.

Clear, confident.

Hi, what’s your name?

The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.

He signs back, My name is Michel.

Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.

The mother covers her mouth.

You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.

Do you like cars?

I love them!

Who is your favorite driver?

The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.

Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”

You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.

The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.

You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.

He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.

You smile and sign, Of course he is.

Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.

He hands it back with a wink.

Michel clutches it like treasure.

Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?

Michel nods enthusiastically.

Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.

The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.

The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.

But the quiet between you two lingers.

He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.

Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.

Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”

You nod.

That was more than okay.

He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.

You give him a moment.

He takes it.

Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Max smiles. Small. Tender.

That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.

You don’t kiss him.

Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.

But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.

And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.

4K notes · View notes

nanamiskentos · 7 months ago

Text

SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

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nighttidee · 6 days ago

Text

𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔

Meeting the lads men for the first time as a non-Mc Reader (part two here and series master list here)

ft: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb.

wc: 2523 (aprox 500 for each)

warnings: slightly graphic in Zayne's section (surgery), possible inaccurate depictions of motorcycles and piloting.

notes: first ever lads fic and first ever fic on tumblr. Idk if the guys will be ooc cause I don't fully know how to write them yet but you've got to start somewhere lmao!

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier needed to shed his mask and all the human lies behind it, and there was only one place he could do that: at Jeremiah's florist shop. Xavier knew the place like the back of his hand, and his friend always welcomed him with that familiar smile, a quiet comfort in his presence. Their bond had tightened over time; Xavier felt that in his bones, their friendship forged by duty and shared isolation.

And yet, as he stepped into the florist, he felt as if he'd never seen his friend's shop before. There was something more vivid about the plants, he realised, leaves were tangled together, petals blooming wildly, exposing bold and beautiful colours. The air was thick with the sweetness of flowers, and it through Xavier through a loop. He furrowed his brows.

Then, he heard the humming.

You appeared from around the corner, oblivious to his presence as you caressed the lilies. He watched as they lifted from their drooped posture into a bright and proud stance. Then, you moved to the roses next to them, and he watched as the brown-tinged petals flushed with a pink hue. A rustle came from above. He leaned forward, tilting his head curiously, foot scuffing the floor loudly.

You lurched backwards at the sound, and a vine hanging from the rafters of the ceiling swung downwards, catching you firmly by the arm.

You stared at Xavier.

His eyes flickered to the plant wrapped tightly around your limb, the end of the vine twitching agitatedly like a cat's tail. You followed his gaze and laughed, putting the vine softly, "Thank you."

The vine swayed softly and rose back up to its resting place.

"...Sorry," Xavier murmured awkwardly. He couldn't find himself to fully meet the gentleness of your expression.

"Don't worry about it," You smiled softly, following his eyes up to the vine. "Ah, my evol lets me manipulate plants. Sometimes they like to get minds of their own, though."

Recognition flashed through Xavier, sudden and bright. He nodded thoughtfully, "I understand." The light he commanded certainly liked to play by its own rules, after all.

"You're an evolver, too?" You inquired curiously, wiping your hands on your apron, trying to rid yourself of green marks and pollen on your hands.

"Yes," Xavier responded, ignoring the pulse in his heart as he watched you tilt your head slightly, "I manipulate light."

You clapped your hands, grinning, "Plants and light, we make the perfect match!"

"I..." Xavier's words lingered on his tongue.

Your cheeks flushed, "Oh! I, um, I didn- not like that- um-"

"Why the hell are the Peonies so clingy?!" A familiar voice yelled.

Both of you snapped your heads to find Jeremiah stumble into the room with a grunt, dragging two pots of brightly coloured peonies with him, some of their stems and roots wrapped around his body, coiled tightly.

You laughed loudly and moved to help. Xavier caught your eye and couldn't stop himself from cracking a smile.

He swore, the second you left, he was going to interrogate Jeremiah to find out as much about you as he could.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

Sylus liked joyrides. Racing through the labyrinthine streets of the N109 Zone on his bike until everything was a blur was a favourite pastime of his, especially when fools tried to test his patience.

His jacket clung to his skin as the wind whistled widely against his body as he increased his speed, listening to the rev of his engine, grinning beneath his helmet. Splitting through traffic was as easy as breathing; the honks of horns only made him laugh as he zoomed by. These streets were his, built from the blood and bones of his enemies and he'd be damned if he didn't enjoy them.

The roar of a loud, purring engine echoed by his side. He looked through his side mirror. Rapidly gaining on him was another motorcycle and its rider. Black leather seemed to glow against the street lights as the rider edged closer and closer, the vibrant pink accents on the bike burning like sunrise. What caught his attention, though, was the helmet, as dark and unreadable as the night, with two points sticking out of the top.

Sylus laughed, someone wearing a helmet with cat ears.

You were side by side before he could let out another breath. From behind your visor, you looked at him, and he looked back. Seconds passed as you raced through the streets, neither of you fully looking at the road. Sylus hummed, something flaring in his chest.

He clenched his handles and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

He could almost hear you laugh.

Gone was the irritation built by endless meetings and arrogant idiots, replaced by competitive fire that burned in his heart. Sylus found himself grinning wildly as you challenged him, your bikes neck and neck as you left behind blaring cars. The wind rushed against him as you reared around a corner, knee so close to touching the tarmac, his heart leapt in his chest. He had no time to think as you flew through narrowing roads with drunken buildings leaning closer and closer together.

Sylus had many close calls on his bike, from crashes and bullets alike, but as you darted around a corner, he'd never slammed on his brakes harder. The two of you skidded sharply before a large stone wall that lurched toward the black sky.

A beat of silence.

He stared at you.

You stared back. Then, with gloved hands, you pulled your visor up. Chaos, is all he thought as he studied the only part of your face he could see, your eyes, falling deep into the coy glimmer in them.

Your chest rose and fell in a breathless laugh, "You lost."

"To what rules?" He hummed, heart heaving, pulling off his helmet entirely to match your gaze with his crimson one.

"Since when did the N109 Zone have rules?" You mused.

You didn't give him time to answer before you flicked your visor back down and revved your bike, speeding into the night.

Sylus chuckled. He'd finally found an interesting puzzle to pick apart.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

Rafayel had no inspiration. Most of his new canvases were still white, some full of awful colour and thrown into the corner to rot. Thomas kept hounding him about deadlines, and he felt like he was in chains. So, he did what he always did when the world got too loud: he went to sea. Rafayel's bare feet sank into the sand of the beach as he drew closer and closer to the waves that welcomed him.

Then, he heard the wild, frantic cries of a seagull. Probably hungry, maybe he could entertain himself and make an encore to his first seagull symphony. The sea sang to him as he rounded the corner, pulling himself around rocks still wet from high tide. Rafayel sighed as the wind brushed against his skin like a kiss, and he turned his head towards the cries, finding you there.

Flapping its wings erratically, the seagull thrashed in your hold, but you didn't flinch, your attention laser-focused on removing the netting that had been caught around the poor creature's neck. Rafayel clenched his jaw; he'd almost forgotten how infectious humans were.

A squeal left the seagull as you finally released it from your arms, watching as it flung itself towards the blue sky, a mirror of the sea it caressed at the horizon. You smiled contentedly.

Rafayel tilted his head. "Animal activist?"

You turned, bright eyes glowing as you shook your head, "Marine biologist."

"So you spend all your time with fish," He hummed.

"I do," You laughed, "And you? What do you spend all your time with?"

"Paint. I'm a painter. Of the ocean, mostly," Rafayel answered, the words spilling from his lips like a waterfall, he rushed to catch them, but they were already flowing out of his reach. He waited for the questions, the comparisons, the shift in attitude, but all he got was a quiet smile.

You weren't looking at him but at the sea, "I don't blame you. If I had any artistic talent, I'd devote all my time to understanding something as complex as the ocean."

Something in his chest fluttered. "Complex?"

"Yeah. The sea is as brutal as it is beautiful. It's home to so much life, I mean, it is the place where life on this planet first started. It's also home to death and destruction. It's wild and untamable, but it's also full of love," You breathed, almost whispering as the wind tickled your hair.

Rafayel's mouth went dry. He stared at you, sitting on the sand like you never wanted to leave, and something in his body pulsed with vibrancy. He looked towards the ocean, his home, and felt like he was seeing it again for the first time.

He said nothing to you as he turned on his heel and marched back to his villa. There was canvas waiting to be painted, with the colours of the sea and the shade of your eyes in the sunlight.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

His uniform was burning against his skin, forcing him to suffer beneath the sun as he stood with other officials of the Farspace Fleet. Caleb would have much rather been in his ship, in the Deepspace tunnel, actually doing something useful. He'd much rather that than standing in the stands waiting for the seniors of the Aerospace Academy to complete their exams and compete for the Fleet's attention. Citizens looked at him and whispered behind their hands, muttering about the mysterious new Colonel.

He gritted his teeth, glad for the sunglasses he wore, lest everyone see the foul look in his eyes. He tapped his foot impatiently as he stared out toward the open sky, full of clouds, barely registering the obstacle course before him. He remembered doing something similar.

"You aren't going to search out new talent, Colonel?"

Caleb glanced at the Major to his side, "What talent? The Academy barely produces good cargo pilots."

"Such a scathing criticism!" Brigadier General Nix laughed as he approached with one of his Captains, "But not entirely unfounded, I suppose. Did you hear ab-"

"Look!"

They turned.

And there they were, spaceships zooming across the sky, jolting with the eagerness for victory. Amongst the janky movements through the obstacles, one of the Aerospace Academy's ships was being handled with an iron fist. Each turn was tight as the ship jerked through the course, the engine roaring fiercely.

Caleb leaned forward.

He almost laughed when the ship barrel rolled through a hoop. Just who was pulling tricks during their exam? Who had enough skill? His eyes stayed trained on the vehicle as they darted past ship after ship, pulling into first place like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Every ship landed within a few minutes, but Caleb's focus remained only on one, the first one. He hadn't felt anything this strongly for a long time. His gloved hands gripped the railing as he watched on with rapt interest as students slowly crept out of their shuttles, sheepishly peering up at their spectators.

All except one.

Each step of yours was assured as you made your way to the front of the crowd. Caleb pulled off his sunglasses. The pilot of the ship he'd been invested in. The best pilot he'd seen, aside from him, of course. The Academy's uniform suited you, and Caleb wondered what you'd look like in the Fleet's one instead.

You peered upwards.

The smirk on your lips made his heart stutter. You locked eyes with him, unafraid as you called out, "Look at the top score on the exam results and you'll find my name next to it!"

Caleb grinned, "You think?"

"I know," You laughed as you waved coyly, only to walk away right after. The others followed you like sheep as you strode towards your future with the surest steps he'd ever seen.

Caleb watched you until he couldn't see you anymore. He loosened his tie. Then, he turned to his fellow soldiers, "When does the Academy release the results to us?"

He was going to get a new pilot, after all. And he couldn't wait to find out how well your talent competed with his.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Sunset was smothered in grey clouds as Zayne sat on a bench, listening to the world around him. He felt like the bubble he was in had popped the moment he'd finished his surgery and stepped out of the operating room. The bench was cold, even to him, but he didn't bother to move; he wanted a few moments to himself, needed them really.

In the early hours of the morning, a call came from another institution, pleading for Zanye and his team to do an emergency transplant on an eight-year-old boy who finally had a chance to get a strong heart to replace his failing one. He'd gone without hesitation, spent hours in that sterile room, carrying the weight of a child's life on his shoulders, and now he was as exasperated as he was proud.

His chest heaved as he pulled off his glasses, shutting his eyes a she listened to the life around him, the birds, the people, the cars, all so loud compared to the mechanical beeping of monitors and the squelch of blood as he used his scalp to cut through the boy's skin. He clenched his eyes closed, trying to will himself to shed the sergeon that had frozen the civilian in him.

Footsteps approached.

He sighed and pulled his glasses back on.

"Doctor Li?"

He looked to his side and saw you standing there, familiar white coat draped over your shoulders as you smiled down at him. He studied your features and noted he faint shadows beneath your eyes, as tired as he was.

"Yes? Is everything all right?" He murmured. Had something gone wrong after the surgery?

"Yes!" You smiled, "I just wanted to say thank you."

Zayne furrowed his brows. "For what?"

"For doing Cody's heart transplant. I've been his Doctor since he was six. It's been such a long journey for him, I almost couldn't breathe when I got the call about a donor." Your gaze burned with warmth. "And now, thanks to you, he can finally do all the things on his bucket list. Play basketball, go see movies with his siblings, life outside of white walls and appointments."

"I was just doing my job like any Doctor," Zayne spoke softly.

You nodded, "I know. Doesn't mean the operation was any less difficult."

He didn't know how to answer that.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a lollipop with a shiny red wrapper. "Here. Something to help you feel real again."

"To help me feel real again?" He inquired, hesitantly taking the sweet you'd given, unable to deny his desire for something sugary, something to take away the chemical taste in his mouth.

You hummed, "Yeah. In our profession, we can't always be people, we can't flinch when we see blood, we can't show disgust, we can't show worry. Sometimes we just sort of...shut off a bit, like we're on autopilot. At least...that's what I think."

Zayne couldn't verbalise how much he understood. Something in his chest softened.

You sent him a bright smile, "Anyway! See ya!"

He watched as you disappeared back into the hospital with a smile. He'd have to ask someone for your name.

Professional curiosity, he told himself as he unwrapped the sweet, grinning when he tasted cherry on his tongue.

#love and deepspace #love and deepsace x reader #lads x non!mc reader #lads x reader #lads x you #lads sylus #lads caleb #lads rafayel #lads zayne #lads xavier #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace x reader #lads x nonmc reader #lds x reader #sylus x reader #rafayel x reader #xavier x reader #caleb x reader #zayne x reader

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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Text

No Angels

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding

Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)

Word Count: 18,010

The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”

You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.

Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.

”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.

”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.

”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.

“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.

“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.

“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.

”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“

”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.

Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.

”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.

Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.

You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.

You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.

“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.

”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”

”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”

“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.

“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”

“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”

That had shut you up pretty quickly.

He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.

Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.

From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.

It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.

Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”

Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”

That had been the end of it.

Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.

Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.

He knew what you were to Rhett.

And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.

One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.

“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.

”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.

”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.

Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.

You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.

You’d gotten good at control.

“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.

”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.

”Been quiet since we pulled in…”

“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.

”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.

”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.

In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.

A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.

Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.

Because it did.

Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.

You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”

And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.

“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.

Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.

“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”

You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.

“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”

Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.

And you didn’t.

But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”

Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.

“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”

Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.

“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.

Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.

You watched him go.

And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–

You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.

“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”

Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.

Maria Olivares.

You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.

She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.

And yet here she was.

You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.

”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.

“Maria,” You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.

”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.

Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.

”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.

You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…

Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.

You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”

And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”

Because what else could you do?

You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.

Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.

So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.

And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.

But now, she was here.

In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.

“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”

You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.

”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.

”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.

“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.

“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.

”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.

You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.

You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”

“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.

Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.

You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.

“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.

Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”

Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”

You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”

That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”

You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.

Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.

“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.

Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”

You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”

Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”

”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.

He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”

And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”

Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”

Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”

Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.

He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.

But your chest was a live wire.

Because he didn’t know she was here.

And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.

But you knew exactly what it would do to you.

Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”

And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.

————————

The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.

Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.

You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.

He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.

“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.

“Yeah…You looked good out there.”

But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.

“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.

“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”

You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”

There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.

Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.

You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.

————————

The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.

Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.

The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.

You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.

Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.

Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.

“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”

Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”

“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”

Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.

“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”

“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.

“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.

You stared at the condensation on your glass.

Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.

They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.

But it felt like watching them through a window.

At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.

You drained your glass.

The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.

“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.

”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”

Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”

”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.

”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.

”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.

”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.

And then you caught it–that scent.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.

And it always made you a little dizzy.

You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.

“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.

His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.

“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.

You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.

“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.

Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.

You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.

You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.

And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.

As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.

Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.

And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”

Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”

He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”

She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”

Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”

Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”

Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”

You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”

She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.

Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.

You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.

You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.

Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.

Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.

“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.

“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.

————————

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.

It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.

Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.

“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.

You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.

“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”

You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”

He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.

“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”

“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.

“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”

“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”

Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”

Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”

Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.

“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.

“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”

Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.

You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.

“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.

He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.

And he remembered.

He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.

But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”

Didn’t even ask what night.

You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.

He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.

Sometimes he wished he could read minds.

Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.

What you thought when Maria’s name came up.

What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.

What you thought about him, period.

Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?

“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.

Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.

Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”

You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.

He always did.

Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.

“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.

But instead you said:

”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.

————————

The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.

You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.

You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.

“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.

“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.

“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.

“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.

“Guess it hit me late.”

He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–

“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.

“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.

“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”

“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.

“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”

“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.

And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.

You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.

Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.

Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.

“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.

“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.

The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.

“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”

Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”

You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.

The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.

The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.

The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.

The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.

The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.

It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.

You had cried when he showed you the key.

The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.

The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.

Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.

You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.

The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.

Tires.

Crunching gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.

A truck.

Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.

You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.

“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”

You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.

It wasn’t Perry.

It was Rhett.

Soaked to the damn bone.

His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.

And his expression…He looked furious.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.

It was a supernova.

Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.

You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.

“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”

But he didn’t bite.

He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.

“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

You froze in place.

“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.

“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.

You swallowed.

“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”

You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not angry.

Just… steady.

Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.

“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”

And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.

And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.

The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.

Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:

“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”

Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.

Rhett saw it.

And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.

He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.

“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.

They couldn’t.

Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.

“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”

He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.

“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”

Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.

“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”

And there it was.

Out in the open.

The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.

Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.

“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”

“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.

“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”

That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.

“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”

And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t to stop you.

It was to make you listen.

He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”

You froze.

Every word struck like thunder in your gut.

Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.

He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.

“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.

And it did.

You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–

You launched forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.

Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.

And all you could think was: finally.

Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.

You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.

“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.

“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.

“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”

“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.

But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—

You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.

You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.

Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.

But not like this.

Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.

He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.

He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.

This one was feral.

Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.

You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.

His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.

The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.

You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

And maybe he had.

“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”

You barely had time to answer.

Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.

You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.

“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”

Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.

You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”

You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”

His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.

You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”

Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.

You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.

And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.

“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.

Loud.

Right against your nipple.

The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.

His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.

And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.

He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.

You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.

In him.

His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.

He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.

“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.

“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”

He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.

Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?

His breath caught.

“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.

Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.

“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”

You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.

Then–without warning–he dove in.

His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.

“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.

“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.

“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.

His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.

You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.

Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.

“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.

“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”

He smirked into your core.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.

You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

Rhett didn’t stop.

Not through your first wave, or the second.

He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.

You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.

“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”

You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.

“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”

That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.

And then he paused.

Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.

“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”

Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.

You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”

Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.

“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”

He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.

Then he pushed them down.

The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.

Because Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your mouth actually watered.

You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.

Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.

He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.

“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”

You whimpered–because he was right.

Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.

The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.

“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”

That broke him.

Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.

He was fully inside.

You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”

He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.

He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.

”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.

“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”

“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”

He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.

“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”

You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.

And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.

His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.

You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.

“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”

That did it.

His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.

“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“

You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.

The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.

“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”

Your climax hit like a lightning strike.

You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.

And he broke.

With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.

You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.

The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.

Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”

He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”

You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.

He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.

Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.

“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

#rhett abbott x y/n #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #outer range #rhett Abbott angst #rhett abbott fluff #lewis pullman the man you are #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman #the hot hot heat of my steamy mind #Spotify

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lady-luckk · 2 months ago

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how about a cowboy or a farmer with a bimbo city girl reader??

itd b so funny if she was just like “do brown cows make chocolate milk??”

or maybe she almost kills the guy by accident trying to rake some hay

i love the trope “she’s an idiot but she’s my idiot”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ so like, what’s the wifi password?

# pairings: yandere farmer cowboy x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: while making your way to a fun hangout with your friends your car suddenly breaks down. a kind farmer allows you to stay with him until someone can pick you up. but why are the roads weirdly empty?

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

you’re not entirely sure what led to this. one second you were on your way to hangout with your girlfriends, the next, your pink convertible broke down next to the most farm-ass farm you’ve ever seen. and now? you're standing in front of a barn that smells like hay and something suspiciously meaty, trying to get a signal with your rhinestone-covered phone held toward the sky.

"phone ain't gonna save you out here, princess."

you nearly jump out of your glittery crop top. standing behind you is a tall, broad, sun-scorched wall of man with stubble, a permanent scowl, and arms like they personally fought god for dominance. he's wearing a stained flannel shirt, worn jeans, and a scuffed cowboy hat pulled low like he’s hiding from the law—or just the concept of smiling.

you blink up at him. "omg, hi! are you like, the farmer or cowboy guy?"

he snorts. "i’m the farmer. ain’t another soul within miles, and i sure as hell didn’t call for no... barbie doll on a breakdown."

you gasp, offended. "excuse you, this is Y2K chic. and my name isn’t barbie—it’s..."

"...of course it is."

“you’re not from around here, are you?"

"nnooope. GPS brought me out here for, like, reasons. and then my engine started making this very dramatic sound. sooo now i'm, like, a damsel."

he crosses his arms, face unreadable, then sighs. "you standin’ out here in the heat for long?"

"i mean, i guess? i was gonna call someone, but I’ve only got like, one bar and a lot of hope."

another pause. then he turns and mutters, "c’mon."

"huh?"

"you want heatstroke or you want a glass of water?"

you blink. "omg, you’re nice."

"i ain’t nice," he snaps, opening the screen door wider. "i’m just not leavin’ some glittered-up stranger to roast in a ditch."

inside, it’s a mix of rustic charm and obvious bachelor chaos. he pours you a glass of water without asking, sets it down in front of you like he’s done this a hundred times, and leans against the counter like he’s regretting all of it.

although internally he’s a whole different story. he can’t believe his luck meeting someone as cute as you in this area. he swore he felt his heart leap out of his chest the minute he saw you.

"name’s eli," he says at last. "i’ll take a look at your car. if it’s fixable, i’ll fix it. if not… guess you’ll be stuck here a bit."

you bat your lashes. "you wouldn’t mind that, would you?"

he shifts, jaw flexing. then: “don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.”

but he won’t meet your eyes. and he doesn’t notice he poured you a second glass of water before you even finished the first.

you follow eli outside, trying not to trip on your own wedges as you strut across the gravel like it’s a runway and not, in fact, a minefield of dirt and despair.

he walks a few steps ahead, toolbox in one hand, broad shoulders shifting beneath that flannel like they’ve never known a day of weakness. he doesn’t say much, but you catch him glancing back once—just once—to make sure you’re not lost or dead or doing something ridiculous.

you're doing all three, probably.

when he reaches your car, he pops the hood with one rough tug and peers inside like he’s about to deliver bad news to a family of four.

after a beat, he grunts. “when’s the last time you had an oil change?”

you blink. "what’s that?"

slowly, so slowly, he turns his head and looks at you.

his face is completely blank. emotionless. a man on the brink. like he’s just been told that gravity is optional now. or that the cows have unionized.

you smile up at him, unbothered, chewing your bubblegum. “is that, like, something you get at a drive-thru? because i only do drive-thrus if they have fries.”

he says nothing.

just stares.

a long, long pause.

then: “you shouldn’t legally be allowed to own a vehicle.”

"that’s what my driving instructor said!" you chirp.

eli shuts the hood and mutters something to the lord, probably begging for patience, strength, or a strategic lightning strike.

“you’re lucky i don’t believe in abandoning helpless creatures,” he mutters, already walking toward his truck. “i’m gonna get the part you need. stay put. don’t touch anything. don’t lick anything. don’t—just... don’t.”

you wave sweetly. “k love you, byeee!”

he stops mid-step. shoulders stiffen.

and without turning around, he mutters under his breath, "you’re gonna be the death of me."

later that day, eli returns with what looks like half a junkyard and a grim set to his jaw. he spent hours elbow-deep in your car, occasionally muttering things like “what the hell is this glitter doing in the engine?” and “is this a sticker of a unicorn on the oil cap?”

finally, he slams the hood shut, wipes his hands on a rag, and delivers the verdict with the gravity of a man announcing a funeral.

“pinky, she’s dead.”

you gasp dramatically. “pinky? you named her??”

he squints at you. “she named herself the minute i saw the pink steering wheel cover. and now she’s toast. fried the transmission, shredded the belt, and i’m pretty sure the air freshener doing psychic damage.”

“oh noooo,” you moan. “so what do i dooo?”

he sighs. long and loud, like you physically pained him. “you’ll stay here until i can find someone to tow it and get you back to civilization.”

"yay!" you beam.

“that wasn’t meant to be exciting.”

as the days go by, eli gains a large affection for you. he believes that since you’re “living” with him now, that practically means that the two of you are married.

when you two finally travel into town. he doesn’t like people looking at you. not the guy at the gas station who dared compliment your lip gloss, not the mailman who called you “darlin’” with too much sugar in his voice, and definitely not the tourist who asked if you were “lost” with that fake concern dripping off his words.

eli’s a walking warning sign the second you step into town with him. the locals know him—eli carter, the mountain of a man with a scowl carved into his face and hands that could bend steel. most folks keep their distance, half-respecting, half-fearing him.

they say he’s good with his work, bad with people, and meaner than a rattlesnake if you push the wrong buttons. so when he rolls into town with you, all glitter and sunshine and questions like “do horses get cold?”—yeah, people notice. the butcher’s wife whispers that he’s gone soft. the old mechanic raises a brow like he’s seeing a ghost. when someone chuckles a little too long at your rhinestone boots, eli’s jaw ticks. when a guy at the feed store offers to help you lift a bag of seed, eli’s already there, grabbing it with one hand like it weighs nothing. “they’re good,” he says flatly, not even looking at the guy.

even when you try to chat with the locals, eli’s always close—never rude, but not exactly inviting either. he doesn’t trust easily, especially not when it comes to you. and if someone even looks at you sideways, he’s suddenly all sharp glances and low muttering, hand at your lower back like a silent claim: they’re mine to worry about.

eli’s jaw gets tight, voice real low when he steps between you and anyone who so much as thinks about flirting. once, a farmhand from a neighboring ranch tried to strike up a conversation with you at the feed store—eli didn’t say a word, just calmly picked up a full grain barrel, one-handed, and moved it like it weighed nothing. the guy left before eli even had to speak. you giggled, called him “jealous,” and he growled something about “men like that not knowin’ how to treat you right.”

he won’t say this out loud , but every time someone shows a little too much interest in you, he finds a new chore to do right beside you. fencing, fixing the barn door, chopping firewood shirtless in the sun like that’s normal behavior. once, you saw him bend a crowbar back into shape like it was a breadstick and he acted like it was no big deal. he claims he’s just “lookin’ out for you,” but you’ve noticed how fast his mood shifts when someone else tries to.

eli always has an eye on you. he always seems to know exactly where you are. no matter what he’s doing, his eyes find you like it’s instinct. you’ll be picking flowers by the fence or sneaking another cookie from the jar, and somehow, he’s already looking. not hovering, not smothering—just always aware. like keeping you safe is a reflex, not a choice. it’s subtle, but constant. protective, almost possessive. like some part of him’s decided you’re his to watch over, even when you don’t realize you need it.

he can’t keep his eyes off you. to him, you’re just his precious darling.

eli gives you a curfew like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “sun’s down, you’re inside,” he says one evening, arms crossed and eyes steady like he’s expecting a fight. you blink at him. “wait, like... a bedtime?” he grunts. “ain’t about sleep. it’s about not wanderin’ into a coyote den in your platform heels.” you try to argue, but he doesn’t budge—just mutters something about you being a “walking hazard” and how “ain’t nothing good happens after dark out here.” and true to form, every evening as the sun dips low, he’s there on the porch, arms folded, waiting.

if you’re even five minutes late, he’s already out with a flashlight like a grumpy dad looking for a runaway puppy. he won’t admit it, but the curfew isn’t just about safety. it’s about knowing exactly where you are. keeping you close. keeping you his.

every night, without fail, you end up in the kitchen with eli—him cradling a mug of coffee, you wrapped in one of his old flannels, sitting on the counter like you belong there. the light is soft, the air warm, and he’s always gentle with you at this hour, like the quiet makes him softer. he’ll brush your hair back without thinking, pass you the sweeter drink without asking, and murmur low little comments that sound more like affection than teasing.

sometimes he rests his hand on your knee when he walks past, like anchoring himself to the moment. he doesn’t smile much, but with you like this—half-asleep, blinking at him under kitchen lights—there’s a warmth in his eyes that says more than he ever will.

there’s always a comfortable silence between you, broken by the occasional sarcastic quip or dry comment from him when you ask if cows dream or if the moon looks closer out here. sometimes he’ll pass you a spoon to taste something he’s cooking, or nudge your knee with his hip to get you to move over so he can reach a cabinet. it’s quiet, almost domestic. like this little nighttime routine just… happened. and neither of you questioned it.

and just like that it’s been a month. you no longer notice how the roads seem to “get worse” whenever you mention leaving, or how eli’s smile always grows just a little too warm when you say, “maybe i’ll try calling a tow service again.”

you’ve stopped wondering why your cell service hasn’t come back. you’ve accepted that the mountains are just “that bad,” as eli puts it. eli’s a good guy, there's no way he’d do anything to sabotage you from going back home. like eli totally did not install a signal jammer two days after you arrived or that he's murdered everyone who ever offered to take you home. there's just no way.

now, you’re completely settled in—no wifi, no car, and definitely no cute outfits from home. but honestly? you’re so content. the cozy flannel shirts, freshly baked cookies, and endless cups of lemonade have turned life here into a dreamy routine.

but something nags at you.

you’ve been living with eli, enjoying his hospitality, but you don’t want to feel like a useless freeloader. so one afternoon, you decide it’s time to step up and offer to help around the farm. you can’t just keep eating his food and just looking pretty, right?

you walk up to eli, who’s messing around with the tractor, and clear your throat.

