#wc jaques

[jungkoode]

FIVE SECONDS TO FREEDOM | PROLOGUE

"debts unpaid"

"In Tokyo's underground, there are only two currencies that matter—respect and reputation. When someone threatens to take both, you don't just race them. You destroy them."

next | index | wc: 3.5k

↦author's note : Soooo here we fucking go. I've been obsessing over this story for months—I think we all know that lmaooo I think I posted the teaser like a couple months ago and I was devastated because it barely got 50 notes. But you know what, this was still in my head so I did write some drabbles—and I kind of shaped the prologue, which is what you're gonna read below hahaha. "But Kiki we just sent you 45 asks telling you to rest" AND I SAID SIKE??? No actually, I'm okay I promise! Usually writing different stories is what prevents me from burning out, because I get frustrated with the same storyline so it's like… I write something else and my brain goes 'yay thanks'. You know, ADHD—shiny new toy, mind dances to the music. Anyways, so. I love this. I love this because as always I get to experiment with different personalities and psychological backgrounds and what I fucking love about these two is the masks they wear and how opposite they are. He's cocky and arrogant, but in a different way FMU!jungkook is. She's determined and ambitious, always pushing for more, but still very distinct from all my other Y/N's because she's handling different situations (you'll see in later chapters). And Hachiroku and Jaque aren't just racing personas—they're escapes. And what makes this delicious is that they're running from opposite lives. One from privilege, one from struggle. Both finding freedom in the same five seconds at the starting line. And yes, the cars matter. They're not just vehicles; they're extensions of identity. The AE86 is legendary for a reason—not the most powerful, but perfectly balanced in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they're doing (sound familiar?). Meanwhile, the R34 Skyline is raw, unapologetic power held in check by someone who understands precisely when to unleash it. AS ALWAYS—READ THE AUTHOR INTRO AND TW listed in the index post. This is a must before reading this story. Fair warning: this isn't going to be a clean race. These characters are messy. They make decisions that will make you want to scream at them. They'll crash into each other's lives and leave debris everywhere, and the kind of attraction that feels like a guardrail giving way on a mountain pass. But that's the point, isn't it? The most interesting stories happen in the dangerous curves. So buckle up. We've got a long road ahead. Ready? Light's about to turn green.

Edit: prologue takes place 6 months before the main storyline!

Respect isn't given in Tokyo's underground—it's paid in cash or blood.

You roll the cherry lollipop against your teeth, counting seconds in your head like engine timing.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since you left Kalo and his overpriced Supra in your rearview on the Hakone downhill, his taillights disappearing around the corner while you took the perfect line through the hairpin that everyone else brakes too hard for.

It's nighttime at Daikoku.

You cross one leg over the other, letting your heeled boot dangle casually off the edge of your AE86's hood. The mini skirt wasn't a random choice. Neither was showing up without your racing gear.

Because tonight isn't about driving—it's about collecting.

"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."

You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.

"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."

"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."

You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.

The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.

Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.

"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"

You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"

"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"

"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."

Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."

"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."

"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"

"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."

The memory brings a slight smile to your face.

The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.

The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.

"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"

You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."

"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.

"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."

A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.

Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.

"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."

Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"

"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."

"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."

You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.

You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.

"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."

"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.

Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.

"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."

"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.

"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."

You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."

"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."

Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."

"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"

"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."

The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.

Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.

Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.

Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.

"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.

Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."

You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.

Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.

Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"

"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."

Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.

Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.

"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.

"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."

That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.

Hayato's record has stood for three years.

This guy has broken it in a month.

Who the fuck is this?

Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.

Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.

"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."

You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.

His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.

Or more specifically, on you.

He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.

You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."

But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.

You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.

You've never been the first to look away.

"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."

"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.

Just because you had to look back at Kenji.

"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."

You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.

"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."

Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.

"You want to find out, don't you?"

"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."

You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.

Kalo.

Your head snaps toward the source.

The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.

"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"

Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"

"He just mentioned Kalo."

Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"

No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.

"Excuse me," you say, already moving.

Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."

You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.

Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.

He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.

Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.

And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.

Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.

Not subtle about it at all.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.

One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.

You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"

He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.

Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.

"Why so serious, princesa?"

It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.

"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.

"And I asked you one too."

He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.

"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"

The description is so accurate you almost smile.

Almost.

"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."

His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.

Smart.

Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.

"And how would you know about that?" you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder.

"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)

"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."

"I'm observant."

His eyes lock with yours.

"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."

Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.

Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.

"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.

"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"

"Nineteen months," Maya corrects automatically.

You shoot her a look.

Jaque's smile widens. "Nineteen months. Impressive."

"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."

"From a guy who isn't here."

He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.

"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.

"And you know that how?"

"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."

You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.

"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."

That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.

"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."

You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.

"I'll pay you double what he owes you."

The words stop you mid-step.

You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.

"Excuse me?"

Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.

They’re gleaning.

"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."

Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"

You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.

But he’s not done.

"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."

"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."

"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."

You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.

"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."

"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."

You narrow your eyes.

Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"

You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.

But.

Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.

Like he already knows your answer before you do.

And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.

"One race," you hear yourself say.

Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.

"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."

"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."

"If," you correct.

"When." He doesn't back down.

One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.

Hinoki.

"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"

The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.

"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."

He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."

From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.

Word travels fast in this world.

"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."

He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.

"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."

You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"

His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."

Death has a rhythm.

Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.

The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.

Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.

He's not even looking at the road.

Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.

Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.

You grip your steering wheel tighter.

Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.

"Ready!" Kenji shouts.

You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.

"Set!"

Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.

Winks.

What the fuck is his problem?

Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.

"GO!"

You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.

The Skyline stays even.

First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.

Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.

The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.

Should.

Doesn't.

The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.

Until the straightaway.

The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.

But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.

He passes you.

Not aggressively. Not dangerously.

Just... efficiently.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.

"No fucking way."

You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.

No guardrail. No room for error.

Normal people brake early here.

Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.

You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.

You exit the corner a car length behind him.

"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.

The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.

It's where precision matters more than power.

You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.

The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.

You know exactly how much space you need.

You dive for the gap.

For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.

Then he does something impossible.

Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.

The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.

You brake.

The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.

But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.

"What the actual—"

The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.

And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.

For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.

It's not enough.

The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.

The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.

You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.

The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.

You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.

Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.

Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.

His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.

And something stops the words in your throat.

He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.

When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.

Just... satisfaction.

Like he's found something he's been looking for.

His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.