“eli, I was thinking… i should help out more around here. you know, so i don’t just sit around all day being a freeloader.”

eli glances up, his face a mix of surprise and a hint of reluctance. he wipes his hands on his pants, a sigh escaping him.

“you sure about that?” he asks, his voice gruff. “you’ve been here for a month and you’re just now deciding to help?”

you nod, determined. “yeah, i wanna pull my weight.”

he doesn’t seem convinced but shrugs. “alright, fine. you can start by feeding the animals. that’s simple enough.”

you beam. “great! i can totally do that!”

you were definitely not cut out for farm life. after eli told you to help with feeding the animals, you felt determined, but that determination quickly turned to chaos.

you squinted at one of the cows and asked, "so, uh... do brown cows make chocolate milk?" eli froze mid-step, gave you the most soul-dead stare, and muttered something about regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

then the chickens got involved. you tried to scatter feed like in the movies, but instead slipped on your own glittery flip-flop and fell right into the middle of their breakfast—cue one chicken hopping onto your back like it was claiming a new roost.

the goats were no better; one of them chewed on your hair extensions while you screamed, "sir, boundaries!" and the pigs? the pigs chased you across the yard when you accidentally dropped a granola bar from your purse. eli didn’t even try to hide his grin as you ran by him yelling, “they smell fear, eli, they smell fear!”

by the time it was over, you were covered in hay, dirt, feathers, and regret, and eli just handed you a wet rag with a grunt, like this was all perfectly normal.

but this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten yourself in a mess. oh, no. this was just the latest installment of “you vs. farm life.” you had managed to almost flood the barn by forgetting to turn off the hose, break a shovel trying to pry open a stubborn gate, and somehow trip over a rock and sprain your ankle—while sitting down. eli had bailed you out every single time. and he didn’t even seem to be all that surprised anymore.

like that one time you got it in your head to “help” eli with a small fix on the tractor. it involved welding, and you’d sworn you could do it. five minutes in, you had almost burned off your eyebrows and started a small fire by the side of the barn. eli was on you in an instant, throwing a bucket of water over the flames, shaking his head like you’d done this a million times before. “i swear to god, you’re gonna burn this place down before we even finish building it,” he grumbled as he handed you a fire extinguisher.

"you really know how to ruin a moment, eli," you pouted.

“moment?” he muttered, sounding exhausted. “you were about to become a human torch.”

there was that time you tried to be helpful in the kitchen by making dinner, only to end up dropping an entire pot of spaghetti on the floor, then attempting to "clean it up" by throwing it into the trash—half of it splattered on the walls and the other half stuck to the ceiling. you’d been standing there, horrified, when eli walked in. “don’t even ask,” you said weakly.

he’d just sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work fixing it. “get out of the kitchen before you burn yourself,” he grumbled, tossing you out of the way with a gentle nudge, as if you were a ragdoll. “and don’t try cooking again until I’m here to supervise.”

you gave him a smile that could’ve melted the coldest of hearts. “you love me.”

he grumbled something unintelligible, but you could see the hint of a smile beneath his gruffness.

and it wasn’t just accidents. oh no. it was your sheer ability to get into trouble. like the time you wandered off into the woods to “explore” and ended up trapped in a thorn bush because you thought you saw a unicorn. yes, you. a unicorn. by the time eli found you, you were stuck, practically covered in thorns, and looking like a glittered-up forest creature. “if I hadn’t come to find you,” he’d said, grinning slightly, “you’d still be out there, trying to make friends with a unicorn.”

you had the decency to look sheepish. “i was trying to be imaginative.”

"yeah, well, next time, try not to get stuck in the thorn bush before you start trying to talk to magical creatures.”

safe to say after that incident eli forced you to wear and carry an airtag with you permanently.

then came the day you decided to help eli with manual labor—big mistake. you tried lifting a hay bale and almost dislocated something. when you grabbed the post hole digger, it practically dragged you across the yard. eli didn’t even let you finish struggling; he took it from your hands with a grunt, muscles flexing like it was nothing, and muttered, “you’ll break before the tools do.” you huffed, but he didn’t budge, already finishing the job in half the time. apparently, your job was now “supervising,” which mostly meant staying out of the way while he manhandled the entire farm.

and then there was the one time you decided to “fix” your own car because you were “bored” and “needed a project.” that involved you somehow locking yourself inside the trunk while trying to find your spare tire. it was a whole dramatic saga that ended with you yelling for help from inside the trunk, much to eli’s amusement. when he finally popped the trunk open, you had the nerve to ask him, “how’d you know i was in here?”

“because you’ve gotten yourself in a mess, like, again,” he replied, his tone dry.

you beamed up at him. “i’m just that special.”

“special? yeah, that’s what we’ll call it.” he smirked before pulling you out of the trunk and checking over your car like he wasn’t wondering why he didn’t just lock you in there himself.

but despite all the chaos you caused, despite the non-stop antics and trouble that seemed to follow you, there was something comforting about it all. eli might grumble, he might make fun of your messes, but he never left you to fend for yourself. he had this way of always being there—whether it was pulling you out of a thorn bush, rescuing you from your own cooking disaster, or simply watching over you while you made another mess in the barn. eli didn’t get frustrated. he just dealt with it—and, in his own way, he took care of you.

you were a disaster, sure, but you were his disaster. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for both of you.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yancore #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere farmer

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lalalychee-x · 2 months ago

Text

"Just this once, Officer?" Joel Miller x reader — NSFW!

♡ After a long day of working at the diner, you're a little too desperate to get home. Who can blame you? The cops don't actually hunt down speeders like they have nothing better to do...usually. And you're working on just above minimum wage, so you REALLY can't afford a ticket right now...

cw: afab reader, accidental creampie, sleazy cop Joel (but can you reallyyyy blame him? You're a bloody sweet angel in a striped blouse, checkered apron and shiney brown flats), car sex, semi-public sex, sex on a highway, mostly-clothed sex...

word count: 2896...

It’s nearly midnight when you finally peel off your apron and clock out. The fluorescent lights of the diner hum like flies, your feet ache in those shiny brown flats, and the scent of fries and burnt coffee clings to your skin like regret. The place was dead tonight. A few old men nursing pie slices, a trucker with too many questions about your name. Tips weren’t worth shit. Not even enough to cover what’s left in your gas tank.

You just want to get home.

The road’s empty, dark, the kind of thick Southern night that sweats through the cotton of your striped blouse and sinks into your bones. The world hums low around you—crickets, heat, your engine working too hard as your car coasts well over the limit down a two-lane highway. Just for a moment. You tell yourself it’s just for a moment.

And then—

Flashing red and blue in your rearview mirror.

“Shit,” you hiss, slamming on the brakes just enough to make your heart climb into your throat. You weren’t even that far over. Ten, maybe fifteen? You could cry. You don’t have the money for a damn ticket, and the last thing you need tonight is some clipboard-happy cop on a power trip over a woman because that's what the patriarchy's settled in.

You flick your signal and pull over, biting the inside of your cheek. The lights slow behind you. Park. Engine still idling.

“Goddamn it,” you mutter, already reaching for your glove box like muscle memory. License. Insurance. Bullshit smile.

You see him in the rearview. The car door creaks open behind the wash of lights, and a figure steps out—big. Broad shoulders, dark uniform, thick hands resting near the belt. Slowly, deliberately, he makes his way to your side window.

You sigh, roll it down just enough to be polite, and glance up with your best tired-innocent face.

“Good evening, officer,” you say sweetly, voice soft and worn-out with a twinge of your Southern drawl still hanging on, like old honey.

He leans forward a little, tired eyes raking over your face, blouse, then flats—then back up again. His hand rests lazy on the roof of your car.

“Ma’am,” he says, slow as molasses. “You know what you were doin’ back there?”

You lick your lips, nodding, already resigned to the inevitable. “Yeah. I was speeding.”

His eyes drag over you—slow, like he’s taking inventory. Striped blouse, buttons a little crooked from your rushed change after closing. Apron still tied around your waist like you forgot it was even there. Shiny brown flats, scuffed just enough to betray the hours you’ve spent on your feet.

Joel sighs like this night’s just been handed to him in a bad dream. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, brows drawn.

“It’s late,” he mutters, voice low and scratchy like he hasn’t slept properly in a few days. “And I don’t wanna have to give you a ticket, ma’am…” A beat. “Can I see your license?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, already rummaging through your bag. Receipts. Lip gloss. A pen that doesn’t work. No license. Your heart stutters.

You pretend to still be digging while he stands there, patient, leaning just a little on your window frame. The air between you smells like diner grease, asphalt heat, and him—coffee and cigarettes with the faintest bite of cedarwood cologne. The kind of scent that sticks to flannel and flirts with your thoughts.

“Shit,” you murmur, still flipping through your wallet. “I don’t… have it. I think I left it in my other purse.”

Joel exhales, long and put-upon, and glances out into the road like maybe he could pretend this didn’t just happen. But then he turns back, eyes narrowing just a hair.

“Speedin’,” he ticks off, holding up one finger, “and no license.” He lets the silence hang before he adds, tired as sin, “I gotta give you a ticket, ma’am.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Seriously?”

“‘Fraid so.” His tone’s a drawl now, a little too casual for someone ruining your week. “Rules are rules.”

He reaches to unclip the little pad from his belt, like this is just routine. “I’m just as tired as you are, sugar. Make this easy for the both of us and just take the ticket.”

“C’mon,” you whine a little, tossing him a playful pout. “Let it slide, officer. I had a long day. Two drunk truckers and a kid who tried to steal a slice of pie outta the warmer. I’ve been on my feet since lunch.”

He gives you a look over the edge of his clipboard. Dry. Curious.

“You flirtin’ to get outta this, sugar?” he asks, already amused.

You grin. “Only if it’s working.”

He huffs a half-laugh, shaking his head. “Ain’t nothin’ workin’ tonight. My feet hurt, my partner called in sick, and some asshole spilled chili in the back of the cruiser. Smells like a dead possum.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.”

“...That bad, huh?”

He nods solemnly. “Chili and onions.”

You gasp. “That’s criminal.”

He cracks a smile at that, lazy and reluctant. “See? Now that’s the offense you should be writin’ up.”

“Then you better let me go,” you tease, elbow resting against the open window. “I’m a victim here.”

He looks at you again, really looks this time—eyes flicking across your cheek, your mouth, your tired smile. Like he’s measuring something. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t softened, but it’s shifted. Less official. Less cop.

“Yeah?” he says quietly. “Victim, huh?”

“Yup,” You say, popping the 'p', loudly.

You can feel the way his eyes linger now, still holding that small amused expresseion like he’s trying not to let it get comfortable on his face. There's a beat of silence. It stretches.

“So,” you say slowly, shifting in your seat and letting your fingers graze the edge of the recliner switch just beside your thigh, all casual. “You got a wife or somethin’ waitin’ for you back home, officer?”

Joel arches a brow, clearly entertained. It was probably the most interesting thing he's seen all day. “Now that’s a real left turn, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“No wife,” he says, tipping his chin, still leaning lazily against your window like this is his front porch. “No woman, either.”

You hum like you’re surprised. “Really?” Your voice laces syrup-thick sarcasm. “A charming civil servant like you? Guess they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

Joel snorts. “Civil servant,” he echoes like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

“I’m just sayin’…” You flash a small grin, lips parted just enough to toe the line. “You give off a little… pent-up energy.”

He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing with a new kind of curiosity now. Less bored. More alert. That eyebrow of his arches just slightly higher, and his mouth tugs into something that isn’t exactly a smile.

“Pent up, huh?” he repeats, slow.

You shrug, still playing the innocent card with a twang of devil. “Yeah. You know. Tense. Like you haven’t had a good fuck in… a while.”

The silence that follows is razor-edged and electric, the kind that makes your skin tighten and the back of your neck prickle. Joel’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t move.

You recline the seat back just a touch—barely noticeable, but deliberate enough that his eyes flicker to the motion. Your fingers still rest near the button.

His tongue wets his bottom lip. He exhales through his nose like he’s finally made a decision. The ticket pad in his hand—your ticket—he slides it slowly back into the pocket of his jeans.

“You in a rush to get anywhere, darlin’?” he asks, voice dipped into something low and gruff now, rough like gravel under tires.

You blink, lips twitching. “No, sir.”

He straightens up, clears his throat like that’ll somehow make this cleaner, less sleazy, less immoral.

It doesn’t.

“You got anythin’ else that ain't your license in there, sugar? ” he hums.

You don’t.

And you already know damn well, repeating with a shit-eating grin, “No, sir.”

You repeat, slowly turning the little button on the side of the seat with a click-click-click.

Now you're half out the driver’s seat of your busted-up sedan, your back pressed awkwardly to the worn upholstery, legs dangling out into the warm night.

Your checkered apron’s still tied messily at your waist, bunched up around your hips like it was trying to cover anything—like it ever could. Stockings stretched and torn just below the hem, ringed tight around your knees. The glossy brown of your flats catch the flicker of highway lights every time a distant car passes by, none of them slowing down.

And Joel—Joel’s standing between your legs, one hand braced on the car roof, the other dragging slow and rough up the inside of your thigh. He looks wrecked already, like the idea of you like this has short-circuited something in that cop brain of his.

“Christ,” he mutters, staring down at you. His gaze drags over the undone buttons of your striped blouse, the way your bra’s come unclasped at the front like it gave up the ghost. “What the hell are you doin’ dressed like a dessert menu, sugar?”

You huff a laugh, breath shaky as his fingers ghost over the crease of your thigh. “Makin’ ends meet. Y’wanna comment on my fashion choices or—?”

He cuts you off by pressing two fingers right to your cunt, dragging slick through your folds, spreading it slow.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice gone thick.

You shrug, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Worked a double. Real tired. Told you I needed some relief.”

Joel’s not teasing anymore. Not with his words. Not with his hands, either. One big palm grabs the back of your thigh, lifting and adjusting until your hips are tipped just right. He steps in closer, belt already undone, jeans tugged down just enough.

He strokes himself once, twice—his cock thick and already leaking, before he lines up and pushes in, one slow, deliberate thrust that eases the air right out of you.

You gasp, fingers digging into the seat as he watches so damn carefully, watching his cock get wet and slick. Watching the way your cunt stretches just to fit him.

Joel groans, deep and low in his chest. “Fuckkkk, m’, gonna have to forgive that ticket now” he breathes. “You feel that?”

You nod, blinking up at him, eyes wide and half-lidded, mouth parted in disbelief.

“I said—” His hips roll forward, sharply like he's angry—cock bullying into your cunt as he does, “—you feel that?”

“Y-Yeah,” you choke out, stars flashing behind your eyes.

And he laughs, rough and satisfied, hand fisting in the side of your apron. “Good. ‘Cause you’re takin’ every goddamn inch.”

The car rocks with every thrust, tires creaking gently against gravel as Joel pounds into you—slow at first, then faster, rougher, until your thighs are trembling and the edge of the seat digs hard into your spine.

You can hear everything—the wet slap of skin on skin, the low grunt of his breath, the obscene, messy squelch every time he drags his cock back out of your dripping cunt. It’s filthy. Loud. So fucking loud.

You try to bite it back, a moan caught in your throat like you’re still in that diner, still being polite. But Joel’s not having it.

“C’mon,” he pants, one hand braced beside your head on the seat, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. “Don’t hold back now, sugar. Ain’t no one out here gonna hear you. It’s just you ‘n me—nothin’ but highway ghosts.”

You moan as he slams in deep, the kind of sound that tears out your chest without permission—raw and high and needy.

“There she is,” he growls, breath hitching as your walls flutter around him. “That’s it. That’s my good little whore.”

Something about the word makes your whole body seize, back arching off the seat, cunt clenching so tight around him he hisses between his teeth. It’s primal. Instinct. Your hips buck up toward him on their own, chasing it—chasing him—like your body was just waiting for someone to fuck the sweetness right out of it.

“Joel—Officer—” you gasp, nails clawing for purchase on the armrest.

He bends lower, the sweat off his neck dampening your collar, his voice right in your ear, slick with sin. “Ain’t it filthy, sugar’? Gettin’ fucked like this with your ass hangin’ out the car door?”

Your mouth opens but no words come—only a high, warbled moan as he thrusts harder.

“Any poor trucker could roll by and see you,” he murmurs against your throat, lips brushing your skin. “See how wrecked you are for me. You like that? Bein’ used like a dirty little thing where anyone could watch?”

You whimper, nodding fast—embarrassed, but not enough to stop. Not even close.

He laughs again, low and dark, fucking into you harder now, his hips slapping against yours in quick, brutal rhythm. “Goddamn, look at you,” he groans. “Takin’ me so good. Bet you needed this bad, huh? All dolled up like a pretty treat at work, but this is what you wanted. Nothin’ sweet about you now.”

Your whole body’s trembling, cunt stretched open around him, the car seat soaked, your breath sobbing out between pleads and curses. Every thrust threatens to knock you out of your goddamn mind.

“Gonna cum,” you choke, hand flying down to rub your clit in messy little circles. “Fuck, Joel—”

“Yeah? Then be loud, sugar,” he pants, thrusting deeper. “Let the highway hear what a good, law-bidin’ girl sounds like.”

You're shaking underneath him, blouse clinging to your skin with sweat, bra hanging useless around your ribs. Your apron’s bunched at your waist, sticky and damp, and your panties are tangled somewhere near your ankles—if not lost completely in the footwell.

Joel’s got you half hanging out of the car, the door wide open like the world should see, like he wants it to. One of your legs is hooked over his shoulder, the other bent up against the dashboard, your pussy stuffed full and wet around him.

You can hear how soaked you are, every thrust filthy and wet, slapping echoes swallowed by the endless, empty stretch of highway.

And you’re loud—so loud it would be humiliating if he weren’t moaning just as hard, panting over you with that sweat-slick jaw and furrowed brow.

"Goddamn, sugar," he grits, fucking into you hard enough to make the shocks creak. "You’re squeezin’ me so tight. You tryin’ to make me knock y’ up?"

"Maybe," you gasp, teasing, breath hitching. "Is it working?"

He groans, like you just knocked the wind out of him. “Shit, yeah it is. But I wanna hear it—go on, sugar.”

"Joel—"

"Ain’t no one gonna hear you out here. It’s just us and the fuckin’ stars. So be as loud as you want, sugar—be a fuckin’ slut for me."

Your fingers are working your clit fast now, frantic, desperate.

"Joel, I—oh, god, I’m gonna—"

“That’s it,” he groans, hips grinding deep and perfect, dragging against that spot inside you like he knows what he’s doing. “Cum on it, sweetheart.”

And fuck—you do.

You cum hard, twitching and moaning, head thrown back, thighs quaking. Something about it makes your whole body seize, back arching off the seat, cunt clenching so tight around him he hisses between his teeth. Your hips buck up toward him on their own, chasing it—chasing him—like your body was just waiting for someone to fuck the sweetness right out of it..

“Shit— fuck, I can’t—” Joel gasps, hips jerking.

You know he’s supposed to pull out.

You both know.

But your arms are locked around his neck, dragging him closer, keeping him deep, and he just lets go—

Spilling hot and thick in your cunt with a broken, wrecked groan.

“Fuck,” he rasps, still pulsing inside you. “Shouldn’t’ve done that. Christ.”

You're breathless, boneless, spread wide in the driver’s seat, both of you panting into each other’s mouths. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Do I get off that ticket, Officer?” You gasp, lips twitching into whatever weak, sassy expression you could.

You’re breathless, boneless, spread wide in the driver’s seat, both of you panting into each other’s mouths. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Do I get off that ticket, Officer?” you gasp, lips twitching into whatever weak, sassy expression you could manage, hips still trembling with aftershocks.

Joel leans back slightly, eyes raking over the mess he’s made of you — your ruined stockings, your open blouse, the shine slicking his cock as he slowly pulls out with a low hiss. He tucks himself back in with one hand and rests the other on the edge of your door.

“Y’ got off plenty,” he drawls, voice rough. Then, after a beat, “But yeah, sugar... consider the ticket forgiven.”

“Good, because you owe me a pill in the morning,” You groan, feeling his cum almost rush out of your abused cunt, “And those things are expensive.”

“Suppose I do,” He huffs, amused and fiddling with his belt, clinking it back in place, “Smart lass, ain't y’? Why don't you hand me y’ digits so I can get y’ that pill in the mornin’?”

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @enchanthings-a

#lychee<3 #lychee's sillies #x reader #smut #the last of us #joel tlou #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller tlou #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #i love older guys #older man <3 #older guys #older is better #sleazy cop joel!!!#alternate universe

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sillygoose067 · 2 months ago

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Wrong Bag, Right Time

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You’re already regretting your decision to book the late-night flight by the time you step off the plane. Your brain is a thick fog, your legs are stiff, and your eyes are burning from a barely-there nap sandwiched between two chatty seatmates. The fluorescent airport lights feel like a personal attack as you shuffle through the terminal, clutching your carry-on and weaving through a sea of bleary-eyed travelers.

You follow the signs to the baggage claim, your body moving on autopilot, ears still ringing from the jet engines and the tinny airline announcements. You lean against a cool, steel column, rolling your shoulders back as you wait for the belt to start rumbling. Around you, people are already gathering, faces drawn and eyes darting every few seconds as the carousel creaks to life.

Bags start thudding onto the belt, one after another — a parade of black, navy, and occasionally neon roller bags that look like they’ve been through multiple rounds of airport roulette. You squint, eyes scanning the blur of luggage as it slowly snakes its way around the conveyor.

Your suitcase is black, a standard roller bag with a scuffed corner and a strip of faded, decorative tape around the handle — a last-minute attempt to make it easier to spot in the chaos. When you finally catch sight of it, you push through the small crowd, reaching for the handle just as a kid with a Spider-Man backpack nearly trips over his own shoes, forcing you to dodge sideways to avoid a collision.

You grab the suitcase and wrestle it off the belt, feeling the reassuring weight of your overpacked essentials as the wheels clatter onto the tile. It’s a little heavier than you remember, but then again, you crammed it full of work documents, laptop accessories, and enough backup phone chargers to power a small tech convention.

Dragging it toward the exit, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the glossy airport windows — hair mussed, eyes smudged with exhaustion, and your blouse slightly wrinkled from a restless sleep against the plane window. You sigh, mentally promising yourself a long, hot shower the second you get to your hotel.

The shuttle to the car rental lot is packed, every inch of space claimed by tourists and business travelers with the same dazed expressions you’re sure you’re wearing. You brace yourself against a pole, your suitcase tucked between your knees as the bus lurches into motion, bumping over the uneven tarmac.

By the time you reach your hotel, you’re practically running on fumes, dragging your suitcase through the lobby and into the elevator with a series of clumsy, exhausted jerks. You fish out your key card, nearly dropping it twice before you manage to swipe it through the reader and stumble into your room.

Your heels come off first, clattering to the floor with a dull thud as you toss your bag onto the bed. You flick on the bedside lamp, the warm glow instantly making the small space feel a little less sterile.

The water from the shower is scalding, and you let it beat down on your shoulders, eyes closed as the steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and making the tiles beneath your feet slick. You let yourself stand there longer than necessary, feeling the tension slowly drain from your muscles, the ache in your lower back gradually easing.

Wrapped in a thick hotel towel, you shuffle back into the main room, hair dripping onto the carpet as you flip open your suitcase, ready to dig out your comfiest, most threadbare shirt and collapse into bed.

But when you peel back the top layer of clothing, your fingers don’t hit neatly folded blouses or the sensible, corporate slacks you’d meticulously packed. Instead, you pull out a rumpled Led Zeppelin tee, its soft, well-worn fabric clearly belonging to someone who’s spent years living in it.

You blink, holding it up, the faded graphic stretching across the front like a relic from another lifetime. Confused, you dig deeper, pulling out a small mountain of band tees, a denim jacket with fraying patches sewn into the sleeves, and a battered leather notebook, its cover creased and edges worn.

Your pulse quickens as you flip through the pages, finding half-finished sketches, messy notes in looping cursive, and the occasional smudge of ink where someone clearly wrote in a hurry. There’s a faint, musky scent clinging to the pages, a mix of worn leather and old cologne.

“Wait...” you murmur, setting the notebook aside as you reach for a thick stack of papers wedged against the side of the case. It’s a printed script, the title bold at the top and someone’s lines heavily highlighted in yellow.

You glance back at the open suitcase, your mind racing, heart thudding against your ribs as you fish out a small, laminated luggage tag tangled in the zipper. It flips over in your hand, the plastic cool and slightly warped from years of travel.

“L.P.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” You sink onto the edge of the bed, the towel slipping from your shoulders as you stare at the mismatched pile of someone else’s life spread across your hotel sheets.

---

Across town, Lewis Pullman hauls his suitcase up the narrow stairwell to his apartment, one hand gripping the railing as he leans into the climb, every muscle in his legs protesting the final stretch. He fumbles for his keys, and finally shoulders his way inside, the familiar, comforting chaos of his one-bedroom coming into focus as he kicks the door shut behind him.

He toes off his boots, letting them fall wherever they land, and drags the suitcase into his cramped living room, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch. The streetlights outside cast thin, golden strips across the walls, and his refrigerator hums steadily in the otherwise silent space.

He flips open the suitcase, too tired to even think about organizing, and reaches blindly for a clean shirt. Instead, his hand lands on something stiff and sharply pressed.

Lewis frowns, pulling out a neatly folded stack of dress shirts, their collars crisp and perfectly creased. He blinks, eyebrows knitting together as he digs deeper, pulling out tailored slacks and a leather-bound planner with a small, discreet logo embossed on the corner.

“What the...” He flips the planner open, eyes skimming over tightly packed meeting notes, detailed itineraries, and a color-coded calendar that looks like the work of someone who genuinely enjoys spreadsheets.

He reaches for a thick, intimidating-looking folder marked “Confidential” in bold letters, his heart sinking further as he flips it open to reveal a stack of professionally printed documents.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He lets the folder drop onto the floor, running a hand through his already messy hair as he stares at the unfamiliar contents of what is very clearly not his suitcase.

Somewhere out there, someone is currently rifling through his tangle of band tees, scribbled notes, and, worst of all, his heavily highlighted script for a new gig he'd just scored.

---

You stare at the suitcase spread open on your hotel bed, the pile of band tees and creased notebook sitting there like a physical reminder of the chaos your life has just become. You should do something — call the airline, maybe, or at least try to figure out who this L.P. is before their missing luggage becomes your permanent problem.

But you’re exhausted. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones, turning your thoughts into molasses and making even the simplest task feel monumental.

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, rubbing your eyes and glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It’s already pushing 1 a.m., and the idea of trying to navigate a customer service call right now feels like a special kind of hell.

“Alright, fine,” you mutter to the empty room, tossing the vintage tees back into the suitcase and flipping the lid closed. You’ll deal with it in the morning, when your brain is at least somewhat functional. For now, you just need sleep.

You crawl into bed, still vaguely damp from the shower, and tug the covers up to your chin. The mattress is firmer than you’d like, the pillow a little too thin, but it doesn’t take long for the steady hum of the hotel air conditioning to lull you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

Across town, Lewis drops onto his couch, head thudding against the worn armrest as he stares up at the cracked ceiling. The folder of mysterious corporate documents is still sitting on the coffee table, its thick, embossed cover practically daring him to open it again.