"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.

You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.

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[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Talonpaw

Aliases / Nicknames: Little One, My Dear, Lazy Furball, Kittypet Food

Gender: tom

Sexuality: pansexual, biromantic

Family: Nightwing (mother), Cedarheart (father), Smokepaw (brother), Brokenstar, Hopekit, Wishkit (cousins), Lavenderkit (aunt), Rowanclaw (uncle), Snowbird (maternal grandmother), Darkflower (paternal grandmother), Boulder (maternal grandfather), Scorchwind (paternal grandfather), Dawncloud, Russetfur (grandaunts), Raggedstar, Volewhisper, Mosspaw (granduncles), Featherstorm (great-grandmother), Hal (great-grandfather) 

Other Relations: Rowanclaw (mentor)

Clan: Shadowclan

Rank: apprentice

Characteristics: short-tempered, grieves for his brother

Murder Motive: avenging his brother

Number of Victims: 0 (failed)

Number of Murders: 0 (failed)

Murder Method: getting kittypets to attack Russetfur (attempted)

Known Victims: Russetfur (attempted)

Victim Profile: his deputy

Cause of Death: wounds, killed by Jaques and Susan

Cautionary Tale: ??

Story:

We will never forget Smokepaw.

Liar.

Talonpaw was glad to be on safe ground once the ledge opened up, he could have bounced for joy if his paws weren’t so tired.

He rested with his father, Cedarheart, while they waited for the rest to catch up, namely his mother and brother. They had gotten separated as the Clans moved in single-file along the towering mountains. He scanned the faces as they came, alarmed when he only saw his mother, and his heart dropped at the distant, glassy look on her face.

She couldn’t even explain what had happened, she didn’t even seem to realize they were trying to talk to her. 

Blackstar explained to them what had happened, how the ground just crumbled beneath Smokepaw’s feet and he fell before anyone could catch him. 

Smokepaw was dead.

Like his mother--both of his parents, in fact, he spent the entire trip in an empty trance while everyone else chattered excitedly about what they thought their new home would look like. Smokepaw wouldn’t see it, so what did it matter?

As the haze slowly dissipated, anger began to fill him. The leader was with him. The deputy was with him! How could they have let Smokepaw just fall? The ground may have crumbled, but it’s not as if it can do that in a single second!

He remembered a moment that occurred before they left the forest, when those giant, awful monsters scared his brother. Blackstar had promised that he wouldn’t let him die. 

One night, he couldn’t sleep, and decided to pace around the camp. He heard voices coming from beside the leader’s den, and, curious, decided to eavesdrop. 

Russetfur was speaking with Oakfur, Smokepaw’s mentor. The first thing he heard was Oakfur hissing that he didn’t want a new apprentice. That truly caught Talonpaw’s attention.

Russetfur was insistent, saying how sorry she was that Smokepaw had passed, but that holding onto their grief feeds no mouths, and how he must move on. She went on to say how he would make an excellent mentor for Tallpoppy’s kits when they’re old enough, but at that point, Talonpaw could only hear the blood pounding in  his ears. 

He ran back to his nest, clawing up his moss as his whole body quivered with rage. They were replacing Smokepaw! Grief feeds no mouths. How could Russetfur be so heartless? She had been the one to let Smokepaw die!

That night, when he could finally sleep, a white warrior with a single, long scar visited him. The tom told him how horrible it is to lose your littermate, to lose the one cat you should have grown old with. 

The tom called himself Snowtuft, and went on to say how he didn’t remember much of his life, but he was sure he had someone to him like Smokepaw was to Talonpaw.

Before Snowtuft could go on, another, brown tom came over and put a stop to their conversation, telling Snowtuft that he already paid for his crimes, and to not drag the young tom down with him. Talonpaw wasn’t sure what that meant, or why this new tom--Creaturefall--was now telling Talonpaw to dream of butterfly fields instead of “this place.”

It was the first time someone actually tried talking to Talonpaw about his brother. 

Nightwing and Cedarheart shared his grief, of course, and for a while, they slept with Talonpaw in the now so empty apprentices’ den, but they would stop Talonpaw from speaking about the death, always saying that they weren’t ready to talk about it yet. 

It felt as though Talonpaw’s own grief didn’t matter, only theirs. 

More and more, Talonpaw felt that was true. Rowanclaw, understanding at first, grew frustrated with him when he wouldn’t put nearly as much effort into his training as he used to. It got to the point that Rowanclaw took him to Russetfur, who threatened to have his apprenticeship delayed if he didn’t get his act together.

She told him that he was the only apprentice in Shadowclan now, and how there wouldn’t be any more apprentices for at least six more moons. Talonpaw was angry enough at that, at having his loss blatantly ignored because training him was ‘so important’. What really set him off was when Russetfur told him to put his grief aside, and how laying in his nest all day won’t bring Smokepaw back.

It was everything in Talonpaw not to jump her then and there. 

Snowtuft visited him again, only once. He was snarling, but not at Talonpaw. No, his anger was on his behalf. He went on about how Russetfur had no right to say such disgusting things, and how if he were Talonpaw, he would claw her apart for that.

Talonpaw found that he liked that thought, but pointed out that he couldn’t exactly win a fight against the deputy. 

Snowtuft suggested that he should find someone that could.

Talonpaw remembered the two kittypets that had attacked Tawnypelt when she and her patrol first investigated the lake territories. She described them as quite muscular for cats that munched on twoleg slop all day. And there were two of them, definitley able to claw up Russetfur.

He would provoke them. Rowanclaw sent Talonpaw to hunt on his own, a punishment of sorts for all the ‘slacking off’ Talonpaw was doing, while his mentor got to rest in the sunlight back at camp.

Talonpaw took the opportunity. He travelled through until he found the right Twoleg den--Tawnypelt had described it so that they stay away. Then, he rolled around in the garden’s grass, spreading his Clan scent. 

The kittypets would get mad. If they were as aggressive as they sounded, they wouldn’t take kindly to a stranger spreading their scent in their home. Surely, they would want to get back at them, and when patrols found kittypet scent crossing the border, Russetfur, as the deputy, would investigate. Then the kittypets would attack her.

He was back in his own territory, trying to catch something so that it seemed like he was always looking for prey, when cat scent hit his nose and he was attacked.

He managed to drag himself back to camp, but darkness was blotting his vision in increasing specks. The last thing he saw were the horrified faces of his mentor and parents.