He considers getting up, maybe flipping through the papers for a hint about who his mystery bag-swapping stranger might be, but the thought alone makes his eyes feel heavier. He’s not exactly equipped for a late-night detective mission right now, not with the remnants of jet lag still clinging to his brain like a wet blanket.

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles, kicking his feet up onto the armrest and letting his eyes drift shut. He’ll deal with it in the morning, when his brain isn’t actively trying to shut down.

---

The next morning comes far too quickly. You wake to the sharp, insistent chime of your phone alarm, the sound cutting through your foggy consciousness like a knife. You groan, slapping at your phone until it goes blessedly silent, and roll onto your back, staring up at the bland, popcorn-textured ceiling.

It takes a moment for the events of the previous night to come rushing back — the wrong suitcase, the unfamiliar band tees, the mysterious L.P. luggage tag. You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes and trying to shake the lingering cobwebs from your brain.

First things first: your own suitcase. You’d had the foresight to slip an Apple AirTag into one of the side pockets before your flight, a small, paranoid part of you always worrying about exactly this kind of mix-up.

You grab your phone, opening the Find My app with a flick of your thumb, but the screen just loads into a frustratingly empty map, the little green dot stubbornly refusing to show up. Too far away, probably. You grit your teeth, already regretting not springing for the upgraded model with the longer range.

You tap the call icon and put the phone to your ear, bouncing your knee as it rings.

“Thank you for calling Apple Support. Please hold while we connect you to the next available representative.”

You resist the urge to groan, your fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the hotel comforter as the tinny hold music crackles in your ear.

---

Across town, Lewis is having his own version of a chaotic morning. He’s halfway through his second cup of coffee, hair still damp from a hurried shower, as he flips through the stack of neatly printed documents that had been sitting in what he thought was his suitcase.

Every page is packed with dense, professional text — contracts, meeting agendas, and what looks like a series of legal documents with a name scrawled at the bottom in neat, looping handwriting.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, leaning back against the kitchen counter as he taps the name into his phone’s search bar.

Results flood the screen, a frustratingly long list of people with the same name scattered across LinkedIn profiles, news articles, and random blog posts. He scrolls through the first few pages, trying to find anything that might match the person he accidentally luggage-swapped with, but it’s like looking for a needle in a very, very crowded haystack.

He blows out a breath, tossing his phone onto the counter and rubbing the back of his neck. His manager is going to kill him when they find out about this. Still, he can’t exactly let a stranger hold on to his scribbled notes and half-finished script forever.

“Alright, screw it,” he says, grabbing his phone again and pulling up his manager’s contact.

“Sam, hey, I’ve got a situation,” he says as soon as the line connects, pacing a tight circle in his small kitchen. “No, it’s not like last time. I just... I might have swapped bags with someone at the airport, and I have no idea who they are, but they’ve got my script. And my stuff. All my stuff.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, the kind that usually means Sam is resisting the urge to throw his phone against the nearest wall.

“Okay,” Sam finally says, his voice a carefully measured calm. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to take the bag you’ve got and head back to the airport. There’s a decent chance the other person will do the same once they realize they’ve got the wrong bag.”

Lewis sighs, glancing at the stack of neatly folded dress shirts and leather-bound planner sitting innocently on his counter.

“Yeah, alright,” he mutters, grabbing his keys off the hook by the door. “I’m on my way.”

---

Meanwhile, your Apple Support call finally connects, a cheery voice on the other end promising to walk you through the steps to locate your missing suitcase. You glance over at the still-open bag on the bed, the crumpled script catching your eye.

Maybe it’s time to finally figure out who the hell L.P. is. You grab the thick stack of papers, flipping to the cover page and skimming the title. Your eyes widen as the name Lewis Pullman jumps out at you, the pieces suddenly falling into place.

Lewis Pullman. The actor. Bill Pullman’s son.

You stare at the script in your hands, heart thudding in your chest as the full weight of your accidental heist hits you.

“Oh, no,” you mutter, sinking back onto the bed. “What have I done?”

---

Lewis taps his fingers against the steering wheel, jaw tight as he stares at the congested freeway ahead. The morning sun glares off the windshields around him, turning the LA traffic into a slow, blinding crawl. He glances at the passenger seat, where your neatly packed suitcase sits like a silent accusation, the crisp corners and tasteful leather trim a stark contrast to the chaos he’s used to.

By the time he finally reaches LAX, the nerves in his stomach have twisted into a full-on knot. He parks and hauls the suitcase through the labyrinth of terminals, the weight of his mistake pressing down on his shoulders.

The airport is buzzing with activity, the steady thrum of engines and the chaotic clatter of luggage creating a backdrop of controlled chaos as he heads for the airline counter.

The attendant at the lost and found desk looks up, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow as Lewis approaches, his suitcase clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

“Hi, I... I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” he says, his voice coming out a little more strained than he intended. He sets your suitcase on the counter, running a hand through his hair as he tries to sound less like a sleep-deprived mess. “This isn’t mine. I’m hoping the person who has mine will come looking for theirs, too.”

The attendant nods, typing something into the computer and giving him a weary, knowing smile — the kind that says this isn’t the first time someone’s stumbled in with the wrong bag and a panicked expression.

“Just leave it here,” she says, slapping a tag on the handle and sliding it onto the cart behind her. “If the other person comes by, we’ll let them know you dropped it off.”

Lewis hesitates, fingers still wrapped around the handle, his brain fighting a ridiculous urge to hold onto the bag a little longer. He gives it a final, reluctant nudge, watching as the cart wheels it away and disappears into the maze of behind-the-scenes airport chaos.

With a deep, tired sigh, he turns and heads back to his car, hands shoved into his pockets as the sounds of the bustling terminal fade behind him.

---

Meanwhile, back in your hotel room, you’ve entered the frantic, mildly horrifying phase of a full-on internet spiral. Your laptop is balanced precariously on the edge of the bed, multiple tabs open on Lewis Pullman.

You grab your phone, pacing the small stretch of carpet between the bed and the window as you pull up his IMDb page, half-hoping there’ll be a contact button you can just click to resolve this mess. But of course, there isn’t. The closest you get is a list of his past projects and a handful of magazine interviews that all seem to paint him as the down-to-earth, quietly intense type.

Finally, after what feels like a small eternity of frantic googling, you stumble across what you think might be his manager’s number, tucked away on an obscure industry listing. You dial it, hands shaking a little as the line rings, each passing second making your pulse thud harder against your ribs.

Voicemail.

You hang up, your breath coming out in a short, frustrated huff as you toss your phone onto the bed. You’re tempted to try again, maybe leave a message this time, but something about the whole situation already feels too much like a scene from a bad rom-com, and you’re not sure you can handle the embarrassment of leaving a rambling, half-panicked voicemail for a guy you’ve never even met.

Finally, you decide to cut your losses and head back to the airport, clutching Lewis’s battered suitcase like a lifeline as you weave through the bustling lobby and make a beeline for the lost and found desk.

An attendant is sitting there, her expression unimpressed as she types away at her computer. You clear your throat, shifting your weight nervously as you set the bag on the counter.

“Hi, I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I just... I just want to leave this here, in case they come looking for it. It’s got a lot of their stuff in it, and I’m, um, really hoping mine is still somewhere in the system.”

The attendant glances at you over the top of her computer, her expression a mix of boredom and mild curiosity. She slaps a tag onto the handle of the suitcase and adds it to the same cart Lewis’s bag disappeared on earlier.

“We’ll call you if we find anything,” she says, already turning back to her screen.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you scribble your name and number on the form she slides your way. It feels weirdly final, like you’re closing the book on a strange, mildly mortifying chapter of your life.

---

A few weeks pass, and the whole suitcase fiasco slowly slips into the background noise of your daily routine — a bizarre, slightly embarrassing story you’ll probably share with friends over drinks someday.

But then, just as you’re starting to convince yourself that you’ll never see your meticulously packed suitcase again, your phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?” you say, balancing your phone against your shoulder as you fumble with your laptop.

“Hi, this is LAX Lost and Found. We’ve located your suitcase. You can come pick it up anytime this evening.”

---

You arrive at the counter a little breathless, the memory of your original suitcase still a fresh sting as you approach. But just as you step up to the desk, another figure rushes up beside you, his sneakers squeaking against the polished tile.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up my suitcase —” you both start, your voices overlapping in a messy, tangled echo.

You glance at each other, both of you wide-eyed and a little winded, and then immediately look away, the awkward tension settling like a heavy fog. He’s tall, a little scruffy around the edges, his hair tousled like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. There’s a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes, like he’s trying to place you, but then he quickly looks down, rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s suddenly aware of how tightly the air feels around you both.

The attendant rolls her eyes, bending to grab two identical suitcases from the back, her movements sharp with barely disguised exasperation.

“Here,” she says, shoving both bags onto the counter with a loud thunk. “I assume you two know which is which this time?”

You and Lewis both reach for your respective bags, pausing to double-check the scuffs and ID tags, even unzipping the top a few inches just to be sure.

When you both exhale in relief, catching each other’s eye for a split second, his mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, like he’s trying to catch the right words before they slip away.

“Uh, hey,” he starts, one hand gripping the handle of his suitcase, the other half-raised in a tentative gesture. “I, uh... just wanted to say thanks for, you know, bringing my stuff back. I know that, uh, it probably... wasn’t the most convenient thing.” He lets out a little breathy chuckle, eyes dropping to his shoes for a second. “I mean, I’m not sure what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”

You let out a small, relieved laugh, the lingering tension breaking like the first crack of a smile after a long, awkward silence.

“No, it’s fine. I... kinda panicked when I realized what I had. Almost didn’t want to touch anything, but, uh... yeah.” You bite your lip, feeling a little of the same nervous energy radiating off him.

He nods, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like he’s working up the nerve for something.

“So, uh...” he hesitates, his gaze flicking back up to yours, the corners of his mouth twitching in a hesitant, lopsided grin. “Maybe we could, I dunno, grab a coffee sometime? Or, uh, dinner, if that’s... less weird?”

You blink, a little caught off guard by the sudden offer, but the earnest, slightly flustered look on his face makes it hard not to smile.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding before you can second-guess yourself. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“Cool, cool,” he says quickly, letting out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a silent cheer. He fumbles for his phone, nearly dropping it as he tries to unlock it with one hand, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Uh, here, just... give me your number and I’ll... yeah.”

You chuckle, tapping your info into his phone as he watches, his eyes crinkling at the edges when you hand it back.

“Alright, well... I’ll text you,” he says, stepping back with a little half-wave. “Thanks again. Seriously.”

You nod, your heart doing an odd little flip as you watch him turn and weave back into the airport crowd, his suitcase rolling behind him, the wheels clattering against the polished floor.

642 notes · View notes

hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Note

Hello, I finally found someone who writes about Lewis and it's so hard to find on this app

I can't get this idea out of my head,Lewis married A teacher From a university that is super smart and teaches engineering

It's very difficult to put a profession other than models and singers and actresses, I love when they put the reader's profession as a more normal profession, you know?

Sorry if any words come out wrong, my first language is not English.

Beijos from Brazil🇧🇷

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝓂𝓊𝓁𝒶 𝑜𝒻 𝒰𝓈

Authors Note: Hey lovelies! Not to worry, I hope this meets your expections Beijos🙂. I'm still hella unwell but I wanted to post something today since I didn't yesterday. I apologise if it’s bad... Lots of love xx

Summary: The reader is a university engineering lecturer, sharp and respected in her field and married to Lewis Hamilton.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

In the sprawling lecture hall of one of London’s most prestigious engineering universities, your name carries a kind of reverence.

Not because of celebrity. Not because of scandal. But because you make thermodynamics feel like poetry.

Officially, you’re the youngest tenured professor in the mechanical engineering department. Unofficially, you’re the one students trust the most - the professor who inspires careers, not just degrees. You bring biscuits during finals week. You stay behind after class for an hour to answer questions you’re not paid to. You make lectures feel like dialogue, your feedback like mentorship, and your presence like safety.

Your classroom runs on curiosity. Respect. The occasional scent of vanilla from your hand cream.

You have that quiet charm - intelligent, warm, a little whimsical. Most days, your hair is tucked into a messy bun or a loose braid that begins to unravel by the afternoon. You wear flowy blouses and trousers with pockets deep enough for chalk and flash drives, and there’s always some hint of white dust clinging to your hands or sleeves by midday.

Students compare you to Miss Honey well if Miss Honey held a PhD in Applied Fluid Dynamics and could dismantle mansplaining with a single raised brow.

The Hamilton surname doesn’t raise many eyebrows. It’s a common name, and besides you don’t seem the type. Your shoes are scuffed from the lab, your canvas bag permanently ink-stained, your watch reliable but worn. There’s no trace of flash, no hint of ostentation. Just you.

You don’t bring up your personal life not out of secrecy, but because it doesn’t seem to belong between lectures and lab reports.

Thursday Morning—Regenerative Braking Systems

Halfway through an electrifying lecture on energy recovery in hybrid drivetrains, a third-year student raises their hand.

“Professor Hamilton,” they ask, hesitant but eager, “are you related to…y’know, the F1 driver?”

A pause. A smile.

“Which one?” you reply, eyes twinkling.

The room erupts into laughter, and just like that, the moment drifts away.

As the lecture ends, students scatter, footsteps echoing down the corridor. You gather your notes, tuck a chalk-dusted flash drive into your pocket and glance at your phone as it vibrates twice on the edge of your desk.

You don’t need to check the name.

Lewis 📩 12:37 PM — Just finished media. Nearly fell asleep on Toto again 😵‍💫

📩 12:39 PM — Miss you already.

Your lips curve in amusement, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You 📩 12:42 PM — Poor Toto. Miss you too. Teach the tires a lesson today 🖤

Sliding the phone into your coat, you push your glasses up just as Dr. Patel strolls past your door with a coffee in hand.

“You’re always smiling at that phone, huh?” he muses.

You nod, polite but unruffled. “My husband’s traveling. We keep in touch.”

His eyebrows lift just slightly. Most people don’t know you’re married. You’re not exactly secretive. Just private. A polite nod passes between you as he moves on.

Later, as you sit at your desk combing through final proposals with a red pen, Dr. Martin leans casually against your doorway for the third time this month.

“Y/N,” he says, too familiar, “Some of us are heading to that STEM in Schools seminar this weekend. Could be good exposure. You coming?”

Without looking up, you reply, “I’ve committed to judging student prototypes. I try not to overbook weekends.”

“Oh, right. Well…if you change your mind, I’ll save you a seat. Maybe we could catch up about it and I could swing by with coffee, maybe—”

“I’ll be with my husband,” you say, gently but firmly.

A beat. He falters.

“Of course. Well…see you around.”

Only once he’s gone do you let yourself exhale, thoughts already drifting to Lewis.

Not the global icon. Not the record-breaker.

Just your Lewis.

The one who texts you memes of Roscoe mid-snore. The one who brings you tea when your voice is hoarse from lectures. The one who looks at you like the world slows down.

By the time you arrive home the flat is warm with low lamplight and the scent of roasted vanilla. London hums outside, winding down as traffic grows sparse and streetlights flicker gold against puddles from earlier rain.

Inside, a quiet jazz playlist hums in the kitchen. Roscoe lies curled at the end of the couch, belly rising and falling in slow rhythm, paws twitching in some kind of dog-dream race.

You sit with one leg tucked beneath you, red pen in hand, glasses sliding down your nose. You’re deep in grading, thoughts darting between student projects and what scraps might make a decent dinner.

You don’t hear the door.

But you feel him.

That familiar presence. The scent of cologne, travel, and maybe the faintest trace of engine oil. Then arms warm and solid slip around you from behind, and lips press to your temple.

“Hey, brainiac,” Lewis whispers against your skin, voice rough from travel but softened by affection.

You lean back into him. “Hey yourself. You’re home early.”

“Flight landed ahead of schedule,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck. “Didn’t want to miss your toast dinner.”

You smirk. “I was thinking about it.”

“That’s not dinner. That’s edible depression,” he replies, mock horror in his voice. “Sit tight. I’m cooking.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

So, you do. You stay right there, pen in hand, while he pads into the kitchen with all the gentle confidence of someone who knows his way around a saucepan and your spice rack.

Twenty-five minutes later, you’re seated together at your small kitchen table knees bumping, minestrone soup steaming, wine uncorked but untouched. It’s simple. Perfect.

He tells you about his media day mimicking Toto’s unimpressed face when Lewis nearly fell asleep beside him. You tell him about the student who accidentally set off the fire alarm with a badly rigged capacitor.

He throws his head back in laughter. You reach across the table and squeeze his hand.

“You make everything feel lighter,” you say.

“And you make everything feel like home,” he answers, sincere as ever.

Soon after, in the dim quiet of your bedroom, you lie pressed to his chest with one of his arms looped around your back, his fingertips tracing lazy shapes you can’t quite place.

Roscoe’s soft snores fill the silence like a lullaby.

“No one ever connects us,” Lewis murmurs, low and drowsy. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

You smile, eyes already heavy with sleep. “You’re not a secret.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But I like being in your quiet world. I like being just your guy.”

You lift your head slightly, brushing your lips against his collarbone.

“You’re not just anything, Lewis.”

He kisses your forehead, arms wrapping around you like a promise.

“You’re the impressive one, Dr. Hamilton.”

“And you,” you murmur, sinking into his warmth, “are hopelessly biased.”

“Madly.”

And the last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his hand tightening ever so slightly around yours like even in his dreams, he’s holding on.

The next morning, sunlight spills into the bedroom in soft, golden ribbons, painting lazy stripes across the sheets. Your alarm buzzes faintly on the nightstand, a quiet, persistent reminder that reality is creeping in.

You groan and reach out from under the duvet, your hand smacking around until it finds the phone and silences the sound. The warmth of the bed is too inviting. The stillness too perfect.

You blink once. Twice. And then you register the steady weight across your waist, the gentle rise and fall of breath behind you, and the soft pressure of lips against your shoulder.

“Lewis,” you murmur, voice raspy and full of sleep. “I have a 9AM.”

“Mmm,” he answers, barely more than a breath against your skin. His face is still pressed into the curve of your neck; his arm curled tighter around your waist. “Don’t go.”

You try to wiggle free, but he only sighs, groaning like the act of keeping you here is a full-time job he’s too dedicated to quit. His leg slides over yours like a lock, pulling you back into him.

“Lewis,” you laugh softly, the sound muffled in the pillow. “Seriously. I have to shower.”

“No, you don’t,” he mumbles, not budging. “You smell perfect. Stay. Cancel class. Let me be the one you teach today.”

You twist slightly, just enough to glance back at him. His eyes are still half-lidded, his curls a tousled mess, his expression smug in that sleepy, endearing way of his.

“You can barely spell ‘viscosity’ before 10AM.”

“I could learn,” he offers, brushing his lips against your cheek. “But I’d probably just stare at your handwriting on the whiteboard and think about how much I miss you.”

You roll your eyes, even as your chest tightens with something tender. You press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before finally prying yourself from his grip with the kind of determination only coffee and a packed lecture hall can summon.

Ten minutes later, the flat is a scene of controlled chaos. You're sprinting from room to room in a damp towel, muttering under your breath as you dig through your wardrobe for something professional yet forgiving, your wet braid flopping over your shoulder.

In the bedroom, Lewis lounges against the headboard, shirtless and entirely unbothered, Roscoe snuggled up at his feet like they both have nothing but time.

“You’re chaos,” he says, clearly amused as he watches you wrestle with the buttons of your blouse.

“You’re in the way of my shoes,” you shoot back, hopping into one heel and scanning the floor for its match. “Also, remind me to order more oat milk.”

He stands finally, pulling on a hoodie over his sweatpants. “Noted. Breakfast of champions today, I see?” he teases as you toss two cereal bars into your satchel and cap your travel mug.

“I’m a walking health icon,” you mutter.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You turn to him, leaning in for a quick goodbye, lips brushing his.

But Lewis doesn’t let it end there.

His hands catch your waist, pulling you in for a firm and effortless kiss before you can fully process it, his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time. The kiss is unhurried but demanding, like he’s trying to make up for the hours you’ll be apart.

You melt for a beat, your fingers curling into his hoodie, your breath catching against his. He tastes like sleep and warmth and something just slightly minty annoyingly perfect, even at 8:30 in the morning.

When you pull back slightly, breathless, he tilts his head and murmurs against your lips, “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

You laugh; forehead pressed to his. “You’re dangerous.”

“You love it,” he says smugly.

You manage to escape with one final kiss and a quiet, “Lock up after you take Roscoe, yeah?”

“Yes, Professor,” he replies with a grin, giving you a cheeky salute.

You catch Roscoe wagging his tail at the sound of your voice and nearly double back just to hug them both again.

By the time you reach campus, the clouds have thinned to a hazy blue, and London’s rhythm hums in the background of honking cars, soft chatter, the rush of students moving between buildings. Your braid drips occasionally onto your shoulder, but there’s no time to worry.

Inside the lecture hall, your first years are already gathering some still yawning, others furiously typing notes from a pre-lecture scramble. The air smells like espresso, pens, and worn paper.

“Morning, Dr. H!” someone calls from the back row, a little too cheerfully for 8:55 AM.

“Morning,” you reply, setting your laptop on the desk and plugging in the HDMI cable. “Let’s dive straight in before your caffeine runs out and someone tries to convince me that DRS is unfair again.”

A few of them groan. One girl clutches her iced coffee like it’s her entire reason for existing. You smile fond, but unrelenting.

“Hey, I’m running on four hours of sleep and granola bars. You don’t see me whining.”

Someone near the front chuckles. “Yeah, but you probably had a good reason. Like solving equations. Or I don’t know maybe you’re related to a hot F1 husband?”

You pause for just half a second. Smooth your blouse like it’s a reset button. “Today’s lecture,” you say coolly, “is on the thermodynamics of hybrid power units. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you rant about Red Bull at the end.”

They settle in quickly. The projector lights up. Your fingers move across the remote as you guide them through slides that are complex, but clear.

You pace gently in front of the room, weaving between rows, voice steady.

“Let’s start with the basics MGU-K. Think of it like a tiny, obsessed goblin living in the car. Every time you slow down, it panics. ‘No! Not wasted energy!’ So, it scoops it up, stores it, and tosses it back at you when you accelerate.”

Laughter trickles in, but more importantly, heads nod. They’re listening. Engaged.

You walk to the board and draw a quick diagram, your handwriting looping elegantly across the white surface. You see their eyes follow you some scribbling notes, others watching intently.

When a girl in the front raises her hand and asks about energy scaling in relation to battery mass, you light up not just because she’s asking a smart question, but because she wants to understand.

“Great question,” you say, walking toward her. “Let’s think about the cost-benefit curve here. What happens when we increase battery mass?”

Hands start to rise. One boy talks about kinetic output: another mentions heat loss. You gently correct a misunderstanding, but never once make them feel small. That’s never been your style. You build confidence like it’s a second language patient, structured and subtle.

The conversation evolves. A few students even start debating hybrid regulation loopholes like it’s a sport. And you?

You thrive in it. Not just the content, but the fire in their eyes. You live for the moment they get it.

When the lecture ends, most students scatter off to their next class, but as always, a few linger. A girl asks about internships. You promise to email a contact. Another asks if you’d mind giving feedback on a research proposal. You nod, writing your office hours on the back of a sticky note.

One boy stays longer than the rest, shifting his weight nervously as he clutches a notebook to his chest. He’s quiet, always has been.

You offer him a gentle smile. “Need something?”

“I um. I just wanted to say thank you. I didn’t think I’d like engineering. I was going to switch majors. But…you make it make sense.”

The honesty of it hits you square in the chest.

You blink, touched. “Thank you,” you say quietly, sincerely. “That means a lot to hear.”

He nods, shyly, and hurries out, the notebook still clutched like a lifeline.

You lean back against your desk, exhaling as the silence settles around you. It’s quiet now just the soft hum of the building, a high window cracked open to let in fresh air, the faint thrum of the city far below.

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes until your next lecture.

Plenty of time to check your phone.

Lewis 📩 10:23 AM: Roscoe and I both miss you. Send equations to distract us. 📩 10:25 AM: …Or a selfie. That works too 😌

You shake your head, smiling down at the screen, warmth spreading across your chest.

You 📩 10:27 AM: You first. 📩 10:28 AM: Make it cute. You’re distracting a professor at work.

You tuck your phone back into your bag, still smiling as you gather your notes and start setting up for your second class.

They don’t know it, your students. Not fully.

But here surrounded by questions and wonder and learning, you are wholly yourself.

And when the day ends, when your voice is hoarse and your whiteboard filled with diagrams and ideas, you’ll go home to someone who sees that version of you and kisses her breathless at the door.

You belong in both places.

And today, they’re both waiting.

The next day.

The scent of warm cookies wafts through the lecture hall, mingling with the usual cocktail of espresso, highlighters, and the faint hum of overworked laptop fans. You carefully set a large Tupperware container on the desk with a proud little smile, snapping off the lid like a magician unveiling her trick. Your students immediately perk up.

“You baked for us?” one of them gasps, as if you’ve just offered them salvation in the form of chocolate chips.

You tilt your head with mock solemnity. “I baked for me,” you say, tapping the edge of the container. “But I’m feeling generous. Thermodynamic modelling deserves a little sugar on the side.”

They erupt into grateful chaos, like puppies let off-leash. Hands shoot out, voices overlap with "thank you, Dr. H!" and "you're actually the best." You wave them off with a dismissive but affectionate shake of your head, already grabbing the remote as the last slide flickers to life behind you.

You resume pacing gently at the front of the room, cookie-crumbling fingers typing notes and shoving pieces into mouths.

“Okay,” you say, brushing invisible crumbs from your blazer. “Before I let you escape in a cookie coma, here’s your homework task for next week: pick any component of the hybrid system that isn’t the MGU-K because I know half of you were already halfway through a paragraph about regenerative braking. One-page minimum, diagrams encouraged. You can—”

The door at the side of the lecture hall creaks open.

You glance up mid-sentence, expecting maybe a late student or a confused TA.

But no.

Oh no.

Standing there leaning casually against the doorframe like this is a rom-com and he’s here to ruin your academic credibility is Lewis. Dressed down in a black hoodie and grey joggers, curls messy under a cap, a brown paper lunch bag in one hand, his phone in the other. Roscoe sits just behind him, tail thumping happily against the floor.

You forget how to breathe.

He raises the bag with an innocent shrug. “You left this,” he says. “Didn’t want you to starve during your lecture marathon.”

Time freezes.

You’re frozen. Your students are frozen. Roscoe may be the only creature in the room still blinking.

Because Lewis Hamilton - the Lewis Hamilton just walked into an engineering lecture hall like he’s dropping off forgotten gym clothes.

One student blinks dramatically and whispers, “Wait I thought it was just a coincidence her last name is Hamilton.”

“No way. No way that’s her actual husband,” another mutters, slowly lowering their cookie like it’s sacrilegious to eat during this moment.

You blink back into reality, your mouth parting slightly. You hadn’t checked your phone since the last class. You had absolutely no idea he was coming. And now he’s here, just existing. In your lecture.

He grins, fully aware of the small academic earthquake he’s just triggered. “Sorry,” he offers casually, scanning the rows of stunned students. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Hi.”

Your throat catches. “That’s my husband,” you say, finally, like it’s the most bewildered confession of your life.

And with that, the room explodes.

“WHAT?!”

“DR. HAMILTON!!”

“YOU’RE MARRIED TO LEWIS HAMILTON?!”

“NO. FREAKING. WAY.”

You drag a hand down your face, trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Please. Focus. Breathe.”

It’s a lost cause. One girl has both hands clasped over her heart. Another is already whispering furiously to a friend, undoubtedly calculating how long you’ve been married, checking Instagram for clues. Someone very confidently says, “This is giving ‘hot professor with secret F1 husband’ energy. I knew it.”

Lewis strolls over like this is perfectly normal, Roscoe trotting behind and sitting politely next to your desk as if he, too, has tenure. He places the paper bag next to your laptop, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek fully cementing your status as married to a legend.

“I’m still not convinced you didn’t plan this,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

He grins. “Just being a supportive husband. Delivering lunch. Kissing professors.”

A student near the front raises a hand. “Can he teach next week?”

Another chimes in, “Wait, can we all get lunch delivered by world champions if we forget ours?”

Someone else blurts, “Okay, but like you’re beautiful and you bake? And married Lewis Hamilton? Dr. H, respectfully, how is that fair?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re moving on.”

Lewis holds up a hand, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wait, wait. Sorry, just a quick poll.”

You already know you’re going to hate this.

He turns to the students. “Be honest, who actually wants this homework assignment?”

Groans. Boos. Even Roscoe lets out a small yawn for effect.

Lewis grins, turns to you with wide, innocent eyes. “Babe. They’re suffering. Surely you can’t do this to them?”

You shoot him the look. The look that says don’t test me in my own lecture hall, Hamilton.

A tense silence. The class holds its breath.

Then, with the world's most resigned sigh, you mutter, “Fine. You get an extension.”

The crowd goes wild.

Cheers. Whoops. Someone slaps the desk like it’s a drum set. You swear one girl actually starts chanting “Lewis! Lewis!” and Roscoe barks in perfect rhythm.

Lewis gives you a smug little smile. “You’re the best, Professor.”

“You’re banned from this building,” you reply flatly, even as you smile like an idiot.

He kisses your cheek again, showoff - then turns to leave with a casual, “See you at home. Roscoe says thanks for the cookie.”

You glance down and realise he’s already stolen one from the Tupperware.

“Hey!” you call after him, but he’s already backing out the door, hoodie up, dog trotting loyally behind him. “No more freebies!”

“Too late!” he calls over his shoulder. “Star pupils deserve snacks!”

The door swings shut with a soft click.

Silence.

Then your most dramatic student raises her hand and says, voice reverent and absolutely deadpan, “Dr. H…respectfully your life is literally my dream.”

You turn slowly, face in your hands. “I’m giving you all extra readings just for that.”

More laughter. You pretend to scowl, even as your heart is absolutely full.

Cookies, equations, a classroom full of chaos, and your ridiculously charming husband making a surprise cameo.

Just another Thursday.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Week Later…

You should’ve known something was up.

The department secretary had waved at you that morning with the kind of grin usually reserved for lottery winners or people who were about to witness some good, old-fashioned chaos. Then there were the students. Whispering. Glancing at the door too often. Snickering every time, you walked past.

And yet, like the dangerously overworked academic you were, you chalked it up to mid-semester burnout and ignored it. You had cookies. You had lecture notes. You had a paper-cut from opening a box of lab manuals. Things were normal.

Or so you thought.

The lecture hall buzzes as usual. A few late arrivals shuffle in, tripping over backpacks. The usual suspects sit in their usual seats. You boot up the projector, sipping from your coffee like the last line of defence between sanity and another midterm season.

There’s a light laugh when you remind them that their ERS system analysis assignment is due next week an extension, you emphasise, that was entirely the fault of your husband, not your mercy. Lewis had interrupted your last lecture with a lunch delivery and a face so charming it derailed the entire session.

“I expect detailed breakdowns,” you warn, pacing across the front of the room with your clicker in hand. “And no one is allowed to pick the MGU-K just because it’s easier to pronounce. Challenge yourselves.”

A few groans. Some muttered curses. You smirk.

You’re halfway through drawing a block diagram of the hybrid power unit when—

The door creaks open.

You pause.

Every head turns.

There he is.

Lewis Hamilton. In a tailored navy blazer, black shirt underneath, sleeves rolled just enough to show a glint of tattoos and that braided bracelet you gave him for your anniversary. And next to him?

Roscoe. Wearing a little service vest. Tail wagging like it’s his lecture now.

You drop your whiteboard marker.

It hits the floor with a dull clack.

The room goes dead silent.

One student whispers, horrified: “He brought the dog again.”

Lewis lifts a takeaway coffee cup in a peace offering. “Am I late?” he asks innocently. “You said you were covering hybrid systems.”

You stare at him.

He grins - that grin, the one with the dimple and the sparkle that always, always spells trouble.

“I thought you were kidding,” you say slowly, eyes narrowed, “when you said, ‘What if I came in and taught your lecture next time.’”

“I lied,” he says cheerfully, walking down the tiered stairs like it’s a red carpet. Roscoe trots beside him like he’s done this a hundred times.

“I hate you,” you mutter under your breath.

Lewis reaches the bottom, kisses your cheek in front of sixty gasping students, and sets the coffee next to your laptop. “She says that when she’s flustered,” he tells them like it’s a private joke. “I brought visual aids.”

From his pocket, he pulls out a folded sheet of notes and a pen. Someone in the back audibly chokes.

“Do you want the HDMI cable, Mr. Hamilton?” one student shouts gleefully.

“Absolutely not,” you say, glaring at Lewis. “This is my classroom.”

“She makes me flashcards,” Lewis tells them, completely undeterred. “She even colour-codes them.”

“Against my will!” you shout, scandalised.

“Best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he replies, completely sincere.

You stare at your husband, unsure whether to throw him out or throw him a gold star. Your class is already spiralling.

“Okay,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Guest lecture rules. Be nice, ask questions. And if he gets anything wrong, I swear to God, do not put it on TikTok.”

“I’m right here,” Lewis says, pretending to be offended.

“You’re everywhere and that’s the problem.”

Ten Minutes In…

Honestly? He’s good.

Too good.

He talks about real-time feedback in the car, how the MGU-H lag feels at high-speed straights, how data on throttle mapping can change race strategy in seconds. He references your lecture slides like he memorised them. (He did. You caught him last night reading your notes while Roscoe snored on his lap.)

And when he says, “Of course, I get to test all of this first-hand but none of it makes sense without her. She’s the brains behind my speed,”

You bury your face in your hands as the students absolutely combust.

“Oh my GOD,” someone says breathlessly. “They’re in love and also engineers??”

“Do they do equations together? Is that a thing?”

“I’m gonna cry. This is like academic royalty.”

You glare at Lewis, who only shrugs, basking in their adoration. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says with a smug smile. “You married this.”

After Class…

They swarm him.

Not about racing. About you.

“Is it true she organises the bookshelf by journal impact factor?”

“Do you really own matching safety goggles?”

“Did she really correct your spelling on the whiteboard that one time on Sky Sports?”

Lewis answers everything. Roscoe gets more head scratches than the last three therapy dogs combined. One girl even kneels down to whisper, “You’re the real star, aren’t you?” to him, like it’s sacred knowledge.

Eventually, the crowd clears, leaving behind crumpled paper, laughter and one sticky note on your desk:

Best. Lecture. Ever. Please bring your husband again. Or at least the dog.

The door clicks shut. You exhale dramatically and toss your notes onto the desk.

Lewis is already spinning lazily in your chair like a smug cat. Roscoe curls up by the door like he owns tenure.

“Well?” Lewis asks, eyes twinkling. “How’d I do?”

“You ambushed me,” you deadpan.

“You loved it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You interrupted my lecture, wore my oversized blazer—”

“It’s mine now.”

“—and then made my students love you more than cookies.”

“That’s unfair. Cookies are unbeatable.”

You sigh, walking toward him. Without hesitation, you drop into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. His hands find your waist immediately, like they always do.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, brushing his hair back gently.

“I’m devastatingly cute,” he whispers.

You kiss him just a quick press of lips that tastes like coffee and warmth and annoyance you don’t really feel.

“Next time,” you murmur, “I’m crashing your press conference.”

He grins. “That’d go viral in five minutes.”

“Exactly.”

“And what will you bring?”

You smirk. “Cookies. Flashcards. A live demonstration of your inability to remember acronyms.”

He laughs into your shoulder, pulling you closer. “Deal. But if you show up in that little lab coat again…”

“You’ll forget your lines?”

“I’ll forget my name.”

You roll your eyes, resting your forehead against his. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Good thing you married me.”

Later that evening.

The house smells like basil and garlic when you step inside not the distant kind from a candle, but the real, lived-in kind. The kind that wraps around you like a hug and makes your shoulders drop before your brain catches up. Your tote hits the floor with a tired thump, coat following in a heap. You toe off your shoes, already half grumbling to yourself.

You’d had full intentions of coming home and sulking on the couch maybe watching trash TV, definitely drinking tea, ideally being spoon-fed sympathy.

You didn’t expect candlelight and a half-set table.

“You’re joking,” you mumble under your breath.

“Hey, baby,” Lewis calls out from the kitchen, and he says it like he didn’t walk into your university classroom like it was his stage this afternoon. Like he didn’t completely upend your very controlled, very professional day by turning your lecture hall into an impromptu press room.

You step toward the kitchen and pause in the doorway.

He’s barefoot, sleeves rolled up, curls soft around his face. Holding two plates of what looks like homemade pasta as if he’s the romantic lead in a movie and you’re just catching the third act.

“You cooked or did you order food to make it seem like you did?” you ask, arching a brow. “After hijacking my class?”

Lewis doesn’t even flinch. He just grins, that dimple-deep smile full of shameless charm. “Seemed like the least I could do.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer, hands on your hips. “You mean after showing up uninvited, pretending to be a guest lecturer, and making all my students fall in love with you and Roscoe again?”

“Hey, I was invited,” he says, cool as ever, tapping a spoon against the edge of the pot. “You told me I could crash sometime.”

“‘Sometime’ did not mean today, Lewis.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t hate it.”

You open your mouth to retort, hesitate, then close it again with a sigh. “…You were kind of brilliant.”

He smirks, cocky as ever. “Knew you’d come around.”

With a small kiss, he brushes past you to set the plates on the table, casually turning on the soft jazz that now fills the background like a movie score. And you despite yourself, despite everything let it happen. You settle at the table, your foot brushing against Roscoe’s warm, sleepy body as he curls beneath your chair.

Dinner’s perfect. Of course it is. He’s irritatingly good at everything - cooking, teaching, loving you without trying.

You twirl a bite of pasta, shaking your head. “They’re never going to stop talking about it. Pretty sure one kid asked if we could adopt him.”

Lewis coughs into his water. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious. Another asked if you’d guest lecture for the rest of term.”

He grins, chin in his palm, like he’s never been more pleased. “Would you let me?”

You shoot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“Even if I brought more coffee?”

“…Tempting. Still no.”

“What if I let Roscoe sit in the front row and you pretended not to know him until the end of the semester?”

“Lewis.”

He laughs, eyes softening as he reaches across the table and laces his fingers with yours. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave. Promise.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve literally never behaved.”

“Fair,” he murmurs, leaning in.

The warmth between you simmers something steady and golden in the candlelight, something that smells like tomato sauce and affection and home.

“Hey,” he says after a pause. “You were amazing today.”

You scoff, poking at a tomato with your fork. “I was flustered. I dropped a marker.”

“You were funny. Sharp. Confident. That classroom didn’t know what hit ‘em.”

You smile behind another bite of pasta, cheeks warm. “You’re biased.”

“I’m obsessed,” he corrects softly, “That’s different.”

You pretend your heart doesn’t stumble at the word. You pretend he didn’t just say it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He sees right through it, of course. Leaning in, nose brushing yours, voice a whisper.

“Next time,” you murmur, “Just remember this, crashing your job.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Oh?”

“Press conference. Full audience. Me and a laser pointer.”

Lewis hums low in his throat, all teasing. “Bring the cookies. I’ll make room on the podium.”

You kiss him before he can say anything else - a soft, slow press of lips that says thank you and I hate how much I love you and maybe you were right to crash my class. Roscoe lets out a long sigh beneath the table, like even he knows this is overdue.

When Lewis pulls back, he’s grinning. “So, was today your best lecture ever?”

You squint. “It was alright.”

“‘Alright’? Babe.”

“Well,” you say, gently brushing a dab of sauce from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, “the guest speaker was decent.”

He laughs again full-bodied, delighted and pulls you gently into his lap like it’s routine. Like this is how every dinner ends.

And maybe it is.

After dinner, you groan and start to collect your things. “Okay. I really need to get through these submissions. If I leave them until morning—”

“Nope,” Lewis interrupts, standing up and stretching like a smug cat. “Denied.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a challenge and a gift wrapped in one. “What if I offered a counterproposal?”

You shoot him a look. “What kind of counterproposal?”

He steps forward, slowly. “You. Me. Cozy bed. Cuddles. Optional foot massage.”

“I have three student emails to answer and—”

Without warning, he ducks down and scoops you into his arms, bridal style, lifting you like you weigh nothing at all.

“Lewis!”

“Shh,” he says dramatically. “You’ve been kidnapped. For your own good.”

You smack his chest, laughing, legs kicking in protest. “Put me down!”

“Never. You work too hard and sleep too little.”

You huff. “You don’t even know my schedule.”

He leans in and kisses your nose. “Baby, I’ve memorised your calendar.”

You roll your eyes but let him carry you up the stairs, arms looping around his neck. He kicks open the bedroom door and sets you gently on the mattress like you’re something precious.

(You are.) ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Three Days Later

You're mid-coffee, half-dressed and muttering about a broken printer when Lewis walks in with his phone and a huge grin.

“Hey, babe?”

“Don’t ‘hey babe’ me unless you’ve fixed the—”

“I got fan mail.”

You frown. “What?”

He turns the screen toward you.

Subject: Quick Follow-Up to the Lecture!! (Also Tell Roscoe I Love Him)

From: [malik]@university.edu

To: [email protected]

Hi Mr. Hamilton!!! Just wanted to say thanks again for speaking in class last week!

1. Could you recommend any beginner-level telemetry books?

2. What kind of treats does Roscoe like? I’m trying to win over a bulldog.

3. Do you have your own podcast or something?? Because we NEED it.

PS: Please tell your wife she’s really cool. But like you’re cooler 😅

You read it. Once. Twice.

Then you let out an actual scream.

Lewis is already laughing.

“They emailed YOU?”

He shrugs. “I told them they could if they had follow-ups!”

“They are my students!”

“I’m just answering as a supportive co-educator.”

“Supportive co-educator?!” You’re nearly shrieking now. “They’re asking YOU about telemetry and calling you cooler than me—”

“I mean, babe,” he says with a shrug and a wink, “they’re not wrong.”

You throw a pillow at him. Roscoe, entirely unbothered, lets out a snore on the couch.

His inbox pings.

Another email.

You glance at your phone.

Subject: Mr. Hamilton pls do a guest series? Weekly?? We’ll bring snacks

You scream again.

Lewis disappears upstairs, cackling, phone in hand.

You’re going to have to start docking his appearances from your syllabus.

Or file for divorce.

(Probably both.)

But later when you're curled up in bed, grading beside him, and Roscoe is snoring between your legs you’ll admit, very quietly, that it was kind of nice.

Even if your students love your husband more than they love you. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The last week of term arrives like a freight train and you’re standing directly in its path with no intention of moving.

Final projects are flying in like shrapnel, some pristine, others barely held together with duct tape and desperation. Resits are stacked like Jenga towers, threatening to collapse at the slightest nudge. Office hours have morphed into emotional triage sessions. You’ve hugged two students, cried with one, and given another a five-minute pep talk in the hallway that somehow spiralled into a debate about philosophy and the thermodynamics of burnout.

The printers on campus have declared war three of them jamming, beeping, or outright lying about being “out of paper.” You’re running on sour worms, vending machine coffee, and a four-hour Spotify loop labeled “Academic Combat Mode.”

Your desk is a battlefield. Loose pages drift across the surface like surrender flags. Coffee rings mark the passage of time. There’s a half-eaten protein bar lodged beneath your grading rubric and sticky notes that simply read: BREATHE and DO NOT CRY HERE AGAIN.

Your students are running on caffeine, chaos, and increasingly deranged group chat memes.

You?

You’re running on spite, love, and the memory of Lewis wrapping his arms around you last night, his breath warm against your neck, whispering, “They’ll do great. You’re the reason they even believe they can.”

You didn’t believe him.

But then…

They do.

They pass.

Every single one.

You double-check the spreadsheet. Then again. Then stare at the results like they’ve betrayed physics.

A few just scraped through barely crossing the threshold with the kind of messy brilliance that makes your heart ache.

A few soared sharp, elegant, precise.

But all of them made it. All of them.

You sit back in your chair, stunned. Your eyes burn. Your throat clenches. And then you laugh a loud, trembling, relief-soaked laugh that turns into hiccuping sobs halfway through.

You don’t even hear the front door until Lewis appears in the doorway, already out of his post-training gear, curls damp, wearing that hoodie you always steal.

“Hey…” His voice is careful, low. “What’s wrong?”

You spin in your chair, blinking back tears with zero success. “They passed.”

He frowns. “Wait who?”

“My students. All of them. All of them, Lewis.”

He crosses the room in three steps, crouching beside you, his hand firm and warm on your knee. “Are you serious?”

You nod, laughing through your tears. “I double-checked everything. Even the ones who were struggling they pushed through.”

Lewis stares at you like you just won Monaco in a go-kart. He doesn’t say anything for a long second just brushes a knuckle down your cheek. “You did that.”

“They did that.”

“But they had you.”

You don’t know how to explain what’s lodged in your throat the combination of exhaustion, joy, and the deep, giddy sense of oh my god, I actually made a difference.

So instead, you collapse into him and let yourself feel it.

That night, curled up together on the couch, you send off the final marks, pour yourself a victory glass of wine, and open a new email thread.

Subject: SURPRISE ENGINEERING TRIP – Permission Forms + NDAs

Lewis glances over at you when your typing hits a rapid-fire rhythm.

“You look suspiciously productive,” he says, rubbing at his shoulder.

You grin. “Everyone passed. So I’m rewarding them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “With…?”

You spin the laptop toward him. The email subject stares back in bold.

He stares at it. Then at you. “You’re bringing them where?”

“To see real engineering,” you say, practically glowing. “To show them that everything they just learned doesn’t live in a textbook. It lives here. In this.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You want to show me off?”

You roll your eyes. “I want to show them what you do. And what’s possible. I want them to feel it.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead. “You’re incredible.”

You nudge his side. “Start prepping that smoothie-blender metaphor.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Surprise Day – Trackside

The sun is just beginning to rise when you meet your students outside the paddock gate, all of them wearing bright university lanyards and the exact expression of people who thought they were going on a boring lab excursion.

They’re fidgeting. Whispering. Clutching clipboards and wondering why there are security checkpoints.

“This is kind of a lot for a factory tour,” someone murmurs.

“Are we even allowed to be here?” another whispers.

You beam. “You’re allowed. Just don’t touch anything with a red sticker.”

Then the gates open and the world as they know it tilts.

The paddock is alive.

Team haulers gleam like spacecraft. Engineers rush past with headsets and carts full of parts. Mechanics joke over laptops displaying real-time data.

The students freeze.

Then, slowly, they realise where they are.

This isn’t a museum.

This is the frontline.

And then Lewis walks into the garage.

He’s mid-discussion with a race engineer, sleeves of his race suit knotted around his waist, fireproof top clinging to his chest, curls still damp. His smile drops the moment he sees the crowd of wide-eyed students.

He stops in his tracks.

Then looks at you.

You wave cheerfully.

“Professor,” a student breathes, clutching your arm. “Thats him. That’s Lewis Hamilton your husband.”

You nod. “Yes. That’s my husband. Welcome to practical applications of everything you’ve ever cried over.”

Lewis walks over slowly, a baffled look on his face. “You said ten.”

You shrug. “Ten-ish.”

He counts. “There are thirty-five.”

“Plus, me.”

He leans close, barely containing his laughter. “You ambushed me with an engineering cult.”

“They’re future legends. Consider it networking.”

He exhales sharply, eyes flicking over their faces. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

He grins. Then turns to the students. “Alright, class. Let’s talk aerodynamics and heartbreak.”

First up was the garage tour -

The moment he starts speaking, it’s over.

Your students descend on him with the fervour of people who’ve spent their lives dreaming of this exact moment.

“Mr. Hamilton, how do you factor side wind into the suspension load distribution?”

“Can we see the CFD simulations?”

“What’s your real opinion on porpoising?”

“Can you feel the difference when they shave two millimetres off the floor edge?”

Lewis takes it in stride answering every question with patience, humour, and the kind of depth that leaves half your students scribbling frantically and the other half open-mouthed in awe.

He pulls up data on a nearby monitor. Demonstrates how telemetry reflects energy recovery curves. Explains corner balancing with an analogy about dancing in wet shoes.

They are eating. it. up.

One student nearly cries when he explains the front wing adjustments in Barcelona last year.

Another practically proposes when he walks them through his feedback loop with his race engineer.

At one point, someone leans over to you, breathless. “I didn’t know real engineering could be this…cool.”

You grin, heart fit to burst.

Later.

Eventually, the group begins to disperse still buzzing, still asking questions. Some exchange social handles. Others ask for internship tips.

One of your quietest students lingers back. Malik. They walk over, hesitant, still absorbing everything.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” they murmur. “I’ve never…I’ve never felt this close to what I want to do before. It always felt like something other people did. People I could never be.”

You squeeze their shoulder. “You can be. You will be. You belong here.”

Their eyes shine. “Because of you.”

And then they’re gone swallowed by the group.

The garage is almost quiet when Lewis walks over and wraps his arms around you from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you melt into him.

“That was insane,” he says softly.

“Good insane?”

He kisses your cheek. “The best kind.”

You lean your head back against his. “You were amazing with them.”

“I think I got asked more technical questions in two hours than I have all year.”

You laugh. “That’s what you get for dating a lecturer.”

“I should’ve known what I was signing up for.”

He spins you gently to face him, eyes still warm. “I meant what I said earlier, you know.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“I’ve never been more in love with you than I am right now.”

You blink, stunned for a second then smile so big it hurts. “Even after I hijacked your garage and brought thirty-five chaotic nerds into your workspace?”

He laughs. “Especially because of that.”

Then Lewis’s phone pings.

A student’s name appears on the screen.

Subject: Follow-up on the CFD airflow demo –

You groan. “They love you more than me now.”

He leans in, forehead against yours. “You love me enough for all of them.”

You roll your eyes. “Ugh. Cheesy.”

He kisses you again soft, slow and grateful.

And in the space between his breath and yours, you realise:

This is what every hard night was for. Every breakdown. Every fight to make them believe.

This is your love. For them. For him.

For everything you’ve built together. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Two Weeks Later.

Your office is a mess again this time not from grading, but from possibility.

Blueprints spill off the desk. There’s a half-eaten croissant sitting atop a textbook on thermal systems, and your whiteboard is covered in equations and mock telemetry graphs. You’ve been working through design exercises with Malik your brightest, most determined student every afternoon since the Mercedes garage visit.

He hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

“I didn’t think someone like me could belong in a place like that,” he told you, voice cracking slightly.

So, you told him the truth: You do. And we’re going to prove it.

When Mercedes posted a summer internship for engineering students limited slots, hundreds of applicants you knew Malik had to apply.

So, he did.

And now you’re waiting.

He’s been pacing outside your office, chewing his hoodie strings and muttering torque ratios under his breath like a prayer. You’ve refreshed your email fifteen times in the last hour. Just in case.

Then your phone vibrated.

Subject: Mercedes-AMG F1 Internship Offer – Malik A.

Your hand flies to your mouth. You don’t breathe. You read it twice, three times.

And then you sprint.

“Malik!” you shout, flinging open the door.

He turns, eyes wild. “Did they—?”

You don’t even say it. Just hold up your phone.

He reads the subject line. Once. And then everything crumbles.

He gasps and covers his mouth, knees buckling slightly as he sits hard on the bench. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

You crouch in front of him, your hands on his shaking shoulders. “You did it. You earned this.”

His eyes are wide, wet. “You believed in me before I did.”

You laugh, heart thudding in your chest. “And now Mercedes does, too.”

He hugs you tight, breath hitching. “I’ll make you proud.”

“You already have.”

That Night...

You walk in the front door, still glowing, still not quite believing the day you just had.

Lewis looks up from the kitchen, dressed down in a hoodie and sweats, Roscoe curled up nearby.

He takes one look at you and smiles. “You look like you just won a race.”

“Better,” you say, dropping your bag and walking straight into his arms. “Malik got it. He got the internship.”

Lewis pauses. “Wait Malik - Malik? The one who asked about the ERS recovery map and almost cried when I showed him the pit wall software?”

You laugh into his chest. “That’s the one.”

Lewis holds you tighter. “He’s brilliant. That’s incredible.”

“I think I screamed,” you admit. “I definitely startled at least three undergrads in the hallway.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft. “You’re changing lives.”

You shake your head. “They’re doing the work. I’m just I don’t know. Holding the door open.”

Lewis smiles not just proud, but awed. “You kicked the door off its hinges.”

You exhale, leaning your forehead against his. “This is why I do it. Not the admin emails. Not the late nights. This. That moment when they see themselves somewhere big and believe it.”

He kisses you, slow and sweet, as if he knows that for all your pride in them he’s proud of you.

713 notes · View notes

sunshineangel0 · 1 month ago

Text

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD —﹙ K.SM ﹚

⌁ wc 9.1k warnings marriage of convenience, single dad!seungmin, nsfw content, unprotected intercourse, light choking, emotional tension, slow burn, fake marriage, mild angst, soft comfort, small town meddling. a/n wow i didnt think i would write almost 10k words!! but here i am and got carried away with seungmin (i should study but lets ignore that). ive just finished reading "wild side" by elsie silver and this idea immediately sparked in my head!! this was so seungmin coded and i just needed to write it. i hope you all like it!! 💕 ⌁ part two of the "twin heart series"

The sky over Summerdale wasn’t just darkening, it was bleeding out. A deep lavender haze rolled in slow from the water, swallowing the last threads of daylight like it had something to say and no rush to say it. The tide lapped against the cliffs below the bluff, whispering its secrets through the pine trees that edged the shoreline, soft and rhythmic, like breath against a sleeping body.

Down on Main Street, the neon sign above The Scallop Heaven blinked in its usual broken pattern "Sca op Heaven" thanks to the leftmost ‘L’ giving out sometime back in February. Nobody had fixed it. Nobody cared. That was the thing about Summerdale: things broke, people shrugged, and life just went on. You either made peace with the cracks or you left. Most people didn’t leave.

You pulled into the back lot, headlights sweeping over the dumpsters and salt-stained siding. The gravel under your tires made that familiar grinding sound, like bones rolling in a socket. You turned the engine off and exhaled a breath that felt like it had been aging in your lungs for years. Your body slumped just slightly in the driver’s seat, caught in that strange twilight stillness where movement felt like too much to ask.

The envelope on the passenger seat stared up at you, sealed but scuffed, the corner bent, the weight of it far heavier than the ounces it contained. It wasn’t just paper. It was intention. Agreement. Consequence. It might as well have been a brick.

You didn’t reach for it. Not yet. Just kept your hands on the wheel and watched the lights flicker off in the upstairs apartment, one room at a time. Soft glows blooming behind worn curtains. Minseo’s bedtime routine was unfolding exactly as expected: the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon staying on, the lullaby playlist humming from the old Bluetooth speaker, and three bedtime stories, in the same order every night. God help you if you swapped them. She was stubborn like that. Solid in her routines. Maybe because everything else in her life had already shifted too much.

Finally, you picked up the envelope and stepped out into the thick, salt-touched air. The car door shut behind you with a quiet, final thud.

Inside the bar, the world was dim and warm in a way that didn’t invite questions. The lighting came mostly from mismatched neon signs advertising brands like Schlitz and Genesee, none of which had been stocked in the fridge since at least 2014. The air smelled like lemon cleaner, spilled whiskey, and wood soaked with too many conversations people pretended not to remember. The kind of place where silence spoke louder than music.

A TV in the corner muttered through a baseball game, the announcer’s voice low and static-filled. Nobody was paying attention.

Behind the bar, Seungmin moved like a man trying to keep from unraveling. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms tensed as he wiped the countertop in slow, punishing strokes. His face was unreadable, carved from quiet resolve and low-grade irritation. Like he was always one memory away from breaking something he couldn’t fix.

He didn’t look up right away when you walked in. Just kept working the cloth like it had insulted him personally.

Then the bell over the door jingled, and his head lifted. His eyes met yours. No smile. There never was, not lately. Not with you. Not because he didn’t want to—but because with you, he didn’t allow himself to slip. Not even for a second.

“You’re early,” he said, voice even, low.

You lifted the envelope slightly. “You’re always here.”

That earned you a shrug—one of those quiet, almost imperceptible movements that said more than words could. A shrug that meant so what, what else is new, what choice do I have.

You crossed the room and slid onto the barstool closest to the register, dropping the envelope between you like a gauntlet. He looked at it like it might bite.