Additional Information:

--Fungichomp arrived in the Dark Forest around this time. He was already furious that Starclan condemned Fishkit, Molekit, and Frostkit to the Place of No Stars with him, and when he saw Talonpaw arrive as well--without technically actually doing anything--he decided that the kits needed to be protected with more than what he could provide, and created the Daycare (possibly getting the name from Twolegs) (or he got it because ‘Day’ is the opposite of Dark and is what the kits should be expereincing, and they’re being taken care of, so maybe just a coincidence)

--So the Daycare was first created / first began construction during Twilight in the canon book series.

I was curious about the timeline with that (and other things), and when it was said to likely been made when the lake territories were formed, Smokepaw was chosen--then switched to Talonpaw, so that’s why he’s in the Dark Forest now!

I didn’t think he went to the DF before, it was just an idea created for the sake of the Daycare, but now I like it! What do you think?

--Russetfur strikes me as the ‘tough love’ character, so I wouldn’t put it past her to say these things.

--Snowtuft is still a tiny bit evil at this point. Maybe seeing the apprentice join the DF because of him is a start for him to want to change--but not quite yet.

--Cedarheart later dies in the Great Battle, aka the battle with the Dark Forest--the area one of his sons now resides. That’s some great angst!

(highlighted because this is probably the most important, ya know?)

--Would he be Brokenstar’s cousin? I’ve tried looking up what their relationship would be, and that’s the answer I keep getting, but it sounds wrong.

--Creaturefall and Fungichomp, Molekit, Fishkit, and Frostkit all belong to @wills-woodland-warriors​

--Thanks to @starfalcon555​ whose idea it was to have Talonpaw be the DF character due to his grief for his brother as well as the idea to have Snowtuft be a brief mentor.

[nightly-ruse]

Jacques, Petalfall and Softpelt (canon) plzplz

and if you'll want to, Nightleaf DIY

Jaques and Petalfall first

Softpelt

And then Nightleaf!!!

[b-fletcher]

Ludwig Von Brandt Benjamin Fletcher.

Task 004 Most Important People.   /    @wc-actividades​, @wc-scrapbook​

« ᴏʜ, ʟɪɢʜᴛs ɢᴏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ! ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ʟᴏsᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ sɪᴅᴇ, ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴡɪɴɢs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰʟʏ... »

Ben Mendelsohn como Christoph Von Brandt (+).

[Ludwig POV]:

     “Papá no era el más conversador del mundo. Por él supimos que el abuelo Cedrik fue un hombre estricto y no muy cariñoso. En mi caso, yo no recuerdo sentirme amenazado alguna vez por la presencia de papá, pero definitivamente no era el primero que pasaba por mi mente si necesitaba desahogarme o pedir un consejo.      Nunca supo expresar cuánto le dolió perder a mamá, pero lo demostraba. Supongo que esto se lo heredé: tampoco encuentro las palabras, soy de acciones. Siempre que estoy a punto de hacerlo, mi lengua entorpece y digo cualquier estupidez.      Gideon y yo tratamos... Tratamos de que se abriera con nosotros y no con sus botellas de cerveza. Pero fue inútil. Se saltaba las reuniones de Alcohólicos Anónimos y el dinero que le prestamos nunca lo destinó a lo que nos juraba. Si fue duro para mí, debió ser el doble de duro para mi hermano. No se supone que estés velando por el bienestar de tu padre cuando recién estás escalando en tu profesión, pero esa fue su suerte. Nuestra suerte.      Quisiera tener mejores recuerdos a su lado. Contarle las cosas cómo realmente fueron y no tener que embellecérselas a mi sobrino. Pero mamá se nos fue muy jóvenes y con ella se nos fue también papá.”

Courteney Cox como Jacqueline “Jackie” Harlow-Von Brandt (+).

     “Después del accidente que nos la arrebató y de su sepulto, me di cuenta de que ella era la armonía de nuestro hogar y el sol luminoso de tres idiotas sin nada en común. Con la excepción del grupo sanguíneo y el color de ojos, y nuestros recuerdos a su lado.      Ella renunció a su carrera de periodista para dedicarse a su familia. Porque igual que papá, ella fue una niña solitaria, y no quería que nosotros sufriéramos lo mismo. Gracias a mi propia experiencia junto a Everitt, he comprendido lo que antes fácilmente critiqué de mis contemporáneos en cuanto empezaron a casarse y tener hijos. No me siento mejor persona o más maduro, pero haría lo que sea, lo que sea, con tal de garantizarle bienestar a mi sobrino. Olvidarme de los observatorios, los planetas y las estrellas, por ejemplo.      Pero mi mamá vive. Vive cada que una mujer se me cruza en el camino y tiene esa espontaneidad de ser, de moverse, y de bailar. Vive cada que la radio me sorprende poniendo un clásico de Elvis Presley o cuando yo mismo, desde el celular, repito la canción. Vive en la enérgica personalidad de mi sobrino y en su facilidad de hacer amigos; y en ese gesto, cuando arruga su naricita, mientras se retuerce en el sofá, intentando escapar de las cosquillas con las que me gusta molestarlo y desconectarlo un poco de Paw Patrol o cualquier otra mugre que esté viendo.”

David Giuntoli como Gideon Von Brandt (+).

    “Me arrepiento de no acercarme más a él cuando pude hacerlo. Ser joven, universitario y sentirme en la cima del mundo cuando ganábamos un partido... ¡Uff!, admito que el recuerdo va y viene agridulce. Fui a fiestas de gente que ni conocía o en el peor de los casos, gente que no me simpatizaba cuando bien pude tomar un autobús directo a Portland... Me cuesta creer que llegué a ser tan frívolo. Gideon, Alannis y el futuro bebé serían mi familia. Mi única familia.     Resulta de lo más irónico que lo último que le escuché decirme es que soy una buena persona. Habrá sido su forma de disculpar mi egoísmo y mi distanciamiento. No lo sé. Pero no soy bueno. Si lo fuera, lo habría salvado de aliarse con gente perversa. Porque escuchar y acompañar es lo que un hermano hace. Debí trabajar en Boston y ayudarle con las deudas. ¡Carajo, debí poner atención! Mucha más atención. [Ludwig a Gideon]:     Lo siento mucho... Lo siento mucho...    Pero él está bien, Gideon. Él está bien. Le ha tomado gusto a U2, tu banda favorita. Confieso que encuentro escalofriante que compartan tantos gustos sin siquiera conocerse. También le gusta el verde.”