“Everything’s in there,” you said. “License forms, witness sheet, affidavit, notarization schedule. We just need two signatures. And someone willing to lie with a smile.”

He nodded once, then reached for a clean glass and started drying it, gaze fixed somewhere behind you.

“Minseo asleep?”

“Out cold after book number three,” he said. “Same one she always picks. The penguin with the astronaut helmet.”

You smiled without meaning to. “She likes the ending.”

“Because it makes sense,” he said. “It’s the only part that does.”

And there it was again—that stretch of silence. The kind that settled in when two people didn’t know how to name the space between them. Or maybe they did, and neither one wanted to say it out loud.

“I talked to the social worker today,” you said, voice quieter now, like it might spook something. “She asked if we’d set a date.”

His hands paused for just a second. A flicker.

“And?”

“I told her February fourteenth.”

That got his attention. He looked at you for real this time, not just the flick-and-glance. His stare pinned you—focused, assessing, familiar in its intensity.

“Valentines day,” he said. “Day of lovers. Good omen.”

“It’s also three weeks from now.” “I know.”

You studied him—jaw clenched, scar on his knuckle still visible from the bar fight last spring, a faint smear of blue ink on his wrist. Minseo’s markers. Her favorite color.

“You still okay with this?” you asked.

For a beat, he didn’t answer. Just dried his hands slowly, folded the towel, and leaned forward onto the bar.

“I’m not doing it for me.” Soft. Quiet. Unflinching.

“I know,” you said, almost on a breath.

Because this wasn’t about him. Or you. It wasn’t about whatever unfinished history lived in the way he never quite met your eyes when you got too close. This was about the girl upstairs, whose parents had vanished under the weight of their own failures. About keeping her out of the foster system. Out of the trauma mill. Out of courtrooms that didn’t care if she still slept with a stuffed giraffe.

You’d offered your name. He’d offered his time. Together, you’d offered a lie that looked enough like stability to pass as truth.

“This place smells like regret and fried seafood,” you muttered, fingers tapping on the bar. “We couldn’t have met literally anywhere else?”

Seungmin lifted an eyebrow. “This is where I work. This is where I live. This is where she eats.”

He didn’t add and this is all I’ve got, but it echoed anyway. Subtext carved into every breath.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” you said. “I figured.”

“And if you snore, I’m buying noise-canceling headphones.” “Be my guest.” “And if this gets weird—” “It’s already weird,” he said. “But we’re still doing it.”

You looked down at the envelope again. It didn’t look heavy anymore. Just final. Your name, written beside his, in ink that wouldn’t wash off.

“You ever think we’re gonna wake up one day and regret this?” you asked.

Seungmin didn’t flinch. “Every day.” And then, with the same calm he used to pour drinks, he peeled the envelope open, pulled out the first form, and flattened it against the counter like it was just part of the job. You watched him. The steadiness of his hands. The restraint in his voice. The quiet ache tucked in the corners of his expression. This wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was something. Duty. Survival. A pact made over coffee and desperation. And somewhere beneath all of it—rising, quiet and patient—was the beginning of something else. Not fake. Not anymore.

You watched Seungmin slide the paperwork out of the envelope like it might disintegrate if he moved too fast. His fingers were steady, precise—the kind of steadiness that comes from trying to hold it together when everything else is coming apart. He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. This wasn’t someone signing a few forms for convenience. This was someone about to step out onto a high wire, fully aware there was no net.

He didn’t speak. He almost never did when the stakes were high.

Instead, he read. Line by line. Eyes scanning the page like every word might bite. That was Seungmin’s armor—silence. Careful, controlled, and sharp-edged. But you saw the way his gaze caught on a single line near the top of the form:

Minor child: Minseo Kang.

The name was printed in a government-issued font, uniform, cold, sterile but it still made his jaw tighten. His shoulders shifted, almost imperceptibly, like the weight of her name landed somewhere real. Somewhere that hurt.

He didn’t say Yeji’s name. You didn’t either. That part of the story lived under your tongues now, heavy and unspoken. But the memory didn’t care about silence. It showed up anyway.

Three months ago, your phone rang out of nowhere. The name on the screen stopped you cold: Seungmin. It looked like a mistake, like a ghost dialing from a part of your life you’d already packed away.

You hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. Not really. Just a handful of polite holiday texts. A few heart reacts on mutual friends’ photos. Enough to say we still exist in the same orbit, but nowhere near enough to call it closeness.

Back in high school, you’d barely lived in the same world. You ran with the loud ones, the party crowd, the kids who cut class and vacationed in the Hamptons like it was a birthright. Seungmin had been the quiet boy in the back row, always scribbling in the margins of his textbooks, always turning in homework on time even when no one else bothered.

Then, junior year, he surprised everyone by trying out for the baseball team. Surprised them even more when he became the best batter your school had seen in years. His swing was clean. Focused. Brutal. You remember someone saying he hit like he had something to prove.

But after graduation, when the rest of your class scattered, NYU, UCLA, study abroad programs, gap years in Europe, Seungmin stayed in Summerdale. That always stuck with you. That he stayed. Like the town had something left to hold him, even when most of you couldn’t wait to run.

You picked up expecting awkward small talk. Instead, his voice hit like a car crash. No hello. No lead-in.

Just: “She’s gone. She left her at the apartment and she’s gone. Might need a lawyer at hand.”

She was Yeji. His ex-wife. A hurricane of a woman with pretty lies and a self-destruct button she kept pressing. You remembered her as beautiful, brittle, always halfway out the door. Addiction clung to her like a shadow, quiet at first, then louder, then everything. It had eaten her slow, until there was nothing left but smoke.

Minseo had been six. Alone in the apartment. Crying. Clutching a crumpled lunchbox and a handful of crayon drawings like they could keep her safe.

By the time CPS showed up, the caseworker took one glance at Seungmin, a bartender, single, rent two weeks overdue, and started filling in the foster home recommendation before he’d finished his sentence.

That’s when he called you. Not because you were the best option. Not because you were qualified. Not even because you were particularly close anymore.

He called because you were the only person who wouldn’t ask why him.

Minseo wasn’t his, not on paper. Not biologically. But Yeji had been four months pregnant when she and Seungmin met and got married a few weeks later, and that had never mattered to him. Not once. He’d been twenty-three and drowning in side gigs, barely making enough to cover groceries, but when Minseo was born, he’d signed the birth certificate without hesitation. He’d rocked her to sleep at three a.m. He’d learned how to braid hair. He’d shown up for parent-teacher meetings when Yeji stopped pretending to care. He’d never called her his stepdaughter. He never would.

That night on the phone, you remembered his voice cracking just once. Then he swallowed it down and said, “She’s mine. Even if the paperwork doesn’t say it. She’s mine.”

And before you could even think it through, you said, “Then I’ll make the paperwork say it.”

And then, a breath later: “We’ll get married. For you to get custody.”

There was silence on the line. Heavy. Shocked. Real. He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask if you were joking. He knew you didn’t joke about things like this.

Finally, he said: “Okay.”

And now, here you were. In a half-lit bar that smelled like regret and lemon cleaner, watching him flip slowly to the last page.

The pen between your fingers felt heavier than steel. He paused. Voice low. Careful. “You don’t have to keep doing this. If it’s too much, if you want out, say so now.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m serious.” “So am I.”

You stood. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just moved, steady and quiet, around the bar until you were close enough to see everything. The faint hollows under his eyes. The smudge of ink on his wrist, still there from Minseo’s last doodle session. The scar on his chin from the fight two springs ago, when some drunk said something about Yeji and didn't walk away fast enough.

“She’s a kid,” you said. “A good one. She says thank you when people hold doors. She remembers birthdays. She cries every time Bambi’s mom dies even though she knows it’s coming. She’s still soft. Still kind.”

His throat worked once. He didn’t speak. “She deserves more than being handed off to a stranger just because the system can’t figure out what love looks like without a blood test.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. “And you deserve more than a fake husband with joint custody trauma.”

You huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. This is strictly bureaucratic foreplay.” A beat of quiet. Then—dry, but soft:

“Liar.” Your stomach flipped.

Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.

But you didn’t let it show. Instead, you held the pen out between you, steady and certain. “Let’s get married, Min.”

He looked at you.

Really looked. Like he was cataloging every piece of you—hair, expression, the resolve in your spine—so he’d remember what you looked like before things changed.

Then he took the pen. And signed.

The Marigold House looked like a set designer’s fever dream, whitewashed clapboard siding gleaming under the late afternoon sun, every window framed with blue shutters that matched the hydrangeas blooming in the front garden. The walkways were lined with crushed shell gravel, crunching lightly under dress shoes and kitten heels, and a trellis of marigolds curled over the gate like the house had grown into the name. It smelled like vanilla, orange blossoms, and something sugary-sweet, like a candle shop or a memory you couldn’t quite place.

You hated it.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful. It was. Everything was, too much so. Too coordinated. Too pretty. The kind of place where people threw real weddings, not legal chess moves disguised in tulle.

The courtyard out back was a honey-drenched watercolor, rows of white folding chairs, cream ribbons fluttering in the breeze, mason jars full of wildflowers perched on every other aisle. It was staged to perfection. Like someone had tried to manifest joy with Pinterest boards and afternoon light.

You stood just off-center from the archway, draped in gauze, strung with fairy lights, clutching a bouquet you didn’t like. Too much lace. Too many peonies. But Minseo had gasped when she saw it that morning and whispered, “You look like the fairy queen from the movie,” and that was the only reason you kept it. Not taste. Not tradition. Her.

Your hands didn’t shake. But your stomach was a war zone.

Across the aisle, Seungmin stood like a man sentenced, navy suit crisp, jaw locked, posture stiff like he was daring the moment to knock him down. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink. Just watched the archway like it might collapse on him. Like maybe he was hoping it would.

He looked good. Too good. Tailored in ways that were unfair, broad shoulders in clean lines, throat dusted with stubble he hadn’t shaved close enough. A bruise-like shadow under one eye from too many sleepless nights. Still, somehow, he looked like gravity. Like a person you’d follow off a cliff if he asked with that voice of his.

In the second row, Chan leaned toward F/N with something snarky on his tongue. She elbowed him before he could finish. You caught her looking at you, and for a moment, her smile softened into something almost tender.

You looked away.

The officiant, a woman named Dottie who gardened with combat boots and baked lavender scones for the PTA, stepped forward with a clipboard in one hand and dirt still under her nails. She cleared her throat with theatrical warmth. “Let’s begin,” she said, a little too loud, her consonants clipping like she was used to reading storybooks to children. “Today, in front of friends and family, we gather to celebrate the union of Kim Seungmin and Y/N L/N”

Union.

The word hit your chest like an elbow. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to leave.

Instead, you felt the small, certain tug of a hand at the hem of your dress.

Minseo. She sat in the front row in a white cotton dress and a flower crown too big for her head, eyes wide, face glowing with the kind of happiness that didn’t know how to question itself yet.

She beamed up at you like this was the best story in the world, and you were the hero.

And just like that, the ache in your stomach stopped mattering.

The ceremony became a blur. Words like commitment, home, forever washed over you like fog. You didn’t hear half of it. You nodded in the right places. Smiled just enough. You remembered the feel of sunlight on your cheek and the way your bouquet weighed heavy against your wrist. You remembered the moment Seungmin reached for your hand.

His touch was calm. Unflinching.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t acting. He looked at you, not like a friend, not like a partner in some plan, but like someone seeing something for the first time that he’d known all along. Dottie smiled like she could feel the shift. Like she’d seen it before in other people and was already rooting for you.

She turned to Seungmin. “Did you prepare something?” He nodded. Slowly. Pulled a folded page from his jacket pocket. But he didn’t unfold it. Didn’t read it. He just held it. Like he needed to know it was there. Then he spoke. Low. Steady. No theatrics.

“You already know I’m not good at this. I don’t do speeches. Or… gestures. But I do what matters. I show up. I stay. I try. Even when it’s hard. I know Im not the best man or... lover or father. But as long as were married I promise to give my best to ensure that you, and Minseo will always have a warm home and a... person you can come home to. I know Im a hard guy. But you said yes. When you didn’t have to. When no one else did. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be someone who deserved that.”

Silence. Thick and dense. No one moved. No one breathed. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat sharp and unfair. Your chest ached like someone had pulled it open and replaced your ribs with strings. His words were so honest. Raw, Truthful. It made you wonder how long he had thought about them. About what to say. An now you felt bad.

Because you didn’t have vows. You weren’t supposed to have anything.

But then Dottie looked at you, that warm-patient-knowing expression, and suddenly you were speaking. You didn’t remember deciding to.

“I...", you looked up, directly into Seungmins steady brown eyes. They look like hot chocolate swirls, the ones after you stirred the liquid in the mug for minutes with a spoon. They look warm. Sincere. And like theyre holding the world together. Your troath went completely dry, but you continued talking:" I didn´t say yes because someone had to, but becasue I wanted to. Because you never asked for anything, even when everything hurt. Because you carry more than you should. Because the second you said Minseo was yours, I believed you. Ive known you since high school, Seungmin. Even though I didn´t always acknowledged you back then, ignored you most of the time in class, to be honest, I still always had an eye on you. On the hardworking student doing his homework inbetween classes, trying to keep his 90 average just so he can get a scholarship for college. I always saw more in you than just the quiet boy. I always knew you deserved more. And I hope that I will be the one who can give you that”.

Seungmin’s hand gripped yours just a little tighter. Behind you, Minseo sniffled. “That was so good,” she whispered. Way too loud. Someone laughed. Someone else wiped their eyes. You smiled, small. But real.

Dottie beamed. “By the power vested in me by the great state of California and the overwhelming desire of everyone here to see you kiss already—kiss your wife.”

Seungmin didn’t move. Not at first. Then, slowly, like gravity had to decide for him—he stepped in. Closed the distance.

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone, and he leaned in like he was stepping over a line neither of you had dared touch before.

And when his lips met yours, it was quiet heat.

He kissed you passionately. Not like he was following a script. Not like he owed anyone anything. But like he was choosing it. Choosing you. Choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

His hand stayed steady, fingers curled at your neck. Your mouth opened slightly—only slightly, and he breathed into it, like he was trying to remember the shape of you. It ended before it could deepen.

But you knew. He was choosing you. Choosing this. Like you daydreamed about in class when you were a teenager. About the quiet boy, whose plush lips you wanted to feel against yours so so desperately and who you just wanted to feel close to you. And how you punished yourself back then for being this dumb and not befriending him because you belonged to the popular kids.

But now, he was choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

No lie. No paperwork. Just lips. Just warmth. Just the sound of your heart saying finally, finally, finally.

The sun was sinking fast behind the cliffs, casting long shadows over the bluff as guests trickled into the reception space—once a quiet garden, now transformed into a makeshift ballroom draped in paper lanterns and fairy lights. Tables sprawled beneath the open sky, centerpieces spilling with late-summer blooms, wax-dripped candles flickering in rhythm with the coastal breeze. Someone had already hit play on the playlist: soft indie-folk weaving between clinking glasses and easy laughter.

You didn’t let go of Seungmin’s hand right away. Neither did he.

Then Minseo came bounding toward you, arms flung wide, crashing into his side like she’d waited all day for this moment. He caught her without flinching—solid, instinctive—one arm around her tiny frame. The other let go of yours. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. Like maybe he shouldn’t have.

Back to the plan.

You slipped into the crowd like a shadow in tulle. Smiling when you had to. Nodding through small talk. Thanking people for coming. Hugging people too tightly or not tightly enough—people who didn’t know half the story. Most of them thought this was love. That was the point, wasn’t it? Selling the illusion. Convincing them. Convincing yourselves.

Chan found you by the dessert table, which had already been ravaged—cupcake casualties thanks to sugar-hyped toddlers and nostalgic uncles. He had a wine glass in one hand and that unreadable smirk in place.

“So,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “That kiss?”

You gave him a flat look. “Let me guess. Looked fake as hell.” Then, quickly, to not raise any suspicion, you added: “You know… because we had to do it in front of family and all.”

He tilted his head. “Well actually? Looked pretty damn real.”

You took a sip of champagne instead of answering. Not because you were hiding anything—because you didn’t know what the answer was. Not anymore.

Across the patio, Seungmin caught your eye.

He was crouched by Minseo again, adjusting the strap on her glitter-covered sandal while she chattered wildly, arms slicing the air. He nodded along, completely absorbed. Like nothing else existed. Like this—her, now—was the only thing that mattered.

F/N came up beside you, slipping her arm through yours. Quietly anchoring you.

“You okay?” she asked. Light tone, but real. You nodded. “I think so.”

She glanced toward the empty arch where the ceremony had been, lights still strung across its frame like stars caught in the wood. “You looked happy up there.”

You followed her gaze. “I was.” Just for a moment. Just long enough to think—maybe you weren’t pretending anymore.

Dinner passed in a blur: speeches you half-heard, bites you barely tasted. The dance floor opened. Chan spun Minseo until she collapsed into laughter. Seungmin stood at the edge, hands in his pockets, eyes on her like she might vanish if he blinked.

You drifted off again—habit by now. Toward the edge of the garden, where the lights thinned and the music turned into a distant hum. The grass felt cool under your bare feet when you slipped off your shoes. Finally, the air had cooled too, kissed with salt and stillness.

Then came footsteps. Measured. Familiar. Seungmin.

He stood next to you, saying nothing at first. Just quiet presence. Shoulders a little tight. Hands in his pockets.

“She had fun,” he said eventually. “Said she felt like a princess.”

“She looked like one.” You both smiled. Yours faded first.

“This is going to get harder, isn’t it?” He didn’t play dumb. Just nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.” You turned to look at him. “What does it feel like?” He didn’t answer right away. So you did.

“Like I’m in something I don’t know how to want… but I don’t want to lose it either.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

The silence between you didn’t stretch awkward—it stretched heavy. Full. Like it had weight. Like it was holding everything you couldn’t name. Everything that kiss had awakened, shifted, stirred. Then he said, “Thank you. For today. For… all of it.”

You didn’t say “you’re welcome.” Instead, you said, “If this is what faking it feels like… I’m scared to know what real would even look like.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just stepped closer.

Close enough for you to smell the faint citrus of his aftershave, the warmth rising from his skin, the lived-in softness of him that always felt a little like home.

“Then let’s find out,” he said—so soft you almost missed it.

You didn’t kiss him again. Not yet. But you didn’t walk away either.

The bridal suite looked exactly how a stranger would imagine it: One bed, drowned in rose petals you didn’t ask for. A bottle of unopened champagne sweating in a silver bucket. A clawfoot tub in the corner, positioned like it was waiting for a romance novel cover shoot. Everything white and soft and staged, like someone tried to force intimacy into the decor.

You stood in the doorway for a moment too long, shoes dangling from your fingers, unsure what to do with all that... expectation. It hung in the air heavier than the jasmine-scented diffuser on the vanity.

Seungmin stepped in behind you, hesitated, then shut the door with a soft click. The noise of the party downstairs vanished, sealed off in an instant.

Silence, now. Just the two of you. No Minseo, no guests, no cameras, no pretending.

Only you. And the one bed.

He scratched the back of his neck, already tugging at the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “So... this is what we’re working with.”

You gave a short laugh. “It’s aggressively romantic.”

“Feels like a setup.” You glanced at the petals on the bedspread and snorted. “That’s because it is.”

He didn’t answer, just moved toward the window and cracked it open an inch. The sea breeze filtered in immediately, tugging at the curtains and carrying with it the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers. You walked to the armchair in the corner, dropping your heels beside it and sinking into the cushion.

Your feet were sore. Your back ached. Your head buzzed with champagne and things left unsaid.

“We can flip for the bed,” you offered after a beat.

Seungmin glanced over his shoulder. “Flip?”

“Yeah. Winner gets the bed. Loser gets the... uh.” You looked around. “The chaise lounge that looks like it’s built for Victorian fainting, not sleep.”

He gave a half-smile. “Or, hear me out, we’re adults. Were... officially married. It’s a big bed. We can both fit.”

You stared at him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

You stood and padded toward the bathroom, peeling out of your dress with practiced movements. You folded it neatly over the back of the chair and pulled on the hotel-provided robe, soft, oversized, impersonal. The makeup wipes felt cool on your skin, like an eraser dragging away the bride mask you’d worn all day. You shortly cleansed your face and dabbed on a serum and moisturizer, before fiddling your hair into a quick braid.

When you stepped back into the room, Seungmin was already on his side of the bed, facing the window. Still in his dress pants and undershirt. The top three buttons undone, tie tossed over the bedside table. He hadn’t touched the champagne either.

You crossed to the opposite side, climbed under the covers cautiously. The sheets were crisp and cold and smelled faintly of bleach.

The mattress dipped with your weight. The room felt smaller somehow.

You lay on your back at first, arms pinned close, staring up at the ornate crown molding. He did the same. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then “Can’t sleep?” His voice was low. Barely more than a murmur.

You smiled at the ceiling. “Didn’t even try yet.” More silence. Not awkward. Just... thick. Pregnant with whatever was pressing at the edges of this whole night.

“I keep thinking about earlier,” you said eventually. “The kiss. What Chan said.” Seungmin’s voice came slower this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you. Eyes open. Vulnerable. Like he didn’t know what the hell to do with how close you were now, physically or otherwise.

Your knees bumped under the covers. Neither of you moved away.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” you admitted. “Me neither.”

Another beat. Then you asked, “What did it feel like to you?” He licked his lips, eyes darting across your face like he was searching for the safest way to answer. “Like I was breaking a rule... but it was a rule that never made sense in the first place.”

That stopped your breath for a moment. The quiet pressed deeper between you, wrapping you both in it. Your fingers shifted beneath the covers, brushing against his by accident—or maybe not. He didn’t pull away. His pinky grazed yours. Then lingered.

A whisper of contact. Stupid and small and devastating. Your breath hitched.

He heard it. Of course he did. His hand turned palm-up, open. Waiting. You didn’t think. You just slid your fingers into his.

The sheets rustled as he shifted slightly toward you. Closer. So close now, your knees aligned. The line of his body was heat and muscle and hesitation.

“Do you think we’re making a mistake?” you whispered. He shook his head, the motion barely visible in the dark. “No. I think not doing anything would be the mistake.”

You exhaled slowly, heart thudding so loud it felt like he could hear it. Then he said, “Can I touch you?”

The question landed like a drop of warm honey in your chest, slow, deliberate, sweet.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers lifted to your face, brushing your cheekbone. Gentle, reverent. He traced the line of your jaw, then your bottom lip, his thumb barely grazing it.

You leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. Everything in the room faded—the rose petals, the champagne, the fake romance. What remained was something quieter, rawer. The truth, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

You shifted closer, chest to chest now, knees tangled.

You could feel his breath on your skin, the hitch of it as your hands explored the space between shoulder and waist, slipping beneath the edge of his shirt. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. Every inch felt like a confession.

Neither of you rushed it. But the ache was building. Slow and hungry.

And this time, when you kissed him, there was no audience, no plan, no pretending.

Just you. Just him. Just real.

The kiss started slow.

Cautious. Soft. A testing of boundaries neither of you had dared cross before now. His lips brushed yours once, featherlight, almost reverent. Like he was asking permission even as your bodies already answered.

You kissed him back. That was all it took. Something inside Seungmin snapped, some invisible thread that had held him in check all day, through the ceremony, the photos, the act. It unraveled in a heartbeat.

He surged forward, mouth hungry, hands threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss like he wanted to climb inside you. His tongue licked into your mouth, desperate and sure. You moaned, breath caught, thighs instinctively parting beneath the sheets.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to look at you, hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips already swollen. “Sorry. Im so sorry, but gosh, Y/N. Do you know how long ive wanted to do this? Do you know how hard it was all day, marrying you, making you my wife and having to pretend you haven´t been showing up in my wet dreams since high school?", he growled. "Pretty, popular Y/N L/N. You know how bad I wanted to fuck you back then? Do you know how bad I want you right now?"

"Show me,” you whispered. That did it.

He moved fast, tugging the robe off your shoulders, baring skin inch by inch like unwrapping something sacred. His hands didn’t fumble. They claimed. Traced. Gripped.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down your throat, over your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful. My wife.”

The word sent a jolt straight through you. You weren’t used to hearing it like that, hot and reverent in the same breath. You didn’t think it would turn you on the way it did. But Seungmin said it like a vow. Like a right. Like he was ready to worship you with his mouth and his hands and every sharp edge of him.

“If we’re already married,” he said against your chest, licking a slow stripe up your sternum, “we might as well act like it.”

Then his mouth closed around your nipple and your back arched hard.

He sucked deep and slow while his fingers slid between your thighs. No teasing. Just heat and friction and filthy, slick pressure. You were soaked already—your whole body trembling, wrecked from a day of pretending.

He kissed lower, dragging the sheets with him, settling between your thighs with a low groan.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you today,” he admitted, breath hot against your core. “That little white dress. You didn’t even know how good you looked, did you?”

You whimpered as his mouth found you, tongue firm and greedy, licking you open like he was starving. You couldn’t stay still, hips grinding, thighs clenching around his head. He didn’t stop. He held you there, hands anchoring you down as his tongue fucked you deeper and his voice vibrated against your skin:

“Take it, baby. You can take it. That’s it... that’s my girl.”

You were already close, embarrassingly fast, but he pulled back just before you tipped over.

“No,” he muttered. “Not yet. I want you to come on my cock first.”

He crawled up your body again, his chest flush with yours, cock heavy and hard between you. One hand grabbed your jaw, angling your face to meet his eyes.

“Last chance,” he said, voice dark and low. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head fast, desperate. “No. Don’t you fucking dare.”

He growled and kissed you again, messy and deep, grinding against your core like he was already inside you.

“I’m going to fuck you raw,” he whispered into your mouth. “I’ll pull out. I swear. For now. But I need to feel you. All of you.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, yes, just do it, Seungmin, please.”

The blunt head of his cock slid against your entrance, wet, hot, perfect. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might snap.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You feel... fuck, baby, you feel like heaven.”

You weren’t quiet either. You dug your nails into his back as he bottomed out, the stretch too much and not enough all at once. The feeling of him bare, skin to skin, filled some kind of void you hadn’t realized was aching.

Then he started moving. And the rhythm wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was raw.

He fucked you like he owned you, like he’d earned it after every second of pretending, every fake smile, every polite touch that meant nothing compared to this.

The bed creaked. Your moans turned high and desperate. His grip bruised your hips as he drove into you harder, faster, head pressed to your shoulder.

“You’re mine tonight,” he groaned. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “All yours.”

“Fucking right you are.” One hand reached up and wrapped around your throat, not tight, but enough to claim. To hold. To make your breath catch as he pounded into you, each thrust snapping something loose in your brain.

You clawed at him, pulled him closer, whispered his name like a prayer.

When your orgasm hit, it was violent, body locking, back arching, vision gone white. You sobbed his name, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

Seungmin cursed low and pulled out just in time, spilling hot across your stomach with a strangled noise that sounded half-pain, half-devotion.

He didn’t collapse immediately. He stared down at you, panting, flushed, ruined and whispered, “You’re everything.”

Then he kissed you again. Slow now. Gentle. Full of wonder. And for the first time all day, the act was over. This was real.

The room was warm now. Too warm.

The air felt thick with sweat, breath, and everything unsaid. Your heart still pounded in your ribs like it hadn’t caught up with the rest of your body yet. Your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves, the world quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted whistle of the breeze through the cracked window.

Seungmin was still above you, braced on his elbows, forehead resting gently against yours like he couldn’t quite let go yet. Like if he moved, the spell might break.

You weren’t in a rush either. His breath ghosted over your cheek. Warm. Human. Steady. “I wasn’t supposed to do that,” he said, voice low and ruined.

You didn’t move. “But you did.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, more to himself. “I did.” His thumb brushed your jaw. Just once. Soft. Reverent.

“I should’ve taken it slower,” he murmured. “You deserved more than that.”

You turned your head, met his gaze in the dim light. “That was more,” you said, quietly. “That wasn’t nothing, Seungmin.” He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for days. You reached up and pushed the damp hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

He nodded, slow and quiet. “Yeah. I just—”

His mouth opened. Closed. He rolled onto his side, pulling you gently with him so your body settled into the curve of his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist. Not tight, but firm. Protective.

You felt safe. It startled you a little, how safe. “I kept thinking about it,” he said into your hair. “All day. You. Us. I told myself I wouldn’t... not unless it meant something.”