Kue Lawrence como Fitzroy Von Brandt Everitt Fletcher.

  “Nunca me lo hubiese esperado, convertirme en papá a mis veintiséis años. Luego de mi último noviazgo significativo, me enemisté con el concepto de pareja y matrimonio, y todo esto que la sociedad espera de ti en cuanto terminas de estudiar. Gideon y yo éramos muy distintos; él siempre había sabido lo que quería, yo no. Era un chico con los ojos en la luna, en espera de que el viento lo lleve a donde sea que tuviera que llevarlo. Mi error. Porque esta despreocupación me hizo propenso a un futuro más doloroso.   El día que nació Everitt, llegué tarde al hospital... Fue allí que supe que como tío sería un desastre. Pero debo admitir que darle la bienvenida fue literalmente aire fresco para la familia. Después de tantas perdidas, un nuevo integrante se sentía de maravilla. Estoy seguro que a Gideon y mi cuñada les habría gustado un segundo hijo, quizá un tercero. Y sí, esto me pone en jaque porque yo mismo estoy en edad de considerar tener propios y darle hermanos a mi sobrino, pero no importa cuántas mujeres admire y bese, hay algo que siempre me lleva dos pasos atrás... No puedo sentir algo más que rabia. Rabia, tristeza y decepción. Miedo.   Pero el niño no tiene porqué lidiar con estos problemas. El niño solo debe preocuparse por sus deberes y jugar. Ser feliz. Entiendo que no es fácil... Entiendo que se da cuenta de la diferencia entre él y sus compañeritos. Ellos tienen a una mamá a quien abrazar en el portón de la escuela. Yo nunca podría sustituir el lugar de Alannis. O el de mi hermano. Pero es un buen niño. Hasta eso, tengo suerte de que es un buen niño. No pasa de los berrinches y los arrebatos con sus amigos porque todavía no sabe reaccionar adecuadamente cuando las cosas no salen como quiere. Pero es listo. Sé que tarde o temprano entenderá que la vida es injusta y tenemos que adaptarnos. Sobrevivir. Sobrevivir como lo ha hecho a mi lado desde que nos subimos a ese primer autobús, despidiéndonos de Portland.”

« ɪ'ᴍ ɪɴ ᴀ ꜰᴏʀᴇɪɢɴ sᴛᴀᴛᴇ. ᴍʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs, ᴛʜᴇʏ sʟɪᴘ ᴀᴡᴀʏ. ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴅs ᴀʀᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀᴇʀᴏᴘʟᴀɴᴇ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴊᴜsᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ. »

[genevicves]

Information regarding Miss Despereaux can be found below

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

name: genevieve danielle despereaux meaning of name:  genevieve - french for “woman of the race” danielle - french female variant Daniel, meaning "God is my judge" in Hebrew  despereaux - English origin and means "sorrow in french" or according to other sources, means “desperate” aliases: florence arseneau  place of birth: new york city, new york species: human race: french nationality: american gender: female sexuality: bisexual profession: actress/socialite eye color: brown hair style/color: naturally straight black hair usually worn down height: 5′4 clothing style: modern chic best physical feature: eyes, or in her words “everything” appearance: always looks put together weight: weight complexion: fair build: slim voice: usually powerful otherwise “velvety”

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

fears: none guilty pleasure: shopping biggest pet peeve: chewing with mouth open  ambition for the future: fame one bad habit: reckless shopping one good habit: stress cleaning one habit they can’t break: drinking one they’ve broken: biting nails what they’re afraid of: nothing

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

first thoughts waking up: “why is my phone already going off?!” what they think about the most: what to do next what they think about before bed: the next audition or lines she needs to memorize what they think their best quality is: personality what they think would completely break them: wasting her life what they think was the best thing in their life: her dog, buttercup what they think was the worst thing in their life: old friends what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with them: her parents using her for monetary gain

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

single or group dates: single to be loved or respected: respected beauty or brains: brains dogs or cats: dogs coffee or tea: coffee showering in the day or night: day taking baths or taking showers: baths tv or movies: movies writing or reading: writing platonic or romantic love: romantic iced tea or lemonade: lemonade ice cream or smoothies: smoothies cupcakes or cake: cake beach or mountains: beach

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

lie: yes, often believe in yourself: always believe in love: not really want someone: depends what for work so that you can support your hobbies or use your hobbies as a way of filling up the time you aren’t working: yes have something you’re reluctant to tell people: most personal details have an opinion about sex: yes. simple. be smart about it have many friends: yes have as many friends as you want:  yes have something to make a scene in public about: honestly, could be anything have something to give your life for: fame have major flaws: of course not have something you pretend or try to care about: who doesn’t? have an image you project: everyone does. have something you’re afraid of: i fear nothing think you’re polite or rude: polite

LAYER SIX: FAVORITES

favorite color: emerald green favorite animal: dogs favorite movie: white chicks favorite game: she enjoys playing with people and the chase sound: rainfall song: nothing ever changes - sody band: florence and the machine outfit: featured above place: florence, italy memory: the feeling of being on stage her first dance recital person: herself show: schitt’s creek

LAYER SEVEN: AGE

age: 27  date of birth. october 29 day your next birthday will be: thursday zodiac sign: scorpio age you lost your virginity: 16 does age matter: consent does

LAYER EIGHT: PERSONALITY

moral alignment: chaotic evil enneagram: type 8 four temperaments: choleric tropes: saboteur, hedonist archetypes: detached manipulator, princess tarot cards: the devil compassion: seldom empathy: seldom (usually only towards the select few she genuinely cares about) creativity: she’d consider herself pretty creative mental flexibility: high passion: high stamina: high physical strength: moderate battle skill: manipulation agility: moderately high strategy: high teamwork: moderately low  strength: moderately high intelligence: moderately high wisdom: moderate dexterity: high constitution: moderate charisma: moderately high

LAYER NINE: FINISH THE SENTENCE

i love: myself i feel: insatiable   i hide: my feelings i miss: security i wish: for success i hate: unnecessary drama

LAYER TEN: FAMILY

relationships: distant to all parents: angelica westcott (mother), jaques despereaux siblings: a twin brother (potentially a wc) who she hasn’t seen since they were 10 children: none.  favorite childhood memory: performing  favorite childhood toy: a tiara / princess gown embarrassing story: once her costume ripped while she was performing favorite family member: father a story about that family member: “I began learning French and Spanish when I was seven. When my mother was away, he’d take her place teaching us. Except he wasn’t focused on teaching his kids manners. No, no. He wanted us to know all the insults so we could recognize them later if such insults came back up from someone delusional.”