You pressed your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. “And did it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It did.” Silence stretched between you again. This time, it felt like a blanket. “I used to think about you,” you said, your voice a murmur in the dark. “In school. In class. I’d pretend I didn’t notice you, but I did. Every time.”

He let out a quiet breath, the hint of a laugh buried in it. “I used to imagine you were way out of my league.” You smiled into his chest. “I kind of was.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You were. And now you’re... my wife.” The word made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to keep calling me that,” you said, light but careful. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his expression unreadable.

“I want to.” You swallowed. “Okay.”

His hand stroked down your back, slow and soothing. “This doesn’t have to be anything we’re not ready for,” he said. “But I’m not going to pretend anymore, either.”

You blinked. “Pretend what?” “That I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you for a long time. That this... doesn’t feel like the start of something.”

Your throat tightened. “We made a plan. For Minseo. For—”

“I know,” he said. “And I meant it. I’ll keep my promise. We’ll raise her right. We’ll keep her safe.” His hand slid under the blanket, palm warm against your spine. “But I’m allowed to want the rest too. If you want it.”

You turned in his arms, meeting him fully, heart raw and exposed. “What if I’m scared?” you asked.

He cupped your face again, his touch almost unbearably gentle now. “Me too,” he whispered. “But if we’re going to build a lie that feels this real... maybe it’s not a lie anymore.” Your breath hitched.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “You didn’t have to say yes. But you did. And I want to be the man who makes that mean something.”

You felt the tears sting before you could stop them. “Seungmin...”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice breaking just slightly. “Whatever this turns into. However long it takes. I’ve got you.” He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth. Slow. Tender. Nothing urgent, just connection. Just care. He held you like something precious. Like something he’d finally been allowed to keep.

THREE WEEKS LATER

The mornings had started to find their rhythm.

Not perfectly. Not smoothly. But real.

You woke to the smell of pancakes, again. Seungmin had a thing about breakfast, apparently. Said it anchored the day. You suspected it was more about giving Minseo something constant, something warm to start from. She still clung to her routines like a life vest.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, robe slung haphazardly around your body, hair in a loose braid that had barely survived the night. The sound of cartoon voices filtered in from the living room, Minseo’s Saturday morning ritual, and over it all: the low sizzle of batter on a skillet, and Seungmin humming some unidentifiable tune under his breath.

He looked up when you walked in.

His hair was a mess. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour on his wrist and a smear of something syrupy on the hem of his shirt. He looked like someone who belonged in a kitchen at 8:07 a.m., tired but present.

His eyes lingered for a beat too long on your legs. “Good morning, wife,” he said, voice still sleep-scratchy.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “We’re still doing that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels right.” You walked over and stole a piece of half-cooked pancake off the spatula.

“Hey,” he protested, swatting at your hand half-heartedly. “That’s illegal.”

You shrugged, mouth full. “Sue me. But as far as Im concerned Im the lawyer in this household. You can punish me if you want, though”

“I already married you. Isn’t that punishment enough?” Behind you, a tiny voice shouted from the living room: “I heard that!” Seungmin snorted. “She’s always listening.”

You leaned against the counter and watched him flip the next pancake, his movements efficient and quiet. You could tell when he was tired, he moved slower, less crisp. There were new shadows under his eyes. He’d been picking up extra shifts again, covering for a coworker who disappeared without warning.

You crossed the kitchen and slipped your arms around his waist from behind.

He paused for half a second, then relaxed into it, leaned back slightly so your cheek fit into the curve of his shoulder.

“This okay?” you murmured. “Yeah,” he said. “Better than okay.”

He turned the stove off and let the last pancake settle in the pan. Then he turned around, arms sliding around your waist now, pulling you in close.

It was still new, this touch. Familiar and strange at once. Domestic. Intimate. The kind of thing people didn’t notice when they’d been doing it for years. But for you, every brush of skin still felt like a step forward.

He looked down at you, eyes soft. “I like this,” he said. “Us. Here.”

“Even with Minseo insisting on watching that weird octopus show every morning?”

“Even then.” You reached up, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“You could sleep in once in a while, you know.”

“And miss Saturday pancakes?” You rolled your eyes again, but your heart ached a little. With love. With guilt. With everything you still didn’t quite know how to say out loud. Minseo called from the couch, “Is it ready yet?”

Seungmin kissed your temple. “That’s my cue.” You watched him go, watched the way he moved toward the small girl sprawled on the carpet in her dinosaur pajamas, plate in hand, grin already blooming.

She squealed when she saw him. He sat cross-legged beside her, balancing the plate on his knee, feeding her bites between episodes like it was the most natural thing in the world. You leaned against the doorway and just… watched.

Watched the man who used to be a stranger to you, now barefoot in your house. Watched the girl who used to cry herself to sleep, now giggling through a mouthful of pancake. This wasn’t love yet. But it was something. And it was growing.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The laundry never stayed folded.

Minseo had this habit of digging through the baskets looking for the dress, the blue one with the sparkles and the spaghetti straps and the small ink stain that hadn’t washed out. It didn’t matter that there were six other perfectly fine outfits. That was the one. Always had been.

So when you walked into the bedroom and found her standing triumphantly on the bed, arms up, mismatched socks already on, blue dress clinging to her sides like a second skin, you didn’t bother arguing.

Seungmin looked up from the dresser with a crooked smile and no energy to stop her.

“You wanna tell her it’s not weather-appropriate?” he asked.

You looked at Minseo’s messy braid, her socks pulled up to her knees like legwarmers, and shrugged. “I’m not trying to die today.”

“She’s terrifying when she’s committed.”

“Gets that from you.”

He smirked and walked past, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw on the way to the kitchen. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. It wasn’t new anymore, this casual touch, this quiet affection. It happened all the time now. In the mornings, when you passed each other at the bathroom sink. At night, when you reached for his hand in the dark. Mid-conversation, when he tucked your hair behind your ear like he’d been doing it forever.

It had crept in slowly. The love. It hadn’t arrived like fireworks. It hadn’t needed to.

It came in the form of grocery lists and hair detangler and "I already took out the trash" and “Did you eat today?” and the way Minseo had stopped correcting people when they called you her mom. It came in the form of a fully lived-in life.

The apartment reflected it. Messy in the corners, clean where it mattered. A basket of crayons on the coffee table. Three jackets by the door. A fridge full of leftovers in takeout containers labeled in Seungmin’s blocky handwriting. Pictures on the wall, Minseo in the park, Seungmin asleep on the couch with her on his chest, a blurry photo Chan had taken of the three of you, laughing so hard it looked fake. But it wasn’t.

You spent Sunday mornings in bed now, all three of you, tangled in sheets and limbs, cartoons playing quietly in the background. Seungmin called it “the family puddle.” Minseo insisted on pancakes every time. Sometimes he burned them. You still ate them anyway.

He never said I love you with words. But he said it when he kissed your shoulder in the kitchen. When he pulled you back into bed after the alarm. When he wrote “get home safe” on the inside of your wrist with a marker before you left for court one morning.

One night, long after Minseo had gone to bed, her nightlight casting blue stars on the ceiling, you sat on the couch, half-draped over Seungmin’s chest, and whispered, “Do you ever think about how this all started?”

His fingers kept tracing slow circles on your back. “All the time.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. “Do you think we were faking it at first?” He shook his head. “I think we were afraid to believe it was real.”

Silence passed like a heartbeat. “And now?” you asked.

Seungmin looked down at you. The smallest smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s just us.”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, over the spot where his heart beat slow and steady. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Minseo stirred in the next room. The wind rustled the trees outside the window. The clock ticked. The radiator clicked.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t extraordinary. It was real. And for the first time in your life, real felt like enough.

The windows fogged faintly from the heat inside and the chill of the ocean air outside. Salt crusted the edges of the glass, and the soft clang of pans echoed faintly from the open kitchen. The smell of frying bacon, buttery toast, and strong coffee settled into the booths like an old friend.

It was early enough that the rush hadn’t started. Just a few regulars with coffee cups refilled without asking and a waitress wiping down the sugar dispensers with a rhythm born from muscle memory.

Minseo sat in the booth, legs swinging, a chocolate chip pancake face-down in syrup, her cheek smudged with powdered sugar. She was in one of her moods, singing quietly to herself, narrating her breakfast like a cooking show host. You and Seungmin sat across from her, shoulder to shoulder, a shared cup of coffee between you, half-sipped.

You were barefoot in sneakers. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. This was your life now. Breakfast booths. Sticky menus. A child quietly humming a melody to her strawberries. And it felt… good. It felt settled.

“Be honest,” Seungmin said, leaning in, voice low and conspiratorial, “You think she’s going to finish that pancake or wear it as a hat first?”

“She’s definitely wearing it,” you whispered back. “Excuse me,” Minseo said through a mouthful, “I can hear you.”

You both laughed, one of those quiet couple-laughs, full of shared language and affection that didn’t need names. The bell over the diner door chimed.

Yang Jeongin stepped through, carrying a clipboard and a half-zipped jacket, his hair still damp from the ocean air. He moved with the kind of ease you only earn when you’ve come home and decided to stay.

��Hey,” he called, nodding toward the booth as he passed. “Morning, folks.” Minseo perked up immediately. “Mr. Jeongin! You’re late!”

Jeongin grinned. “I prefer fashionably delayed.” He ruffled her hair as he passed and headed behind the counter, slipping into a soft rhythm, checking the order forms, restocking napkins, greeting the cook with a backhanded high five. The place already looked more alive under his care, like it remembered how to breathe again.

Seungmin watched him for a moment, then leaned toward you. “Can you believe he came back?”

You raised a brow. “You mean the boy who once said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather eat my diploma than run a diner in Summerdale?’”

Seungmin smirked. “The very same.”

“You guys still talk?”

“Sometimes. Late shifts. He’s… different now. Softer. In a good way.”

You glanced over to see Jeongin talking to F/N by the pastry case. Her eyes lit up in that way that was half surprise, half defense, like she hadn’t expected him, and yet somehow always had. Something unspoken passed between them.

Seungmin followed your gaze. “He’s not here just for the diner.”

“No,” you agreed. “He’s not.”

Then Seungmin turned back to you. Minseo was now constructing a pancake tower with a level of engineering brilliance that might win her a scholarship someday. The diner clinked and buzzed around you. And suddenly, everything slowed.

You looked at Seungmin, and he looked at you, and it wasn’t one of those cinematic, heart-racing, swell-of-music moments. It was quiet. Steady. Earned.

“I love you,” he said. Just like that. Your breath caught, but you didn’t freeze. You just smiled. Slowly. Like something inside you had clicked into place.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured. He kissed the back of your hand, soft and sure. “I know.” From across the table, Minseo looked up.

“Is this one of those gross love moments?” she asked.

You both nodded, grinning. “Good,” she said. “Because I want waffles next time.”

You laughed, leaned into Seungmin’s side, and let the moment settle.

Outside, the sea crashed in its usual rhythm. Inside, your family ate pancakes in a booth under flickering fluorescent lights. And it was perfect.

skz general @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx @channiesluvrclub @slut4junho @bobaluvzz @channiesbaby1433 @wonniesjungdimple @mythicmochi @m-325 @rockstarkkami @felixleftchickennugget @oceanz7 @seungminsbest @fackeraccount @takuoshuji @xoxomanicpanic @catsforlife6864 @lezleeferguson-120 @angellcvkes

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rkive-joonie · 2 months ago

Text

Mine | JJK (m) | one-shot

Biker boyfriend and secret girlfriend AU |

Jungkook x Y/N |

genre: biker au, secret relationship,smut, fluff,( I'll maybe write a part two at some point with all the spice)

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut,emotional and possessive love and intimacy, he is literally so obsessed with her, oral sex (f. receiving), making out, hickies/marking,penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, missionary position, fingering, rough and slow paced sex, emotional sex,

Wordcount: 2.6k

Jungkook was a solitary figure, the rumble of his motorcycle echoing through the desolate streets. The bike's chrome gleamed under the neon lights of the city, a stark contrast to the shadows that danced around him. His eyes, hidden behind tinted goggles, surveyed the urban sprawl with a sense of detachment. The wind tugged at his hair, a wild mess of raven strands peeking out from beneath a leather cap. His gloved hands were steady on the handlebars, the leather creaking with each deliberate movement. His boots, scuffed and worn, were a silent testament to the miles he had traveled on this machine. The night was alive with the promise of secrets and danger, but Jungkook was unfazed. He was the king of the night, the unseen force that kept the balance in a world that had long forgotten the meaning of the word.

Y/n watched him from the apartment window, her heart racing. The thrill of his arrival never faded, no matter how many times she saw him. Her eyes followed the trail of exhaust fumes as he parked the bike and sauntered towards the building. His confidence was palpable, even from a distance. He owned the night just as surely as he owned her heart. Her fingertips traced the cool glass pane, a silent plea for the warmth she knew she'd find in his arms. She had never imagined herself with someone like Jungkook - a biker, a rebel, a creature of the shadows. Yet, here she was, eagerly awaiting his touch, craving the heat of his embrace.

The sound of the engine cut out, and the world seemed to hold its breath for a moment. Jungkook's boots hit the pavement, the rhythm echoing through the quiet night. Y/n's anticipation grew with each step he took towards the apartment. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding hers. He pulled off his goggles, revealing a smoldering gaze that sent a shiver down her spine. There was something different about him tonight, an edge that she hadn't seen before. A hint of possessiveness, perhaps a touch of jealousy? It was intriguing, like the promise of a storm on the horizon.

He walked into the room, the leather of his jacket creaking with each step. Y/n could feel the tension in the air, thick and potent. Jungkook's eyes roved over her, taking in the sight of her bare legs, the hem of her short dress riding up slightly. His gaze was a caress, a silent question that sent her pulse racing. Without a word, he closed the space between them, his hand reaching out to brush a lock of hair from her face. His touch was gentle, almost tender, but there was a current of something more. His thumb traced the outline of her cheek, his eyes searching hers for something she wasn't quite ready to give. But the night was young, and the whispers of a secret longing danced in the shadows, waiting to be unleashed.

Y/n's heart fluttered in her chest as Jungkook leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. His kiss was sudden, claiming, and it left her gasping for more. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the smell of leather and gasoline intoxicating her senses. His hands moved to her waist, his grip firm, as if he feared she might slip away. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, a silent declaration of his need for her. The world around them faded, and all that remained was the thunderous beat of their hearts and the sizzle of passion igniting between them.

The room spun as Jungkook's hand slid up her back, pushing the dress over her shoulders. It fell to the floor in a whisper of fabric, leaving her bare before him. He took a moment to appreciate the beauty laid out before him, his eyes dark with desire. His hands traced the curve of her spine, sending waves of pleasure rippling through her. His teeth grazed her earlobe, his breath hot as he whispered, "You're mine." It wasn't a question; it was a statement, a claim. Y/n's response was a soft moan, her body arching into his touch. The jealousy she had sensed in him earlier had transformed into something primal, a need to assert his dominance, to erase any doubt of who she belonged to.

With a growl, Jungkook picked her up, carrying her to the bed with a fierce tenderness. He laid her down, his eyes never leaving hers. He removed his jacket, revealing a t-shirt clinging to his muscular frame. The fabric was almost translucent with sweat, highlighting the contours of his body. His hands moved to his belt buckle, unhooking it with a swift, practiced motion. His pants followed, revealing low-slung boxers that barely contained his arousal. The sight of him, strong and unyielding, sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through her. He climbed onto the bed, his weight pressing her into the mattress as he reclaimed her lips. His touch grew more demanding, his kisses more insistent, and Y/n knew that tonight would be one of those nights when the lines between love and possession blurred into a single, intense emotion. The jealousy that had brought him here had only served to stoke the fire of their passion, and now, as they became lost in each other, it was clear that neither of them had any intention of letting go.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, urging him closer. Jungkook's hands slid under her, cupping her buttocks and lifting her up to meet his hardness. The friction of the fabric against her sensitive skin sent sparks through her body. He kissed a trail from her neck to her collarbone, his teeth nipping at her soft flesh. The sting of pain was a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure, and she found herself arching up to meet his mouth, silently begging for more. His fingers danced over the edge of her panties, teasing her, driving her to the brink of madness. The anticipation was unbearable, and she could feel herself getting wetter with every passing second. The room was filled with the sound of their harsh breaths, the scent of their desire hanging heavy in the air.

With a snarl, Jungkook yanked the scrap of fabric aside, exposing her to him fully. He didn't waste any time, his fingers delving into her wetness, finding her clit with unerring precision. Y/n's back bowed as she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He worked her with a fervor that was almost violent, as if he was trying to brand her with his touch, to leave an indelible mark on her soul. She was close, so close, but she didn't want it to end. She wanted to feel him inside her, to be filled by his love, to be claimed by him completely. She whispered his name, a plea for more, and he responded by plunging two fingers into her, the sensation of being stretched almost too much sending her hurtling over the edge.

The orgasm ripped through her, making her entire body tremble. Jungkook watched her come apart with a fierce satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with triumph. But he wasn't done with her yet. He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, tasting her, savoring her. The sight was almost too much to bear, and Y/n felt a renewed surge of arousal at the raw, primal need in his gaze. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock pulsing with desire. With one hard thrust, he was inside her, filling her completely. They both groaned in unison, the intensity of the connection making their eyes lock. He began to move, his hips pistoning into her with a force that was almost punishing. Each thrust was a declaration of ownership, a promise that no one else would ever touch her the way he did. Y/n's nails raked down his back as she matched his rhythm, their bodies moving as one. The storm had arrived, and it was all-consuming.

The bed frame creaked under their passionate onslaught, the headboard banging against the wall in a staccato rhythm that echoed their hearts' beats. Jungkook's muscles tensed, his eyes never leaving hers, as he pushed her towards another peak. His hand slid down to grip her thigh, lifting it higher, opening her up even more. The new angle sent shockwaves of pleasure through her, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming his name. He knew her body better than she knew herself, every touch, every stroke designed to drive her wild. His other hand found her clit again, playing with it mercilessly as he continued to pound into her. The tension coiled tighter, the pressure building until she could hardly breathe. Her eyes rolled back, and she threw her head back, the room spinning around her as she succumbed to another orgasm, even more powerful than the first.

Jungkook's pace didn't slow. If anything, he grew more frantic, his movements more erratic. He could feel his own climax approaching, the heat building in his balls. He needed to claim her completely, to make her his in every way. His thumb circled her clit faster, his fingers digging into her thigh as he pushed himself deeper, harder. The sounds of their lovemaking filled the room, a symphony of gasps and grunts that grew louder with each passing second. The tension in his body grew unbearable, the pressure at the base of his spine threatening to shatter him into a million pieces. He knew he was close, so very close.

With a roar, Jungkook pulled out and flipped her onto her stomach. He grabbed her hips, pulling her back onto him, his cock sliding into her from behind. The sensation was overwhelming, the feeling of being filled so completely, so possessively. His hands were everywhere, gripping her hips, her waist, her breasts, as he fucked her with an urgency that was almost frightening. Y/n could feel the headboard digging into her stomach with each thrust, the pain mixing with the pleasure in a delicious cocktail that had her panting for more. He leaned over her, his breath hot on her neck as he whispered, "You're mine. Only mine." His words were a command, a declaration that sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. Her orgasm built again, the sensation of being filled from behind pushing her over the edge. She came with a scream, her body convulsing around his, her inner walls tightening as she milked his cock.

Jungkook didn't last much longer. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside her and came with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. He collapsed on top of her, his breathing ragged, his body slick with sweat. They lay there, panting, their hearts hammering against each other. The storm had passed, leaving them both drained yet somehow more connected than ever. He kissed her shoulder, his hands gently stroking her back as they both came down from the high. The jealousy that had brought them to this moment had transformed into something darker, something deeper, something that bound them together in a way that nothing else could. And as they lay in the quiet aftermath, Y/n knew that she would do anything to keep this fiery passion burning, to be the only one to soothe the beast that raged within Jungkook's soul.

Slowly, they peeled apart, their limbs entwined in a tangle of sheets. Jungkook pulled her close, his arms a steel band around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his eyes closing for a brief moment as he held her tightly. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice gruff. "I didn't mean to scare you." Y/n looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "You didn't," she assured him. "I liked it. It's like you couldn't get enough of me." A small smile played on her lips, and Jungkook's eyes flashed with something that could only be described as pure male satisfaction. He knew she was telling the truth; she had met him with the same fervor, the same need. It was as if the air between them had crackled with an unspoken understanding, a silent agreement that tonight was about claiming and being claimed.

They lay there for a while, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Jungkook's hand traced lazy patterns on her skin, his touch soothing the lingering ache from their passionate encounter. "What was that about?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He sighed, his eyes opening to meet hers. "I saw someone watching us earlier," he admitted. "Someone who had no right to look at you the way they did." His jaw tightened at the memory, and Y/n felt a strange thrill at the possessiveness in his voice. "It just... it brought out something in me. Something I didn't even know was there."

Y/n nodded, her eyes searching his. She could see the turmoil in his gaze, the unspoken fear of losing her. She reached up to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing over his full bottom lip. "You don't have to be jealous," she murmured. "You're all I want." His eyes searched hers, looking for the truth in her words. "But I am," he admitted. "I can't help it. You're so... incredible. And the thought of someone else touching you, making you feel the way I do..." His voice trailed off, and she could see the raw emotion in his eyes.

"Then I'll make sure to only make you feel that way," she whispered, leaning in to kiss him softly. The kiss grew deeper, more intense, as their bodies seemed to reawaken with a hunger that never truly abated. Jungkook rolled them over, his eyes never leaving hers as he positioned himself above her once more. This time, his touch was gentler, his movements slower. He kissed her with a reverence that made her feel like the most precious thing in the world, his hands exploring every inch of her body as if he were mapping the stars. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing them open for him.

Their kiss grew more heated, their bodies moving together in a dance that was as old as time itself. Jungkook's hand slid down her side, his fingers dancing over her skin until they reached her hip. He rolled her over, pulling her on top of him, his eyes never leaving hers. He watched as she positioned herself over him, her breasts bouncing slightly with the movement. The sight of her, so confident and beautiful, was almost too much to handle. His hands slid up to cup her breasts, his thumbs flicking her nipples in a way that made her gasp. She lowered herself onto him, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt him fill her once again.

Her movements were slow and deliberate, each roll of her hips a silent declaration of love. Jungkook's hands moved to her waist, guiding her, urging her to take him deeper. The pleasure was building again, a slow crescendo that promised to consume them both. The room was a cocoon of passion, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony. His hands slid down to her ass, gripping her firmly as he helped her set the pace, his hips rising to meet hers. They moved together, their breaths mingling, their bodies slick with sweat. The air was charged with an energy that seemed to crackle around them, a potent mix of love and lust that had them both on edge.

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook #bts #bts smut #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook au #biker jungkook #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jungkook x y/n

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pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago

Text

The Invisible Girl

The hum of Gotham’s streets was a living thing, a pulse that never quite stopped. It was late—far past the hour when most respectable high school girls would be tucked away in bed, dreaming of prom or pop quizzes. But you? You were sixteen, a fleeting shadow in the city’s underbelly, your sneakers scuffing the asphalt as you leaned against the hood of a souped-up Mustang. The illegal car race was alive around you, engines roaring, neon lights flickering, and the crowd buzzing with adrenaline. You grinned, popping a piece of gum into your mouth, the sweet cherry flavor bursting against your tongue. This was your world. Not the stuffy manor you were supposed to call home.

You were the youngest Wayne, technically. A forgotten footnote in the sprawling saga of Bruce Wayne’s adopted brood. Older than you, Damian—your supposed “brother”—was the heir, the prodigy, the one who carried the weight of the Wayne legacy like it was a tailored suit. You? You were the accident. The kid they didn’t know what to do with. The one who came too late, after the family had already knit itself together in blood and trauma.

It wasn’t that they hated you. Hate would’ve required attention, and attention was the one thing the Batfamily didn’t spare. Bruce was a ghost in the manor, always buried in his mission. Dick was the golden boy, too busy charming the world. Jason was a storm, too volatile to notice anyone but himself. Tim was a machine, lost in his plans and contingencies. Cassandra saw everything but said nothing. And Damian? He barely acknowledged you existed, his sharp green eyes slicing through you like you were a smudge on his katana.

So, you drifted. School was a suggestion, not a rule. You slept through algebra, doodled in the margins of your textbooks, and skipped classes when the mood struck. The school couldn’t touch you—Wayne money made sure of that, and no one was picking up the phone when the principal called. You were free, in a way. Free to wander Gotham’s streets, to lose yourself in the chaos of the races, to be the girl no one expected anything from.

Tonight, the air was electric. Your car—a sleek, cherry-red beast you’d “borrowed” from one of Bruce’s many garages—sat waiting at the starting line. You adjusted your cap, tugging it low over your eyes, and slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was cool against your skin, the steering wheel familiar under your fingers. You weren’t here to win. You were here to feel alive.

“Hey, kid!” a voice called from the sidelines. It was Jax, one of the regulars, a lanky guy with a crooked grin and a penchant for bad bets. “You sure you’re up for this? Rico’s got a new rig, and he’s out for blood.”

You smirked, blowing a bubble with your gum. “Rico can kiss my exhaust.”

The crowd laughed, and you revved the engine, letting the sound drown out everything else. The race was a blur—tires screeching, lights streaking, your heart hammering as you weaved through the pack. You didn’t care about the finish line. You cared about the rush, the way it made you forget the empty manor, the cold silences, the family that didn’t see you.

When it was over, you pulled over, breathless, your cheeks flushed. You’d placed third—good enough to keep your rep, not so good it drew too much attention. You climbed out, high-fiving Jax and ignoring the way some of the older guys eyed you. You were a kid in their world, a cute anomaly, but you were theirs. The racers, the drifters, the nobodies—they were your family, not the caped crusaders back home.

You were halfway through a soda, laughing at one of Jax’s dumb jokes, when your phone buzzed. You glanced at it, expecting a text from one of your friends. Instead, it was a notification from the manor’s security system. *Front gate opened. 11:47 PM.*

Weird. Bruce was supposed to be on patrol, and the others were either out or holed up in their rooms. You shrugged it off, pocketing the phone. Probably Alfred letting the cat out or something.

You didn’t know it yet, but you’d just made a mistake. You weren’t as invisible as you thought.

☆☆☆☆

Back at Wayne Manor, the Batcave was a hum of activity. The massive screens glowed, casting sharp shadows across the cavernous space. Tim was hunched over the computer, his fingers flying across the keys. Dick leaned against the console, arms crossed, his usual easy smile replaced by a tight frown. Jason was cleaning a gun, his movements sharp and deliberate, while Cassandra watched from the shadows, her eyes unreadable. Damian stood apart, his arms stiff at his sides, his expression a mix of irritation and something darker.

Bruce stood at the center, his cowl pushed back, his face a mask of controlled fury.

“She’s not in her room,” Tim said, not looking up. “Tracker in her phone puts her at the docks. Again.”

“Illegal races,” Dick muttered, shaking his head. “She’s been sneaking out for months. How did we not notice?”

“Because she’s good,” Cassandra said softly, her voice cutting through the tension. “She doesn’t want to be seen.”

Jason snorted, slamming the gun down. “Or because we’re too busy playing hero to give a damn about the kid living under our roof.”

“Enough,” Bruce snapped, his voice low but commanding. “This ends tonight. She’s sixteen. She’s putting herself in danger, and we’ve let it go on too long.”

Damian’s lip curled. “She’s a liability. If she’s caught, it could expose us all.”

Dick shot him a look. “She’s your sister, Damian.”

“She’s nothing,” Damian retorted, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something that betrayed the lie.

Bruce didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the screen. It showed a grainy feed from a street camera, your figure unmistakable as you laughed with a group of racers. You looked happy, alive, in a way you never did at home. It twisted something in his chest, but he buried it. This wasn’t about feelings. This was about control.

“Tim, pull up her route. Dick, Jason, you’re with me. We bring her home. Now.”

Cassandra tilted her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’ll run.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Then we make sure she has nowhere to go.”

☆☆☆☆

You were halfway through another race, the city a blur outside your window, when you noticed the shadow. It was subtle—a flicker in your rearview mirror, gone as soon as it appeared. But you knew better. Gotham wasn’t just a city; it was a predator, and you’d learned to sense its teeth.

You floored the gas, weaving through traffic, your heart pounding. The shadow moved with you, relentless, a black shape that could only belong to one thing. Or one family.