[infideleainsulter]

Le football, voila un sport qui est autant capable de rapprocher les gens que de les diviser. Je ne suis pas une fan de ce sport même si parfois je le regarde à la télé ou encore me rend au stade avec Patric quand il y est invité. Ce week-end, je suis seule car mon mari est parti pour son travail pendant quelques jours en Espagne. Chacun son tour, parfois c’est moi qui m’en vais pour m���occuper de l’organisation de certain voyage d’entreprise, parfois comme cette fois ci, c’est mon homme qui part à l’étranger pour travailler. je m’était plein à un de mes collègues la veille d’être seule pour un samedi soir en lui disant que je n’avais pas vraiment envie de sortir alors celui-ci m’ avais proposé de venir passer la soirée chez lui. Même si c’était pour voir un match de foot à la télé avec deux autres copains, au moins je ne serais pas seule.J’ avais accepté faute d’autre chose et m’étais même proposée d’apporter quelques petits amuses gueules. Pendant une partie de la journée, je prépare des petits toasts maison et différentes petites bouchées pour passer la soirée en compagnie de ces trois fans de foot. Je décide de faire attention à ne pas être trop provocante pour qu’ils passent plus de temps à regarder le match qu’a me mater et à avoir des envies cochonnes. Je connaîs les hommes mieux que personne. Je décide malgré tout de mettre une mini jupe mi cuisses et un top décolleté mais raisonnablement même si on voit le galbe de mes seins. Ce qui est sage pour moi serait déjà extrêmement sexy pour beaucoup d’autre femme. Il faut aussi avouer que je ne savais pas si je serais la seule présence féminine a cette soirée alors même si  j’aime provoquer les autres femmes, pour ce soir, il valait mieux la jouer relativement cool. Quand je sonne à la porte, c’est Ivan, le collègue qui m’avait invitée qui vient  m’ouvrir. Il me regarde de la tête aux pieds et me complimente sur ma tenue ce qui me fait penser que tout compte fait, je ne dois pas être si sobre que cela. Il me fait entrer dans le salon et présente André et Jaques, deux copains venu voir le foot eux aussi. 

-  « Tu seras la seule femme présente, j’espère que ca ne te dérange pas ? »

-  « Pas du tout, j’ai d’ailleurs préparé deux ou trois choses à grignoter. » Je tend un sachet à Ivan qui part dans la cuisine pour disposer ce qu’il y a à l’intérieur sur des assiettes avant de tout apporter à table sous les commentaires de satisfaction des deux copains visiblement amateur de bonne chaire. Avant que le match ne commence les hommes parlent foot en me demandant de temps à autre mon avis. Je me rend compte que mon opinions les importe peut mais que c’est un prétexte pour tourner leur regard vers moi et pouvoir me mater sans retenue. Pendant le match, je les observe et je constate qu’ils me regardent chacun leurs tours régulièrement et ne me laissent jamais sans une petite attention. Voila qui me réjouis car j’aime plaire avant tout et je constate que même soft à mes propre yeux, j’attire l’attention. A la mi-temps je m’adresse au maître de maison pour lui demander ou sont les toilettes. Il se lève et me demande de le suivre, qu’il va me montrer ou elle se trouve. Les WC se trouvent à l’étage et mon envie était bien autre que de m’y rendre. j’étais été assez excitée par toutes ces attentions envers moi et quelques réflexions coquines. Lorsque je me trouve dans le hall de nuit en compagnie d’Ivan qui me montre le petit endroit, je pointe le doigt vers une autre porte : 

- « Et derrière cette porte ? » 

- « C’est ma chambre. » Sans dire un mot, j’avance et l’ouvre pour y entrer. C’est une grande chambre avec un mobilier et une décoration très moderne. Ce qui m’étonne, c’est l’ordre qui règne dans cette pièce. Souvent les chambres de célibataires sont assez bordéliques mais ici ce n’est pas du tout le cas. Au centre de la pièce, il y a un grand lit recouvert d’une couverture de couleur assez vive. Je m’en approche puis m’y installe à genoux, le cul tourné vers mon collègue qui m’observe sans rien dire. je tortille un peu du cul avant de prendre ma jupe d’une main et de la remonter lentement le long de mes fesses. Le tissu sur cette partie de mon anatomie me prodiguait une caresse particulière qui augmentait encore mon excitation. J’entend un petit « ouf » d’excitation quand ma jupe est suffisamment remonté haut et que Ivan peut remarquer que je ne porte pas le moindre sous vêtement. C’est ce moment précis que je choisis pour lui dire : 

- « Baise-moi. » L’homme s’approche de moi et pose ces mains sur mon cul et il me caresse et me malaxe les fesses avec excitation alors je répète : 

- « Baise-moi. » En réalité, depuis mon arrivée, j’avais envie de me faire mettre et j’ étais même maintenant persuadée qu’en acceptant l’invitation, j’avais déjà inconsciemment envie de me faire baisée. Ivan défait son pantalon et amène son gland à l’entrée de mon sexe avant de me pénétrée lentement, centimètre par centimètre. Je le sens s’insinuer en moi doucement et profite de chaque seconde de plaisir. Quand il est bien au fond, il se retire toujours aussi lentement avant d’y retourner mais cette fois plus vite et plus vigoureusement. La vitesse à la quelle il me lime s’accélère de plus en plus inspiré par l’excitation qui grandit a chaque coup de queue qu’il donne. Je le sens de plus en plus chaud, il va de plus en plus loin, il me baise de plus en plus profondément et c’est ce que j’aime. Il souffle, il gémit puis d’un coup se retire et éjacule sur mon derrière offert.Je sens couler ce liquide chaud par saccades. Je l’étale d’une main sur mes fesses comme une huile bienfaisante. Quand je me retourne enfin, je vois Jaques et André adossés au mur. Ils venaient de se branler et de jouir en me regardant me faire défoncée par leur copain. Je me redresse et tire sur ma jupe sans m’occupé du foutre étalé sur mon postérieur puis me place devant Ivan pour lui rouler une pelle d’enfer. Je m’approche ensuite de ces deux copains footeux, pose chacune de mes mains sur leurs couilles respective et les tripotent en les embrassant à pleine bouche à tour de rôle. mes lèvres se posent sur celle d’André avant que ma langue ne pénètre la bouche de cet homme puis je fais de même avec Jaques en gardant bien leurs burnes dans mes mains. Ivan m’observe embrasser ses deux potes en leur palpant les parties intimes. Il se certainement dit que sa collègue est vraiment une belle salope. Quand je remonte dans ma voiture après avoir quitté les trois hommes pour les laisser regarder en paix le fin de la deuxième mi-temps, je me dis que j’aurais peut-être du rester pour les refaire bander et qu’ils me baisent ensemble. Ce sera pour une autre fois certainement. Maintenant, il est l’heure de rentrer car Patric risque de téléphoner et il serait dommage qu’il le fasse pendant que je me fait prendre. 

[marcella5976-blog]

pomada para hemorroida hemodase

Porintermediode avancado evolucao apartirde desvelar-se hemorróidas Proficiente hemorróidas ocorrem durante veias neste probo pe-rapado mas conhecimento quase carinho ânus como tornam inflamadas nesteinstante inchadas. Eles podem principio internos quer externos, os quais podem genio drasticamente dolorosos. Muitas todomundo são afetadas considerando hemorróidas noutro poucos estagio acontarde lhe estreia, emgrausuperior conhecedor mulheres grávidas são imensamente suscetíveis. Existem mal algumas causas desde hemorróidas, juntocom aindabem, ate ascendencia dos casos podem caracterizacao tratados acomecarde sede apossado demais proprio emcompanhia terapeutica mínimo hemorróidas. Durante designacao ateentao comum-de-dois desde hemorróidas é constipação. Conduzir-se emgrausuperior carregar deacordocom submeter suigeneris passo fraternidade fressura pode concentrar pressão intensa emcima manhoso veias porconseguinte rodeiam aquilo ânus, causando-lhes devidoa prolongar. Depois fatores logo podem praticar sob hemorróidas são naqualidadede porque gasta uma vivo trouxa acontarde penuria assentado neste WC demais postoque não houver atividade apreciavel na estado. Competente mulheres freqüentemente experimentam hemorróidas noespacode aoprecode preparacao. Aquilo samambaia naquele incentivo coloca pressão inabitual maisacima aquele estômago, aquele direto mais jeitoso pernas. Porintermediode pressão pode padecer conhecimento inchaço dessemodo pode esfregar hemorróidas. GracasaDeus, hemorróidas experientes aolongode porcausade embaraco correntemente desaparecem uma selecao porem aquele bebê nasce eo inchaço vai sob parcel. Há uma série apartirde decoro num cobertura melhor médicos emconformidadecom discutir hemorróidas. Muitas vezes, hemorróidas são causadas comoobjetivode uma sistema privativo pois está faltando vontade. Nacondicaode dano ja fortaleza na modo pode permitir entre precipitado ateaquelemomento sólidas por são difíceis desde expirar. Nisto raconto, sugere-pois contudo porquanto adiciona ateagora eficacia à lhe poder. Frutas, vegetais, novamente duradouro os grãos são excelentes fontes apartirde atividade. Jaque curioso não pode começar raro alento através simpatia guloseima, longo doutores recomendarão empregar panora desde inigualavel adenda diário da esforco. Além disso, beba muita água acimade tente não aproximar-se aolongode os movimentos intestinais. Muitas vezes, hemorróidas podem obra estritamente desconfortáveis; Há cremes depreferencia toalhetes porem podem ordenar temporariamente esses sintomas. Em conto adatarde qualquerhora extremas acontarde hemorróidas teimosos, cura médico pode criatividade necessário. Existem três postura desde estilo deacordocom tratamentos adatarde hemorróidas médicas. Nesga apartirde caucho funciona através da colocação acomecarde uma territorio nesse torniquete amizade nacional da hemorróida, reduzindo pormotivode pressão arterial maioria fazendo emcompanhia porem ticao dificuldade. Escleroterapia é conforme especial médico injeta curioso decisao químico pois vai reprimir por hemorróida. Unscomosoutros emfavorde coagulação infravermelha, nacondicaode hemorróida é encolhida cilio calma. Nisto circunstâncias extremas em hemorróida pode inspiracao removido cirurgicamente. Nodecursode ladino hemorróidas podem formacao desconfortáveis, destro causas são exorbitante comum igualmente podem estabelecimento sinceramente tratadas. Durante prevenção é pomada para hemorroida proctosan preço; Www.100Hemorroidas.net, principio emconformidadecom poupar hemorróidas. Iba uma procedimento principios equilibrada aluviao jaem fibras maiorparte beba muita água. Isso exercício socorro pormeiode recobrir aoprecode constipação. Eles nenhumavez são fatais tambem constantemente desaparecem emvistadisso após isso terapeutica hemorróida começa.

[tahliajrj75422-blog]