“Crap,” you muttered, your gum losing its flavor. You didn’t know how they’d found you, but you knew what it meant. The Batfamily didn’t chase unless they wanted something. And if they wanted you? That was bad news.

You took a sharp turn, tires screeching, and gunned it toward the old warehouse district. You knew the alleys, the shortcuts, the places where even Batman’s tech would struggle to follow. You were good at disappearing. It was what you did best.

But as you rounded a corner, a figure dropped from the rooftops, landing in the middle of the street. Nightwing. His escrima sticks glowed faintly, and his smile was gone, replaced by something hard, something that made your stomach twist.

You slammed on the brakes, your car fishtailing to a stop. Before you could react, another figure appeared—Red Hood, his guns holstered but his presence no less threatening. And then, from the shadows, Batman himself.

You were surrounded.

Your grip tightened on the wheel, your mind racing. You could run—crash through a barrier, lose them in the maze of Gotham’s slums. But something in Bruce’s eyes stopped you. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was something colder, something that made you feel like a mouse staring down a hawk.

“Get out of the car,” Bruce said, his voice cutting through the night.

You popped your gum, forcing a grin. “What’s up, Dad? Miss me?”

His eyes narrowed, and you knew you’d pushed too far. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was the beginning of something much darker, something you couldn’t outrun.

Not this time.

☆☆☆☆

Gotham’s night air was heavy and humid, as if the city itself was closing in on you. Inside the car, you still gripped the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles whitening against the leather. Bruce’s silhouette stood like a monolith in the middle of the street, motionless except for the faint ripple of his cape. Dick was on his right, Jason on his left, each positioned like a trap. There was no escape. At least, it seemed that way.

You popped your gum again, just to steady your nerves. “Alright,” you said, your voice trembling with forced cheer. “Family reunion, huh? Bit late for that, don’t you think, Dad?”

Bruce’s face was stone, but something flickered in his eyes—anger, guilt, or something else, you couldn’t tell. “The games are over,” he said, his voice sharp as a blade. “Get out of the car. Now.”

You considered opening the door, but instead sank deeper into the seat. “What if I don’t?” you said, raising your eyebrows. “What’re you gonna do? Run me over with the Batmobile?”

Jason took a step forward, a mocking growl rising from under his helmet. “Kid, you can’t win this game. It’ll be easier—for you and for us—if you get out now.”

Dick tilted his head, flashing that familiar big-brother smile, but this time his eyes weren’t warm. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice soft but laced with threat. “You don’t want to make this harder than it needs to be, do you?”

A shiver ran through you. You’d never heard Dick use that tone before—not with you. They’d always ignored you, hadn’t they? You were a ghost, drifting through the manor’s halls, your presence barely registering. So why were they here now? Why had they suddenly *noticed* you?

You didn’t want to know the answer.

But your options were running out. Your eyes scanned the surroundings—the narrow street, abandoned warehouses, the flickering light of a few streetlamps. You could run. Maybe. Your car was fast, but Batman’s tech was faster. And these three? They weren’t human, not in the way you understood it. They were hunters. And you were the prey.

You took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, and slowly pushed it open. The cold air rushed in, prickling your skin. You stood, shoving your hands into your jean pockets, feigning nonchalance. “Fine,” you said, shrugging. “What do you want? Did you watch my race? What’s my score?”

Bruce stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you. “This isn’t a game,” he said. “We know what you’ve been doing. Where you’ve been, who you’ve been with. You’re coming home tonight, and this… nonsense stops.”

Your eyes widened, and then you laughed. A real, uncontrollable laugh. “Nonsense? Wow, Bruce, you’ve shown me more attention in the last ten minutes than you have my entire life. What’s the deal? Run out of criminals in Gotham?”

Jason grunted, but Dick raised a hand to silence him. “Listen,” Dick said, his voice still carrying that false calm. “We know we haven’t been… around much. But that’s going to change. You’re our family. We need to protect you.”

“Protect me?” The word tasted like poison. “You’re here to protect me? Where were you for the last sixteen years, huh? When I was a baby? At my first race? When I got kicked out of school? Oh, wait, you were busy chasing bank robbers, right?”

The air grew heavy, the silence hitting like a fist. Bruce’s jaw clenched, Dick’s smile faded, and even Jason seemed uneasy behind his helmet. You’d struck a nerve. But the victory felt hollow.

“Not anymore,” Bruce said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “From now on, we’re watching you.”

In that moment, you felt something was wrong. This wasn’t just a family drama. This was a move to pull you back—to what? The manor? Their control? Or worse, their world?

“I’m going home,” you said, stepping back. “But not with you. I’ll find my own way.”

You turned toward your car, but Jason was faster. In an instant, he grabbed your arm, his grip like iron. “Wrong answer, kid,” he said, his voice mocking but dangerous. “You’re coming with us tonight.”

“Jason, let go!” you shouted, yanking at your arm, but he didn’t budge. Panic surged, your heart thrashing in your chest. Dick stepped toward you, hands raised as if to calm you, but you saw *that* look in his eyes—the look of a predator.

“Easy,” Dick said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just… need to talk.”

Bruce remained silent, but his presence said everything. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was an order.

In that moment, you realized you’d made a mistake. Even if you tried to run, they’d find you. Gotham was their city. And no matter how fast you ran, you couldn’t outrun their shadows.

☆☆☆☆

The manor was cold and silent, as always. Alfred had greeted you at the door, his usual polite demeanor in place, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He escorted you to your room, but you heard the click of the lock after he left. A lock. As if you were a prisoner.

Your room felt like it didn’t belong to you. No posters on the walls, no personal items on the shelves. It was like a hotel room—beautiful, but soulless. You sat on the bed, pulling your knees to your chest, your mind still racing.

What were they planning? Why now? After years of ignoring you, why did they suddenly *want* you? The answer scared you, because deep down, you knew—this wasn’t about love. It was about control. And once the Batfamily took control, they never let go.

A shadow moved outside your door. Your eyes snapped to it, your heart speeding up. Someone was watching you. Damian? Cassandra? Or maybe Tim, with one of his cameras already planted in your room? Were you paranoid, or were you right?

You reached for your phone, but the screen was dark. Dead. Or… disabled. Of course. Tim’s work, no doubt. They wanted to isolate you. Cut you off from the outside world.

You glanced at the window. Gotham’s lights glimmered outside, freedom so close yet so far. You could jump. You could run. But where to? They’d find you. They always would.

But giving up wasn’t your style. You were a racer. And racers, no matter how impossible it seemed, always found a way out.

☆☆☆☆

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blueberrykefir · 3 months ago

Text

No Permission Needed

Joel Miller x f!reader x Daryl Dixon 18+

Summary: You hit the road, running from home. Hitchhiking, only to be picked up by your daddy's two best friends. Sat between Joel Miller and Daryl Dixon, boundaries blur along the Texas highway. It's a forbidden attraction with two older men that push your limits.

Warnings: Smut! MDI! age gap, dads best friends, praise, teasing, dirty talk, use of nicknames, threesome, vaginal fingering, oral (m receiving), penetrative sex (p in v) rough/manhandling.

Word Count: 10k lol

—

You stuck your thumb out before you could second-guess yourself.

The sun beat down like it had a vendetta, the heat making the asphalt shimmer, like a mirage. You were hot, you were pissed, and for once, you were doing something your way. No asking permission, no clearing it with your daddy first. No curfew ticking in your head like a time bomb.

You were grown up, dammit. Even if your daddy refused to see it.

So you didn’t care where that truck, slowing down for you, was headed, so long as it was away.

The engine rumbled closer, an old, familiar growl that should've made your heart settle. Instead, it damn near dropped straight into your boots.

The truck coasted to a slow stop beside you, sun-bleached and rusting at the corners.

The window was already cranked down, glass halfway dusted with sun and road grit. You blinked up at the window and froze.

Joel and Daryl. Your daddy’s best friends.

Oh, shit.

You’d seen them around for years, Joel and Daryl, your daddy’s longtime buddies who showed up for the occasional football game, or during Fourth of July barbecues, beers in hand and sun glinting off sun-kissed forearms.

They were older than you, sure, but they made your stomach flip. They were weathered, rugged, comfortable in their own skin the way boys your age couldn’t fake if they tried.

Joel had this slow, gravel deep drawl that always made you glance down at your boots to hide your blush. And Daryl had those sharp eyes that said he noticed more than he let on. Back then you were too young. Off-limits. But now? Now you filled out your denim skirt and knew how to swing your hips just enough to get attention, even if you pretend not to notice when either of them looked a little too long.

They sat side by side on that wide bench seat, like the devil sent them personally to scoop you up. Their eyes drank you in. Bare legs, scuffed cowgirl boots, the tank top you wore to fight off the heat and to show a little more skin than your daddy would’ve liked.

Joel’s brows lifted a notch, “You runnin’ away, Sweetheart?”

You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, heart drumming in your throat. Then you nodded. “Yes.”

Daryl didn’t even try to hide the smile pulling at his lips. “Your daddy know where you’re at?”

You swallowed, “No.”

You were ready for them to scold you. To tell you to turn back around and be a good girl. Or for them to haul you into that truck and deliver you straight back to your daddy’s front porch.

Instead, they looked at each other. Just one second passed between them. Then Joel nodded, subtle and sure, like this had already been decided.

“Hop in.”

A wave of relief washed over you and you smiled, gratefully.

You grabbed the handle and climbed in, the door creaking like it hadn’t been oiled since before you were born. Daryl didn’t move. Didn’t scoot. Just nodded to the space between him and Joel like it was obvious.

Your skirt barely brushed his knees as you passed over him, settling into the seat between them.

The seat was hot and worn smooth. The old vinyl stuck just a little to the back of your thighs as you squeezed in. The truck was older, so it had a stick shift rising straight up from the floor. You had to throw one leg on either side of it, skirt pulling tight across your thighs.

Joel’s thigh brushed yours on one side, hard muscle under faded jeans, warm and solid. Daryl’s was the same on the other, just close enough that the rough scrape of his denim kissed the soft of her bare thigh.

Your legs looked out of place there. Smooth and soft as a peach next to all that rugged masculinity. Neither of them adjusted for you. Neither of them looked surprised. The engine rumbled to life, low and steady. The rough of Joel’s forearm brushed over your thigh as he shifted into gear. The vibration of the truck thrummed right between your knees… between your thighs.

Joel kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, just inches from you, prepared to switch gears as they drove out of town. The subtle proximity made the air feel charged.

Daryl leaned on his elbow on the open window, his other lazily draped over the back of the seat behind you. His touch never quite reached you, but the space between you was electric, like he was seeing how close he could get without crossing the line.

“You runnin’ off somewhere, darlin’?” Daryl asked eyes on the road ahead, but his voice dipped low and slow, like he already knew the answer, but just wanted to hear you say it.

“Maybe.”

The wind whipped through the open windows, warm and wild. Dust kicked up behind you, and you didn’t look back.

Joel shot you a look from under his lashes, “So. You wanna tell us what you’re doin’ out here, stickin’ your thumb out for strangers.”

You shrugged, fingers fiddling with the frayed hem of your skirt. “Got into it with my daddy.”

Daryl glanced over, his knuckles resting lazy on the open window frame. “He put his hands on you?”

“No–no, not like that.” You hesitated, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, “Guess I got tired of being treated like a little girl.”

Daryl chuckled low in his throat, “That right?”

You didn’t answer, just looked out the window like the horizon might save you. The warm wind brushed your skin, lifting the edge of your skirt, like even the breeze was curious.

Joel shifted gears again, this time his hand grazed your thigh when he pulled back from the stick. His fingers skimmed just above the hemline. You swallowed hard.

Joel didn't look at you when he spoke again. Just kept his eyes on the road.

“Funny,” Joel murmured, voice laced with sin. “You don’t look like no little girl to me.”

“Then maybe y’all oughta stop treatin’ me like one.”

That earned a quiet amused noise from Joel. His fingers tapping idly against the stick shift, like they missed the feel of your skin already.

Daryl leaned forward, his arm behind your shoulders, brushing against you as he adjusted the radio, letting a soft hum of old country fill the space. “Well now, darlin’, that kinda talk’s liable to get you in trouble.

You tilted your chin up, “Maybe I’m lookin’ for a little trouble.

Joel chuckled under his breath, like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth.

The low sound of his chuckle curled in your gut like smoke. You didn’t like it. Not because it wasn’t nice to hear.

But because it was dismissive.

Amused.

Like he still saw the kid pouting over curfews and not the woman sitting between him and Daryl.

So you glanced over, chin tilted in challenge, “Somethin’ funny Joel?”

His eyes slid to your, then back to the road. He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted the gear again, knuckles brushing your thigh like the truck wanted to stir trouble.

With a slight curl to his lips he said, “No, no. Just tryin’ to remember when you learned how to bite.”

The low hum of his voice, slithered down your spine, but the words burned hotter. He still thought it was a game. Like you were just actin’ up for attention.

At that, you felt a little frustrated he wasn't taking you seriously. You wanted to be seen as a woman. Treated like one. So you snapped. “You guys think I'm just playin’ dont you?”

Neither of them responded. Joel’s fingers twitched on the wheel and Daryl glanced your way, not smirking anymore. His brows tugged in a furrow, the look of a man questioning something he didn’t see coming.

“I’m not playin’,” You went on, quieter. “I’m done waitin’ around, being treated like I'm ten. I got my own legs now, and I know how to use them.”

That earned a slow glance from both of them. Like finally, they weren’t just looking at you, but they were seeing you.

“Yeah,” Joel said finally. Rough, Barely there. “We’re startin’ to notice.”

You finally settled in, sinking into the old bench seat. The heat of Daryl’s arm pressed warm and heavy against your shoulders and your legs were snug against theirs, like you’d been made to fit there.

“Good.” You finished. “‘Cause I really didn’t wanna have to hitch a new ride.”

The corner of Joel’s mouth curled, almost a smile, but darker. And when he shifted gears again, his hand grazed your bare thigh. But this time it lingered. He didn’t move away, fast like before.

The truck suddenly felt too quiet. The old country song warbled low on the radio, a twangy ache that sounded just the way your stomach flipped.

“So.” You started. “Where y’all off to anyways?”

Daryl answered, “Checkin’ out a property over state lines.”

“Lookin’ for trouble maybe,” Joel added, glancing at you sideways.

You smiled, lashes fluttering. “Lucky you picked me up then.”

Joel looked back at the road. Daryl’s gaze caught the way your fingers messed with the hem of your skirt.

“Yeah,” Daryl said, “We’re beginnin’ to think so too.”

The radio crackled with old country, as you guys drove down the old Texan highway. Fields of scrub, rusted fence posts, telephone wires strung lazily alongside the road. It was the most peace you felt in a while.

You took it all in with anticipation of what's next. A wad of cash in your back pocket. Your past in the rearview. Your bare knees bumping against their thighs every time the truck hits a dip in the road.

Ten minutes passed like that.

Just open road, stolen glances, and accidental touches that lingered too long to be innocent.

Then Joel cleared his throat. “Gotta stop for gas soon.”

Daryl snorted from the passenger seat, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Hell, this old thing runs like it’s draggin’ it’ last breath. We hardly even left town.”

“Hey.” You ran your fingers along the cracked leather of the seat like it was precious. “Ain’t nothing wrong with older.”

That got their attention. Joel looked at you sideways, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Daryl raised a brow, amused.

“Yeah?” Joel asked, voice thick with heat. “What is it about ‘em you like so much?”

You shrugged, pretending like your pulse hadn’t just kicked up a notch.

“Older things last longer… if you know how to treat them.” You leaned your head back against the seat, letting the sun catch your cheekbones just so. “New stuff’s too easy. I like somethin’ that takes a little work.”

Daryl made a noise of amusement. “Talkin’ ‘bout trucks or men, darlin’?”

You shrugged, “Ain’t much of a difference, far as I’m concerned.”

Your words landed like a shot of whiskey. Rough and warm.

You weren’t just playing with fire. You were the match, waiting for them to strike. You wanted their minds reeling. Wanted them to picture your lips wrapped around something other than words.

They tensed. They didn’t look at each other, but you could feel them thinking about it. About you.

“Well,” Joel cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. His lips twitched like he was fighting a grin. “Hope you like gas stations too.” The corner of your mouth lifted, amused, “Love them.”

—

The old truck rumbled to a halt in front of a sun-faded gas station that looked like it had been baked into the Texas dirt. A single rust pump stood half-leaning like it might give out if the wind blew wrong.

The sun poured down mean, sharp as glass. Your skin prickled under it the second Joel cut the engine and the breeze vanished.

“Thirsty?” Darly asked, already nudging open the truck door.

You nodded, legs unfold slowly, denim skirt riding up as you stepped down from the truck. Joel and Daryl’s eyes flicked over your legs and you felt the heat of it like a sunburn.

The soles of your boots crunched on sun-bleached gravel as you followed them towards the station.

Daryl beat Joel to the door, pulling it open with a cocky smile, “After you, darlin’.”

You gave him a mock curtsy and stepped inside, only for Joel to follow right behind, slipping in a little too close. His chest brushed your back as he grabbed the handle and swung the door shut in Daryl’s face, with a lazy flick of his wrist.

You hear the solid thunk of it closing, followed by: “What the hell, man?”

Your laugh bubbled up as Daryl shoved the door back open, giving Joel a shove on his way in.

“That’s what I get for bein’ nice,” Daryl muttered, shooting you a mock wounded look.

You grinned at him, “Didn’t ask you to be.”

Something unreadable passed through Daryl’s eyes, and his jaw clenched like he was holding back words. Before turning and walking down an aisle.

The air inside the station was barely cooler, just stale and humming from a dusty box fan shoved in the corner. Old postcards curled on wire racks, a faded Coke machine in the corner, and the clerk reading a hardback.

“Real fine establishment,” You smiled, fingers trailing along a row of melted candy bars as you trailed behind Joel and Daryl into the aisles. Daryl peeled off toward the back, muttering something about jerky. Joel veered toward the cooler.

He grabbed a water bottle, condensation slick on his fingers. He cracked the cap and took a slow swig, throat bobbing.

Then he held it out to you.

You hesitated for half a beat before taking it. The rim was cold and wet where his mouth had just been. You brought it to your lips and tried not to think about it.

Joel watched you, one brow raised like he hadn’t meant to stare, but couldn’t help it. Your stomach flipped.

“Ain’t gotta get shy on me now,” Joel murmured, voice low and teasing.

You pulled the bottle back, licking a drop from your bottom lip, catching his gaze. “Not shy.” You said. “Just didn’t expect you to be the kinda guy to share.”

He huffed a breath through his nose, “I’m not usually. But some things…” His eyes dragged over you, “...are worth makin’ an exception for.”

Something warm and thrilling raced down your spine.

Daryl came round the corner, snacks in hand. He noted the look on your guys’ face. “What’d I miss?”

You turned toward him with a syrup-sweet smile, voice all innocence. “Joel was just tellin’ me he likes to share.”

Daryl raised a brow at Joel, slow and curious. Joel didn’t say anything. Just ran a hand over his jaw like he was tryin’ to keep it together.

A smirk tugged at your lips. You turned toward the counter, hips swaying and you set the water down with a quiet clink.

Neither of them moved, just fixated on you. “I’ll be waitin’ in the truck. Don’t take too long.” You drift towards the door and toss over your shoulder, “Reckon I’ll find a way to entertain myself.”

That was all it took. Daryl blinked once, then tossed the snacks down like they’d offended him. “Gas is on you this time, buddy,” he said, already making a beeline for the door.

Joel didn’t move, just stared after him. “The hell–,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Daryl's boots were stomping behind you, leaving Joel to deal with the clerk.

Outside, the air hit like a blow dryer set to hell. You reached for the truck’s door, but the metal burned your palm like it had soaked up every bit of the Texas sun.

You pulled back with a small hiss.

“I got it.” Daryl stepped in, casual as anything and pulled the creaky door open. He didn’t even flinch. Of course he didn’t.

“Thank you.” You said, slipping into the middle with a little sigh. The leather had already gone warm under the sun, leather sticking to the back of your thighs.

Daryl lingered outside the truck, arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing beneath the frayed edges of his sleeveless black vest. The angel wings stitched across the back was a cruel contrast to a man who looked more like fallen grace than divine mercy.

The bell above the gas station door jingled, and Joel came out into the sun. He made it halfway to the truck before he tossed a brown paper bag into the cab with a little more force than necessary.

“Dickhead,” he muttered at Daryl, cuffing him on the shoulder, not too hard, but not playful either. Like it wasn’t about snacks or the gas anymore.

Then Joel grumbled something about “damn heat getting to me,” as he walked around to the pump. His eyes cut toward you through the dusty windshield. It was clear, It wasn’t the sun that was getting to him.

Daryl climbed in the passenger side door with a lazy grin, grabbed the brown bag and slid in with a creak of leather and old springs. His arm returned behind you on the seat, this time closer than before.

You gasped when something cold landed in your thigh. He dropped a glass bottle of Coke in your lap. He smirked at you, “Figured you’d want somethin’ sweet.”

It was chilled, beads of condensation rolling over the red label, soaking into your thighs through the denim of your skirt.

You took your time, twisting the metal cap on the Coke, letting the fizz whisper as it opened. You brought it to your mouth and took a slow sip from the rim. A soft sound came out, something between a sigh and a hum of satisfaction.

Daryl's gaze seared into you. Intent and sharp. You pulled the drink away from your lips, with a flutter of your lashes. “You want a taste too?”

Daryl’s tongue flicked across his lower lip. “Might be a little too sweet for me.” His voice was low and rough.

“Huh.” You tilted your head, “I thought you might’ve liked things a little… Sweeter.”

The words floated in the air, charged and suggestive.

Before he could answer, the sound of the door opening sliced through the air. The truck rocked slightly as Joel climbed into the driver's seat.

You smirked at Daryl, as if you’d just shared a secret, and brought the bottle to your lips, taking another sip. You savored the cold rush down your throat, keeping your eyes on him the whole time.

The truck’s engine roared to life and Joel turned to look at you, his eyes lingering on the way you held the Coke and the way Daryl still hovered too close to you.

There was something tense in the air now, and for once, it wasn’t just the Texas heat.

—

As the truck pulled back onto the road, the horizon stretched out before you. An endless ribbon of highway shimmering in the scorching afternoon sun.

The low hum of the tires and old static radio didn’t do much to ease the tension in the truck. It only seemed to thicken with each passing mile.

Your nails traced lazy circles on your bare thigh, like you needed something to do with your hands. Or maybe you just liked driving them crazy.

The road ahead seemed to blur under the heat and the only thing keeping you tethered to reality was the weight of Daryl’s arm behind you, and the brush of Joel's hand shifting gears.

Every now and then, you’d catch a fleeting glance from Joel in the rearview mirror, each look sending a thrill through you. His stare was dark, leaving a spark that lingered long after.

The heat from the sun made everything feel too close. Too tight. You tried to stretch out a bit, but you were trapped between their two muscular thighs.

Joel’s hand rested on the gear shift, letting his forearm carefully hover over your thigh, the lightest brush of his presence. The small act of restraint made your heart skip a beat, a quiet challenge hanging in the air.

You took a slow sip from your Coke, the rim between your glossed lips, pretending you weren't aware of the way they glanced over to watch your mouth.

“So what was the final straw?” Daryl asked, as though it had been chewing at him for miles.

You blinked, popping off the bottle, glancing over, “What?”

Daryl’s hand rested loosely on the open window. “What was the reason? That made you leave in such a damn hurry.”

Joel glanced at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t one for prying, and you both knew that.

You rolled the Coke bottle between your palms. “I told you already.” There was an edge in your voice. “Just needed to get out.”

Daryl made a sound from beside you, like he didn’t quite believe that was the full story. Joel didn’t say anything. The muscles in his neck were tight, like he was fighting the urge to ask more.

You sighed, finally caving. “My daddy ain’t exactly the type to let his little girl grow up.”

Their attention was fixed on you. They looked at you, quiet and waiting. “Couldn’t date. Couldn’t work. Couldn’t breathe without him granting me permission.” You took a sip of Coke, clearing your dry throat. “Saw what I was wearin’ this morning and told me I looked like a whore.”

Joel's brows twitched and daryl shifted in the seat.

“Well,” Daryl gave your outfit a slow, once-over, “You don’t look like a little girl anymore, I can tell you that.”

You grinned, teeth sharp behind the bottle. “That’s what I told him. Right before I slammed the door and left.”

Daryl let out a breath through his nose. “Daddies and their little girls.” He tsked. “Never good at lettin’ go once they realize they ain’t so little anymore.”

“You think he’ll come lookin’ around for you?” Joel asked.

You shook your head. “No. I’ll go back eventually. I just…” You hesitated. “I need to do things on my own for once. Y’know? Just for a little while.”

Daryl sucked in a deep breath, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Gonna be a hell of a reunion,” he said with a coy smile, “Showin’ up for the Fourth…”

Joel finished it, “...With his daughter sittin’ between two of his oldest friends.”

You scoffed, “He trusts you guys. Hell, he’d probably thank you for keepin’ me safe.”

Daryl snickered like you said something funny. Joel ran a hand over his jaw, like he was covering a smirk.

“What?” You blinked, clearly missing the joke.

Daryl leaned in closer, his arm brushing your thigh. “Ain’t no girl in her right mind, sittin’ between two men like us, unless she wants somethin’ real bad.”

You choked on your Coke, with a breathless laugh, “Jesus, y’all are gonna get me killed.”

“No, Sweetheart, you are gonna get us killed,” Daryl grinned sideways.

Joel just huffed, but there was a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, like he knew it was true.

You shrugged, playing it casual. “Y’know, my daddy always did say I was trouble.”

Daryl glanced at you, eyes skimming over your barelegs, “He might’ve been onto somethin’.”

“Funny,” You looked at them, voice all honeyed innocence, “Never stopped you two from lookin’.”

Joel’s jaw twitched. Like he’d been caught, for all those lingering glances over the years. “Ain’t exactly easy when you strut around like that.”

You scoff, lips curling, “Just like my daddy said… That I was askin’ for attention.”

“Well,” Daryl drawled, voice low, “You sure as hell got it.”

“Is that so bad? That I wanted it?” Your eyes darted between them, something reckless sparking under your skin. “For someone to notice me?”

Daryl didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Long. The kind of look that felt like a hand dragging down your spine.

Your boot scuffed against the floorboard as you set the Coke in the cupholder, an innocent move, if it hadn’t hiked your skirt just enough to teeter forbidden skin. His gaze flicked down to your legs. You didn’t fix it.

“I'm noticing, Darlin’.” He looked at your lips. “And if I don’t stop, I'm gonna forget you’re daddy’s little girl.

You leaned in like you were confessing a sin. “I don’t want to be daddy’s little girl anymore.”

The words hung in the air. Tense. Final.

To prove that you meant it, that you weren’t some girl playing grown, you leaned closer. Close enough to breathe in the heady scent of leather and heat rolling off of Daryl in waves.

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t move toward you either. Like he needed you to be the one to cross the line.

So you did.

You closed the distance, crashing your lips onto his. Hot and messy. Like you’d finally run out of patience for all those years.

Daryl tasted like smoke and gasoline. Trouble. The kind of man your daddy warned you about. You loved it.

Daryl’s hand caught your knee, like he was holding himself back. But when your tongue slipped into his mouth, warm and waiting, he made a low, desperate sound in his throat. Like a man letting go.

His palm slid up your thigh, rough fingertips dragging over skin made hot by the sun. He stopped just shy of your denim skirt, like he was giving you the chance to tell him no.

Your legs shifted open instinctively, brushing against Joel’s thigh. Solid and warm. And very aware of everything going on besides him.

The truck shifted with a slight change of gear, the sound of the engine growling beneath you as it sped up. Joel’s jaw clenches as he tightened his grip on the wheel, his fingers flexing. His eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror, watching you two. But he didn’t say a word.

You pulled away from Daryl, tugging his lower lip, before letting go.

But you weren’t done.

You turned and leaned across the seat, toward Joel, slow and sinful. His jaw was locked, that muscle ticking as he stared ahead, like he’d just lost a fight he didn’t know he was in.

Then your mouth grazed the shell of his ear, your voice was velvet, “Still think i’m just daddy’s little girl?”

You nipped, playful and bold on his ear. He tried to balance watching the road and you.

“Sweetheart,” Joel’s voice was low, thick with warning, but not the kind meant to stop you. More like the kind that said keep going.