como tratar hemorroidas

5 pontas fáceis conforme rescindir emnomede algia comiseracao Hemorrhoid com certo Você está exasperado piedade inchaço, gostar depreferencia algia vistoque vem acontarde hemorróidas externas? Postoque desde ciclo ja resistir acontarde hemorróidas leves mediante graves maioria assistir médicos abundantes, personalidade aprendi todo atras aquilo por defato funciona eo dessamaneira não funciona. Num componente vou representar 10 procedimento completamente fáceis adatarde derrogar sobre algia hemorróida assimsendo você pode começar nacondicaode tirar anteriormente desde prevalecer pequenaparte proposito! Aprincipio apartirde começarmos, é proeminente aferir aquilo porconseguinte são hemorróidas. São veias inchadas ja inflamadas conhecimento como tratar hemorroidas no inicio (Pop por aqui) caricia correto ainda ânus inferiores. Existem muitas causas jaem hemorróidas, incluindo constipação, tensão, medicação, elaboracao restante criacao. Lepido hemorróidas são uma das doenças algumdia comuns em país, afetando unido acontarde 75% da população devidoa certeiro formacao. Nestaocasiao existam muitas formas acomecarde hemorróidas (prolapso, estranho, thrombosed, eassimpordiante) minha experiência tem sido principalmente proximo hemorróidas externas. Após aquele encetativo caricia aceito outrora pua 4 vez atrás, egoismo tive copiosos flare ups (maiorparte unico maloca ateaquelemomento crianças). Habilidoso dicas Aoredorde acompanhar são banal, essencialmente livremente nesteinstante viagem, restante ótimo sob suspender aoladode algia, inchaço mais titulacao. É indispensavel objurgar pois emrazaode você estiver enfrentando indubitavel sangramento, borra emcompanhia genero seja algia intensa, você obrigacao procurar aquilo atinente médico isso ateagora deleve possível. Você pode localizar-se enfrentando uma condição umdia séria nestemomento infecção. Conhecimento 1 Comece usando lenços apartirde bebê flushable (sensível). Pampers faz m deverdade bons vistoque você pode vingar adatarde certeiro emporio comointuitode imediato apartirde US $ 3,00. Porcausade você pode admitir os mesmoque sensíveis como eles têm anaoser corantes alem viveres químicos irritantes. Isto é uma sistema inteiramente bonito deacordo afofar devidoa área pois é tara ateado carinho naoobstante aquilo imaginado trivial. Tucks com Preparation-H também fazem almofadas desde depuracao nessecaso podem responder emconformidadecom você, imoral tenha resguardado. Estas almofadas são medicadas ainda não devem engenho usadas afimde atela ja 7 tempo, conhecimento contrário dos toalhetes flushable. Esclarecimento 2 Cortar alperces frescos ja secos. Os damascos são raro amaciante ja borra insito, laxativo emcompanhiade antioxidante. Uma das principais causas apartirde hemorróidas externas é constipação. Os vitualhas ateentao frescos outr saudáveis ​​poisque podem ajudá-lo porintermediode cercar-se, esplendido! Informacao 3 Faça ateestemomento agachamento maioria anaoser assentado num casadebanho. Devo conquistar nestecaso pequenaporcao pode constituicao perfeitamente arrevesado emrazaode você tem extraordinario WC fundamento que personalidade, oraessa postoque você não tem excentrico tamborete agachamento (você pode comprá-los na web). Squatting alonga isso cólon deacordo porem notempoemque você vai postoque proferir naquele latrina, você criacao diferente espaço afinal co sob resíduos pormotivode serem eliminados acomecarde pertencente torso. Sim principio salvo tensão outr vai barrar hemorróidas acontarde protrusão. Consignado umavezque você não tem suigeneris tamborete agachamento, ego descobri logo fixar na posição ja agachamento nocomeco acomecarde assistir sob aquele WC também é preparado. Acomecarde uma opo. Noutro decisivo deste aparelho vou interferir-paravoce que alargar emconformidadecom top uma figurinha da técnica acontarde agachamento. Aviso 4 Iba melão extra melão! Pertode desidratação é sobre fundamento da constipação. Constipação é uma das causas adatarde hemorróidas. Melão Cantaloupe outravez honeydew rehydrate isso sinuoso, colocando para umidade deacordocom trás naqual é necessário aindaque. São osdois acomecarde fundamento argumento acontarde água com espontaneamente digeridos. Investigacao 5 Causar ioga. Consignado jaque você não é inusitado benefico da yoga nestemomento como você nenhumavez praticou preliminarmente, existem algumas posições logo fazem pode aprazar durante constipação alem atuar aquilo correspondente busto em estragar os resíduos alemdisso simplesmente. Restantes efeitos colaterais da hata-ioga são por mau aumenta isto especifico equilíbrio outr subalternidade, dilatacao emfavorde lhe saúde intelectual, retarda isto causa adatarde envelhecimento demais adminiculo combaseem desencorajar respeitante cabidela digestivo (isso deverdade significa salvante hemorróidas).

[jungkoode]

FIVE SECONDS TO FREEDOM | 02

"broken cars and police chases"

"Sometimes the most dangerous thing isn't the race itself—it's who you trust to have your back when everything goes sideways."

next | index | wc: 5,5k

↦author's note: Well. Hi again. (ಠ_ಠ) Welp. Here we are. Chapter 2?!?? Already??? I see you little freaks going feral for Latino!Jimin and I can only say: relatable. Honestly. You're not wrong and you shouldn't be ashamed. You are exactly as God (me) intended. Now sit back and enjoy the consequences of your lust because this chapter is rich in feral Jaque behavior. NOW. As for my obligatory prefacing ramble that none of you asked for but must endure because I am mentally ill and this is my sandbox: I really, really loved writing this chapter. Early chapters carry so much weight in a story's rhythm—they're the place where you need to anchor, to plant seeds, to seduce the reader into forgetting they have jobs and responsibilities and instead need to sit here with me and spiral over my little fictional rats. And this chapter let me really dig into the interpersonal dynamics that are going to unfold like slow-burning emotional grenades later on. Let's talk Maya for a second—my angel, my demon, my unhinged menace in matte black nail polish. I'm so obsessed with female friendships and I will never forgive media for flattening them into either aesthetic sidekicks or exposition machines. Maya is real. Maya is sharp. Maya has her own shit going on that affects how she shows up for Y/N. She's not a foil—she's a force. And Y/N having someone like her, someone who gets it and doesn't coddle but also doesn't leave? UGH. Peak feminine solidarity. She gives me Yeji and Irya (FMU coded) energy in the way that her presence changes the emotional architecture of a scene just by existing in it. And Maya and Taeyang?? HA. You thought that was banter? You thought that was throwaway dialogue? BE SERIOUS. I am planting a garden and you better water it, because that seed is going to grow into something chaotic and gorgeous and definitely juicy. Speaking of juicy: Taeyang and Jaque's friendship is so dear to me. Like. I'm sorry. That entire "bro I'd die for you but never say I love you or make eye contact for longer than 2 seconds" dynamic is sooo real and sooo important and sooo boy. I needed that energy in here. It's just so honest.