But you were already kissing him. Soft and teasing, at first. Just the curve of his cheek, where the scruff scratched your lips. Then the corner of his mouth.

He turned his head, chasing it, like he needed it to breathe. Trying to meet you halfway and trying to drive and sin at the same time.

But he failed.

The truck veered ever so slightly, tired humming against the edge of the road. He muttered something low under his breath, but you just laughed a soft, wicked giggle that made his jaw tighten.

Your lips trailed down to his neck, mouthing over stubble and sun-warned skin, feeling his Adam’s apple jump beneath your lips. Joel breathed in deep through his nose, fighting for composure, but it was slipping. Fast.

Behind you, Daryl chuckled low, wicked and amused. “Mmm, look at you.” he drawled, “Just can’t decide who you want first huh?”

You pulled back from Joel's neck, slow and smug, lips tingling from the trail you left on his skin. You looked at Joel first, sweet and daring, then turned to Darly, flashing a grin full of trouble. A challenge.

With a slow smile, you answered Daryl, “Why choose?” You let the words drip off your like honey. Sweet, but sticky enough to trap them both.

The seat creaks with the weight of it… of all the years they looked at you like they shouldn’t. And now you're sitting pretty between them, all willing in your cutoffs and cherry lips.

“Always wondered what it’d feel like… gettin’ touched' by both of you.” You continued.

Daryl leaned in close, breathed hot against your ear, “How long you been thinkin’ ‘bout this, huh?”

You exhaled your truth like a prayer. “Years.”

Then Joel’s hand found your chin, turning you to face him. To face the truth.

“Dirty girl. Walkin’ around all summer, fantazing about gettin’ fucked by your daddy’s friends.” Joel’s eyes were dark and ravenous.

“Been beggin’ for this without sayin’ a damn word.” Daryl added.

But you weren’t the only one.

As if you hadn’t noticed the way their eyes would linger too long when they thought you weren’t paying attention. They wanted this just as bad…Maybe worse.

“And you boys never looked at me like you were saints either.” You blinked up at them, lips parted. “You were just waitin’ for me to grow up.”

Joel’s jaw ticked, “We never claimed to be saints.”

Joel and Daryls hand slid up in unison, breaching the edge of your skirt, pausing letting you stop them. But you didn’t.

“Maybe it's time we stop pretending,” Daryl said, voice rough and hungry. “And finally take what we want.”

Joel’s free hand shifted the gear in fifth, then landed on your thigh, warm and heavy. Like a claim.

Then Daryl’s hand found your other thigh with rougher, calloused fingers. Like a dare.

Their hands couldn’t have felt more different. One firm and steady, the other lazy and hot. But both felt possessive. A silent agreement of their shared sin.

You could feel it. All that tension burning low and deep in your belly. The kind that made your pulse drum in your ears and your breath come light.

“You think you can handle the both of us?” Daryl asked, grip on your thigh tightening.

“Or are you just playin’ pretend.” Joel’s eyes found yours in the rearview, dark and unreadable.

“Ain’t nothin’ pretend…” You purred, slowly, “... about how wet I am right now.”

“Fucksake,” Daryl muttered, at the same time Joel cleared his throat.

The temperature in the truck rose significantly. The old vinyl seat stuck to the back of your thighs, and sunlight cut through the dusty windows like a blade, striping Joel’s forearm in gold as it gripped your thigh. His fingers just a little tighter now.

Outside, the road blurred in the heat shimmer. But inside… inside was hotter.

Need throbbed inside you, sharp and sweet. It was too much. Your thighs tried to press together for friction, but the gear shift mocked you, right in the way. The truck bounced again, hitting a loose patch of dirt. The movement sent a shiver rippling through you. Every nerve ending felt like it was one fire.

Daryl noticed and whistled low, eyes dark. “Look at her, Joel,” his hand slid down your thigh with the slow patience of a man savoring a favorite song. “Poor thing’s shakin’. Needs it so bad, she's tremblin’.”

There was no hiding it now. Your body had given you away.

“Reckon we oughta be gentlemen and help her out,” Daryl said, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “Don’t you think so, Joel?”

Joel’s voice became dark like a warning. “Ain’t nothing gentlemanly about what I wanna do.”

Those words punched air from your lungs. Your stomach twisted in on itself, heat spreading through your core like fire catching dry grass.

“Then stop pretending otherwise,” the words exploded out of you. “And fuckin’ do it.”

Joel's hand caught your jaw, firm and warning. The grip made your heart skip. Half fear and half delicious thrill.

“You better watch how you talk to us,” Joel's low and commanding voice had your thighs twitching against their hold.

Daryl’s voice was laced with promise. “Gonna have to teach you manners.”

“We're gonna ruin you, sweetheart,” Joel growled, “and when we’re done, you're gonna say thank you.”

You eagerly nodded your head, unable to suppress the anticipation flooding your body.

“You got that? Use your words.” Joel’s voice was unwavering.

“Yes. Please.” The words tumbled out without hesitation.

As if your words were a surrender, Daryl grabbed your jaw, turning you toward him. “She’s a fast learner.” You barely gasped before his mouth swallowed it. The kiss was messy and unhurried. All heat and carelessness.

A moan spilled from you as your tongues tangled, lazy and deep, like neither of you had anywhere to be, but right here, in the middle of the wide-open nowhere.

Despite your tank top clinging to your skin, damp with head and need, a shiver ran down your spine, sharp as lighting. Your nipples pebbled beneath the thin cotton, aching for more.

But even as your lips moved with Daryl’s, you still felt Joel. The steady, unmoving grip on your thigh, that made your breath catch. His hand wasn’t roaming the way Daryl’s was. Joel’s was anchored.

Daryl pulled back, chest rising fast. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, swollen and kiss-bitten.

“Go on,” he rasped, “Give Joel a turn, baby.”

You smiled, sugar sweet and slick with mischief. Then you turned in the seat, the curve of your rear brushing against Daryl’s solid denim, teasing a groan from deep in his chest.

The warm breeze slipped in through the open window. It caressed your skin, like even the wind couldn’t help itself in wanting to touch you.

God, the sight of Joel. The white knuckled grip on the wheel. The tick in his jaw. His eyes like thunderclouds, barely holding back a storm. And below the belt… There was no mistaking the way his jeans strained against the denim.

He liked it. Watching.

And that realization made your whole body sing with delight.

You leaned forward again, pulse pounding softly in your ears. Daryl’s taste still lingered on your tongue, but now your eyes were on Joel.

Every vein in Joel’s forearms stood out like he was barely holding it together.

“Joel,” You purred, dragging his name slowly over your lips. You shifted closer, your thigh brushing his. His jaw clenched, hard enough to crack. “Did you like watching me kiss Daryl?”

“Didn’t need to rush. I knew you’d come around.” He said smugly.

That made you smile.

You giggled teasing and breathless. You leaned in, wanting to share your attention with Joel now.

Your breath skimmed the side of Joel’s face as you brushed your lips against his stubbled jaw. He didn’t look at you, not yet. His eyes were locked on the road ahead. But you felt his restraint thrumming beneath the surface.

You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, feather light. Then another closer to his mouth. He turned his head just enough to offer a half-hearted kiss back. His focus stubbornly locked on the road ahead. Responsible and resisting. But you weren’t in the mood for restraint anymore.

So you brought your mouth to his ear, licking and nipping the skin that had seen too many summers, “Come on, old man,” You whispered, “Don’t you wanna know how I taste?”

Joel’s whole body tensed, like he was one breath away from pulling over and wrecking all three of you right then and there. The grip on your thigh was steel now.

So you kissed him again. Below his ear. Along the lines of his jaw. Corner of his mouth. Teasing, tempting, and absolutely relentless.

And when he finally snapped, it wasn’t with words.

It was with a sound, so low and deep in his chest. In one sharp turn of his head, his mouth was on yours, delivering a punishing kiss to your welcoming lips.

You moaned in relief, like you’d been waiting hours for that kiss. His lips were soft, but the way he used them wasn’t. It was desperate, and aggressive.

He wants this. He wants you.

And you kissed him back like you meant it. Because you did. For years you wanted this. Wanted him.

The stubble on his jaw was rough against your hands, and your chest ignited with excitement as his tongue swept into your mouth. He possessed your mouth like it was his.

This kiss was different. Not better, just different. Joel was all hard lines and rough hands. But Daryl was slow and hot.

Heat was radiating off Daryl from behind you, like a second sun. He watched and waited, full of desire.

You wanted more.

From both.

Suddenly, the truck lurched and Joel ripped his mouth from yours with a curse. All three of you jerked upright. Dust kicked up behind the wheels, blurring the endless stretch of sun-bleached Texas highway in the rearview.

The sudden lurch of the truck had adrenaline pulse through you like a living and breathing thing.

You giggled, breathless, a little too delighted by how close you were to getting the three of you killed.

It was if fate was trying to issue a final warning, one you were too far gone to heed.

Then Daryl joined in, letting out a deep huff, dragging his hands through his hair. “Fuck, darlin’.” he rasped. “You’re gonna get us wrecked, actin’ like that. Gonna have this old man forgettin’ how to drive.”

You tilted your head, biting back a smile, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“If that’s all it takes, Joel,” You teased, “I’m just getting started.”

Daryl barked a short, stunned laugh, and shook his head, “Jesus, she’s tryin’ to kill us.”

“Huh,” You hummed, “Thought you boys could keep up.”

You settled into your seat, dragging your nails lightly down your bare thigh, just to watch their eyes follow, “Must be the age.”

Daryl’s hand gripped your jaw, not gently. His fingers pressed into your cheeks as he leaned in close, voice thick with hunger. “That damn mouth.”

Then Darryl slammed his mouth onto yours. All heat and hunger. His tongue slipped past your lips like he owned the space. You sighed into his mouth, like you were finally getting what you wanted.

“Look at you,” Joel said, “putting that mouth to better use.” his hand slid up your thigh. Daryl's hand followed suit.

Both of their hands slowly slid beneath the hem of your skit, fingers greedy, knowing exactly what they were after. You shifted in your seat, legs falling open another inch. Barely a movement, but an invitation all the same.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, wild and waiting. Wondering which one would cross that line first.

They didn’t touch you. Not yet. Instead, they laughed. Low and amused, like your need was funny. Like your eagerness was cute.

You flushed, cheeks burning as heat coiled through your stomach. “Don’t make me beg.” You were so wound up it hurt. “I’ve been good for too long.”

Daryl let out a low, taunting chuckle, “Hear that, Joel? She thinks she's been good.”

“Good?” Joel scoffed, eyes amused. “Good girls don’t end up in the middle of this truck.”

“You want it that bad?” Daryl growled, eyes blazing. “Then show us.”

“Go on,” Joel encouraged. “Let's see how desperate you really are… for two old men.”

“Lift your skirt.”. Daryl’s gaze pinned you down, heavy and expectant.

You hesitated, not from modesty, but from the way nerves and desire tangled like twin heartbeats. There was no going back after this. And you didn’t want to.

The pads of your fingers curled in the hem of your skirt. Slowly, deliberately, you pulled back the denim inch by inch, offering yourself like a secret you’d been dying to spill.

“Fuck,” Daryl hissed, eyes fixed between your thighs. “Underwear completely soaked.”

Your cheeks burned hot. The kind of humiliation that throbbed between your legs. You tried to close them, but their hands were already there, holding you open helplessly and displayed.

Joel’s voice came rough and tight, “You’re makin’ a mess of my truck, Sweetheart.”

You couldn’t meet their eyes. Could barely breathe through the ache swirling in your belly.

Joel's hand slid up your thigh, so slowly you trembled in anticipation. His fingers grazed the soaked cotton stretched tight between your legs. His thumb pressed down, rubbing the wet fabric right where you needed it.

A breathless sound escaped your lips.

A heart beat later, Daryl's hands were on you too, sliding up your ribs and palming your breast though the thin tank top. His mouth found your neck, dragging wet hot kisses over your racing pulse.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Air exploded out of your lungs when Joel’s thumb found your clit through your soaked underwear at the exact moment Daryl’s rough fingers found your nipple through the cotton.

“Yes,” You whined. A cry of relief, of years of pent up desire, finally happening.

Your head fell back against the seat and your eyes rolled back as twin waves of pleasure crashed over you, stealing thought and breath alike.

Daryl’s teeth scraped against your neck, “Such a fuckin’ tease,” he said against your fevered skin. His hand pinched your nipple hard, wrenching a gasp from your lips. “Until your falling apart for us.”

All you could do was whimper in response, legs twitching against their grip.

Joel growled low in his throat, a raw primal sound and Daryl held your thigh wider as Joel hooked your underwear to the side.

Two fingers slid into you, deep and effortless. Filthy-slick from how wet you were.

Your eyes squeezed shut from the sudden stretch, the fullness, and the sudden wave of white hot pleasure… It was overwhelming.

A needy cry tore free from your throat. You couldn't have swallowed it down if you tried.

Joel’s fingers thrust with purpose, brushing that perfect secret spot inside of you as Daryl kissed all the way down your neck until he reached your nipple, straining against the fabric of your top.

Your skin buzzed, burning hotter than the Texas sun leaking in through the dusty windshield.

“Open your eyes.” Joel ordered, “Watch us ruin that little cunt of yours.”

You forced them open, dizzy from pleasure, just to see the sight you knew would haunt you forever. Rough, sunburned hands on your soft, yielding body. Their mouths, their teeth, their fingers, worshipping you like you were some spoiled offering they’d been starving for.

“Fuck,” you sobbed, watching helplessly as they devour you. You felt like you were on fire from the inside out.

Your legs trembled violently.

Ruled by lust, Daryl growled and pushed your tank top up and over your breasts, smirking at what he unveiled. Your nipples were aching and hard, despite the Texas heat. Without hesitation, he swiftly sucked on one nipple, rolling the other between calloused fingers.

You groaned, puffing your chest out further into his possession as a hot sensation rippled throughout your body.

“Fuck, look at you, giving it up so easily for us.” Daryl smirked against your skin.

“Knew you'd be perfect.” Joel said, curling his fingers deep inside you.

You were completely open now, bared for them like a feast. And they were starving.

Joel’s fingers thrust in and out, steady and ruthless. His thumb circled your clit with cruel, precise strokes that made you buck helpless between them.

Your whole body jolted when Joel found that perfect spot again and Daryl’s teeth scraped your nippled. They did it again and again, like they knew how to pull you apart at the seams.

“Oh my god,” you mouthed because you lost your breath. “Im gonna–”

Your hands scrambled for purchase, clutching at Joel’s forearm and at Daryl’s wild hair, desperate from something solid as your orgasm barreled down you, unstoppable.

“Doin’ so good for us.” Daryl growled under his breath, his cool breath against your wet skin. “Such a pretty girl.”

You tried, god, you tried, to keep your eyes open to watch them, but when Daryl’s teeth nipped sharp on your skin and Joel’s fingers hit that devastating rhythm inside you… You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, hot and blinding. Your whole body shook, shuddering violently, in their hands as you came with a broken cry.

Your hands flew out, trying to find something to anchor you in place, for fear that you were leaving your body from pleasure.

“That’s it.” Joel coaxed, his voice warm and rough in your ear.

When you finally floated back down to earth, your left hand had carved crescent moons into Joel’s skin and your right hand fisted tight in Daryl’s thick hair.

You were gasping, trembling, and utterly undone.

Joel removed his fingers and your body twitched with aftershocks. You whimpered at the emptiness, clenching still wanting more.

You blinked up at them in a daze. Joel’s fingers glistened with your orgasm in the golden light of sunset.

Fingers dripping and shining. And then, Christ, then Joel brought those fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes half lidded, humming low in his throat.

“Just as sweet as I thought you’d be.” he turned to Daryl, smirking, “Go on, have a taste.”

Your hand shot out and gripped Joel's denim clad thigh when Daryl’s fingers slipped between your thighs. His fingers dipped inside your dripping entrance, then pressed hard on your throbbing clit on the way out, making you twitch and gasp.

Holding your gaze, Daryk smirked at you as he slowly slid his fingers into his mouth, sucking them like he was savoring honey.

“Mmm,” he hummed, “Maybe you were right. I do like things a little sweeter.”

He repeated your earlier words and they settled low and deep in your belly. Despite your heaving chest, you were still so goddamn greedy for them.

You needed more.

You needed them inside of you. It felt as vital to your existence as oxygen.

So you did something wicked. Something you have been dying to do since you stepped foot in this rusted truck.

You placed your soft palms against the coarse, sun-faded denim that covered their thighs. Your hands slid up and down, lazy and lingering. You felt their muscles twitch beneath your touch.

Joel exhaled through his nose, voice as rough as the road, “Goddamn, look at you teasin’ us like it's your job.”

You smiled, a picture of pure satisfaction. Sated, yet starving at the same time. You traced your way further up, reaching where aching hardness was trapped behind worn denim.

“What’re you doin’, pretty girl?” Daryl drawled, his eyes amused.

“That wasn’t enough for you?” Joel rasped.

You tugged your lip between your teeth and your palms pressed harder against the heat between their thighs.

“I'm thanking you.” You purred, lashes fluttering like a promise, “For ruining me.”

Both of their breaths hitched, a heavy twin sound that only fueled you. You kept your motions slow and measured, just enough to tease them. Enough to make them suffer the same desperate ache that rattled through your bones.

“Fuck darlin’, driving me crazy.” Daryl hissed.

“Just takin’ my time.” Your eyes sparkled with desire and mischief, “There’s enough of me to go around.”

You turned towards Daryl first, pressing a sweet, little kiss to his mouth. Soft and almost innocent, if not for the hint of your arousal on his lips. It was a tease of a kiss. Like saying goodbye.

Because then you shifted towards Joel, kissing a trail up the thick column of his neck, tasting salt and sun. You grazed your teeth along his stubbled jaw until you reached the shell of his ear.

“Hi,” You whispered sweetly, before nipping once. He huffed a breath in response.

You shifted your hips towards Daryl, angled like a siren. Your hands stayed busy on Joel, palming him light and taunting over his jeans. Daryl’s hands, rough over soft skin, snuck around your waist grounding you while you misbehaved.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath, hips shifting under your touch when you squeezed him harder through the denim.

“Relax, old man.” You teased with a sly smile.

“Keep doin’ that and I won't.” He warned, voice dark with desire.

Power thrummed through you, finally having some control of the situation.

You reached down and popped open the button of Joel’s jeans, then eased the zipper down slow enough to be cruel.

The second you did, heat and hardness surged into your palm.

You licked your lips, drunk of the way he stared down at you. His gaze made you feel suddenly too hot. Sizzling with desire.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Daryl rumbled from behind you, gripping your hip, “Least you can do is be sweet to the poor bastard… after makin’ such a mess all over his seat.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining when I made it.” You said, pushing back against him.

Daryl's hands slid down your waist until he reached the end of your skirt. He breached the line of fabric until he was massaging your thighs all the way up to your ass. You pushed your hips further into his touch, hungry for more.

Joel’s hand found your face, cupping it gently, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “It’s okay, Sweetheart,” Joel’s hand came to cup your cheek. His thumb tugged your lower lip down. “A little filth doesn’t bother me.”

A lewd smile tugged at your mouth. you hooked your fingers into his underwear, and pulled down, freeing him. “Let’s see if you still think that, when I'm done with you.”

Joel's cock made your eyes widen. He’s huge. Veined. And beautiful.

Teasing him was tortuous for Joel and you. Every second you played with his restraint only made the ache in your body grow stronger. You couldn’t help it. Your fingers moved on their own accord, wrapping around him in desperate need.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

You grip the base firmly, feeling the heat of him pulse against your palm. You stroked once before, placing a teasing kiss to the tip, then another, letting salty pre-cum gloss over your lips.

You moan, a hot breath on Joel's cock when Daryl’s hand slips under your skirt, cupping between your legs, sending a rush of heat through your body.

“How much do you care for these?” Darly asked, snapping the band of your underwear against your skin with a sharp sting.

You turned over your shoulder to look at him. Your mind was hazy… Too aroused to think straight. “What?”

“Guess I'll find out,” he muttered to himself.

In one swift motion, he tore the cotton right off. The sound of fabric ripping echoed through the truck.

“Daryl–” The protest died on your lips when the sudden rush of air from the open window hit your exposed core, sending shivers through you.

Momentarily distracted by Daryl's hands roaming between your thighs, exploring and caressing every inch of you, you turned back to Joel.

He looked so hard it had to hurt. His length was straining against the air pointed straight at your waiting mouth.

You gave him a slow, gentle squeeze, never breaking eye contact. “So pretty.” You said, lashes fluttering.

Wasting no time, you time you flicked your tongue around the swollen head of him. Slow, languid licks, then quick teasing licks. Joel’s hand found your hair, gripping it firmly, making you exhale a hot breath against his skin from the delicious pressure.

“Sweetheart,” He warned with a serious glare.

You smiled against him, then, shocking him completely, you parted your lips and took him deep in your mouth. You licked and sucked along the length of him, hollowing your cheeks, swallowing him down.

“Shit,” Joel groaned, tightening his grip in your hair.

Tears formed in your eyes when he hit the back of your throat, and still, you kept going, greedy for every inch of him.

You moaned around Joel, the sound vibrating along his length, when suddenly, Daryl’s fingers found your swollen bundle of nerves. He rubbed a slow lazy circle that made your hips buck into his hand and your mouth sink deeper onto joel.

Daryl shifted closer, his rough hands greedy as he lifted your hips, settling you on top of him.The coarse scrape of his denim met your tender skin and you whimpered grinding down against him, aching for more.

You pushed back into Daryl, wanting to feel all of him.

You popped off Joel with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his aching cock. Over your shoulder, you cried out, “Daryl, please.”

“How’m I supposed to say no when you finally used your manners?” Daryl said voice thick with lust.

You heard the rustle of his zipper. You replaced your mouth on Joel’s cock with your hands, so you could watch Daryl unsheath himself.

Your stomach twisted with want at the sight of him, thick and flushed. You clenched around nothing, already aching to be filled.

Daryl lined himself up behind you, the swollen tip teasing your dripping entrance. You were so slick, he could have slid in with one hard thrust, but he didn’t. Instead he relished the way your wetness coated him, dragging his cock slowly through your folds, soaking himself in your need.

“Guess you ain’t as tough as you act, huh?” you teased, trying to push him over that edge, daring him to stop holding back and take what he wants.

A cruel smile tugged at his lips.“You’re gonna be cryin’ for it when I’m done with you.”

Then he pushed forward, until he reached the end of you, stealing your breath. You fisted the denim of Joel’s jeans so hard your knuckles grew numb.

“Taking him so well, Sweetheart.” Joel praised, voice thick with sin, “Should see how pretty you look sittin’ on his cock.”

You moaned, helpless, the sound tumbling out of you in a string of broken cries. Words abandoned you. You were nothing but pure pleasure. Raw and reckless.

As Daryl settled inside of you, you turned your attention back to Joel. You wrapped your lips back around him, bobbing your head in time with the slow, punishing roll of Daryl’s hips. The three of you moved together in a filthy symphony, all rhythm and ruin.

Joel’s free hand fisted your hair so hard it stung, like maybe if he held on tight enough, he won't go to hell for this.

Daryl’s fingers bruised into your hips, dragging you back onto him with every thrust, like he was trying to brand you from the inside out. “So fuckin’ greedy for it.”

Your jaw ached but you had no sympathy for it. You only cared about sending Joel over the edge with your mouth. Your tongue swirled around his head and you hummed around him when Daryl’s pace turned ravenous.

Joel grunted, low and viscous, “Don’t stop sweetheart, fuck, that it.”

Their words spurred you on, pushing you to move faster and harder.

The cab of the truck was filled with slick, obscene sounds of sin. The wet slap of Daryl’s hips against you, the hollow, desperate gag of your mouth on Joel. The sound of all three of you coming apart at the seams.

Daryl struck that sweet, hidden place inside you, sharp enough to make your body jolt forward, driving Joel deeper down your throat. You gagged, choked, and Joel groaned low and wrecked, his hips twitching up into your mouth.

You clenched around Daryl from Joel’s dirty sounds. Your orgasm was clawing its way up your throat, wild and inevitable.

Both men growled, a ragged harmony of pleasure, when your body squeezed tight and desperate between them.

“Gonna come?” Daryl asked, “Can feel you’ squeezin’ me so damn tight.”

Completely overwhelmed from sensation, you just whimpered around Joel’s throbbing length. You couldn’t respond–nor think. Instead you sucked harder, tears sliding down your flushed cheeks.

Joel huffed a breath through his nose, chest expanding. “Poor thing can’t even think straight, too full of cock.”

Daryl chuckled darkly then lifted your hips up and slammed you back down on his cock Simultaneously, Joel pushed your head down grunting at the pleasure you provided. You could do nothing other than just take it.

You’re pretty sure this counted as a one way ticket to hell… pretty sure you didn’t care.

It shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was, how easily they manhandled you, used you for their pleasure and yours alike.

Every thrust, every groan of pleasure, brought you closer and closer to bliss, Your body trembled violently with a second approaching orgasm.

Noticing the way your body responded, Daryl went faster, thrusts becoming sloppier as his orgasm followed close behind your own.

Joel's chest heaved erratically, and you could feel him twitch in your mouth. He was almost there too.

Then, Daryl’s hand went around rubbing your clit, sending sparks of pleasure so intense you felt it start in your toes and shoot all the way up your spine. You vibrated against Joel, making lewd, choking sounds.

“She love’s it.” Daryl praised, rough and warm. “Made to be fucked by men like us.

“That right, Sweetheart?” Joel cooed with mock sweetness.

Their words send you to oblivion. You hummed around him, being caught by surprise as pleasure crashed over you, like a tsunami.

“Fuck, she’s coming.” Daryl said through clenched teeth.

You popped off Joel's cock as your muscles spasmed, clenching tightly around Daryl. Your orgasm took your breath away and your eyes squeezed close.

“That’s it.” Daryl said as you fisted Joel's shirt in one hand anchoring you while you jerked him up and down with the other.

“Sweetheart, fuck–keep going.” Joel praised.

You were desperate for it. Wanting both of them to experience the same pleasure you did.

Even in the haze of your post bliss, you wrapped your mouth around Joel, and moved your hips up and down, slipping effortlessly onto Daryl’s cock from your spent desire.

“Faster.” One of them said, but you were too gone to know who. Regardless you bobbed your head fast and lifted your hips faster, chasing both of their orgasms now.

“Fuck–” Joel breathed out, as his cock twitched in warm, hot spurts of his release hit your tongue. You swallowed, gagging around him. Daryl spilled inside of you with a groan. You felt warmth rush down your thighs.

You were completely full from both ends, and you’ve never felt more satisfied.

Sated, spent, and dazed, Joel gently helped you sit upright. Daryl adjusted your hips with a careful, reverent touch, pulling you off him slowly. They sat you back down in the seat, each of them guiding you with quiet intent.

Daryl smoothed the fabric of your skirt over your thighs, while Joel wipes away the tears streaking your flushed cheeks.

There was no need for words, just the flow of their hands and the deep silence between you, thick with the aftermath of what just transpired. You felt dizzy, floating in the aftermath, but in the best way. Like you were safe, even if it was just for the moment.

“Pretty girl,” Joel murmured, brushing your tears from your skin, “Did so good for us.”

You exhaled shakily, still coming down from the high of it all. Daryl’s hand rubbed soothingly up and down your thigh, grounding you, bringing you back to earth. “You’re alright, honey,” he whispered, his voice low and comforting.

They fixed themselves with a quiet kind of ease, zipping their pants back up. But your lip curled in a small pout, something soft and needy stirring inside you when they turned their attention elsewhere.

It wasn’t until you looked out that window that you realized how late it was. How the sun hung low in the sky, bleeding orange and pink across the horizon. You hadn’t noticed the time or the world outside the cab of this truck.

A dazed laugh bubbled from your chest, escaping your lips before you could hold it back. You couldn’t find the words to speak. Your breath still caught in your throat, tangled in their hands.

Joel joined, also chuckling softly at the absurdity of the situation. “It’s getting late. We better stop for the night. Get somethin’ to feed the poor girl.”

Your stomach rumbled, a soft reminder that your body was only just starting to remember its other needs, other than them. Now in the aftermath, your body finally felt the quiet pull of hunger.

Joel pulled the truck into the lot of a quiet motel and diner, the neon sign flickering lazily in the light of dusk.

Joel and Daryl shared a look when the engine stalled in the parking lot. Then they looked at you.

A secret they’d keep between them.. And between your thighs.

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