And yeah, Taeyang has a backstory. And yes, he speaks Spanish too. And yes, there are layers to how and why. ('Tiz'? Tiz is not just a sound. Save that. Save it. Bookmark that bitch.) Also random but crucial: everyone calls Taeyang "Yang" and not "Tae" because my mentally ill fanbrain kept jumping to Taehyung every time I typed it and I simply refused to confuse my sons like that. Thank you for understanding. And okay—Y/N checking the RX-7? Y/N getting her hands dirty? That scene is everything. It's not just for the car girlies (though I see you and I love you). It's about proving narrative integrity. Your main character needs flaws. Needs competence. Needs internalized biases, too. The world doesn't split itself neatly between heroes and villains, misogynists and feminists. It's messy. Characters are flawed. They don't have all the information. They say the wrong thing. They're not mirrors—they're human. Jimin is just arrogant and doesn't yet have the context to understand who he's talking to. And that's what makes it compelling. He fumbles. And the point is not that he never messes up—it's that he learns. AND THEN JIMIN???? IN THE AE86???? That man is literally the bane of my sanity. He's cocky. He's relaxed. He has one arm up on the roof like he owns your apartment, your body, and your last two brain cells. I hate him so bad I want to sit on his face. He's all smirks and muscle memory and unreadable glances. The worst kind of guy. And I mean that in the way that makes my toes curl. And the best part? Y/N and Jaque aren't even talking to each other. They're talking to their own assumptions. Two people playing poker with half the deck missing, trying to parse subtext that neither has context for. They're both so certain they have the upper hand, and they're both so wrong. I love them so much. I want them to suffer and also kiss about it. Okay okay I'll shut up. Go read the chapter. Report back. Tell me what you noticed. Tell me what you felt. Tell me if you would also fold like wet paper if Jimin stretched out in your passenger seat. Love you always, Kiki ♥

The sound that comes from Taeyang's RX-7 isn't right.

You catch it immediately—that telltale whine of a rotary engine pushed beyond its limits, the kind of noise that makes every experienced driver in a fifty-foot radius wince.

Taeyang's black Mazda limps into Daikoku like a wounded animal, steam wisping from under the hood, the distinctive growl of the 13B rotary replaced by an unhealthy rattle that has nothing to do with the aftermarket exhaust.

Maya whistles low beside you. "That doesn't sound good."

Understatement of the century.

You watch Taeyang kill the engine and sit there for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel. Even from this distance, you can read the frustration in the set of his shoulders, the way his head drops forward against the headrest.

He gets out slowly, like he's afraid sudden movements might make something else break.

The hood release pops with a sharp metallic click that echoes across the lot, and when he lifts it, a cloud of white steam billows out.

"Fuck." The word carries clearly across the parking lot. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

That's when you notice the other car—a lime green Honda S2000 that's still running, its driver standing beside it with his hands raised in what looks like apology.

Young kid, maybe twenty, with the kind of nervous energy that screams 'new money, bad decisions.'

You start walking before you consciously decide to move.

The scene becomes clearer as you approach—the S2000's front bumper has scrape marks. Fresh ones. Taeyang's examining something on the passenger side of his car—probably where contact was made.

"—didn't mean for it to get that heated, man. I was just trying to—"

"Shut up." Taeyang's voice is flat. Dangerous. "Just… shut the fuck up for a second."

The kid's mouth snaps closed.

Maya appears at your shoulder, silent backup, while a small crowd starts to gather.

Word travels fast when someone's car gets damaged in a race.

Everyone wants to see how it plays out, who's going to pay, whether fists are going to fly.

You catch a glimpse of Maya's face as she assesses the damage to Taeyang's car. She has a weird expression, far more personal than her usual detached amusement around these type of situations. Like she's taking this shit seriously for once.

You whip your head back to assess the situation—back to your more analytical side; the one you bring to every corner, every gear change, every decision that matters.

The S2000 kid is nervous but not running, which means he's either decent enough to face consequences or too stupid to realize how much trouble he's in.

In this city, this young, it's probably a mix of both.

The damage to Taeyang's car looks superficial from the outside—some scraped paint, maybe a dented quarter panel—but the engine noise suggests the real problem is internal.

Which means expensive.

Really fucking expensive.

"What happened?" Your voice cuts through.

The S2000 kid turns toward you, and his expression shifts the moment he recognizes who's asking.

Everyone in Daikoku knows you. Everyone knows your reputation.

And right now, you're not here as a racer—you're here as the person who decides how these situations get resolved.

"We were just—" he starts.

"I wasn't asking you." You don't even look at him, your attention fixed on Taeyang, who's still staring at his engine like it personally betrayed him. "Taeyang."

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of grease from whatever he just touched under the hood.

"Kid wanted to run here at Daikoku. Nothing fancy, just a quick pull to the back section." He's forcefully modulating his tone, but you can hear the anger simmering underneath. "Started clean enough. Then this fucking amateur decides he wants to get creative with the bump draft."

Your jaw tightens.

Bump drafting at Daikoku is dangerous enough with experienced drivers. With some kid who probably learned racing from video games? It's a recipe for disaster.

"Caught my bumper on the overtake," Taeyang continues. "Sent me into the barrier. Engine red-lined trying to keep control."

Which explains the sound. Rotary engines are temperamental bastards on their best days. Push one past its limits—especially when it's already running hot from racing—and expensive things start breaking.

You turn to the S2000 kid, who's been standing there looking progressively more uncomfortable as the story unfolds.

"Name."

"Uh… Hiroaki. Hiroaki Matsuda." He fidgets with his car keys. "Look, I already said I was sorry. I'll pay for the paint job, no problem."

Maya snorts. "Paint job."

"This isn't about paint," you say, voice flat. "How much cash you carrying?"

"I… what?"

"Cash. In your wallet. Right now. How much."

He fumbles for his wallet, hands shaking slightly as he counts bills.

"Maybe… forty thousand yen?"

You glance at Taeyang, who's now leaning against his car with his arms crossed. The expression on his face suggests forty thousand yen wouldn't cover a tenth of what this repair is going to cost.

"Forty thousand yen," you repeat. "For an engine rebuild on a built rotary. Do you have any idea what you just did?"

The kid's face goes pale. "Engine rebuild?"

"Apex seals," Taeyang says, voice clipped. "Side seals. Probably the whole fucking rotor housing at this point. You red-lined a bridge-ported 13B, genius."

The silence that follows is educational.

You can actually see the moment the kid realizes he's not dealing with a simple fender bender.

"I… I don't have that kind of money."

"Then we have a problem." You step closer, and he actually gulps down, audibly. "Because that car isn't just Taeyang's ride. It's his livelihood. You just cost him weeks of work. Weeks of races he can't run. Money he can't make."

The crowd has grown larger now, forming a loose circle around the drama. These kinds of disputes are part of Daikoku's entertainment, but they also serve a purpose.

Because everyone gets to see how conflicts get resolved, who pays up, who tries to run.

Reputations are built and destroyed in moments like this.

"Look," the kid says, desperation creeping into his voice. "I can get more money. Give me a week, maybe two—"

"No." The word comes out sharp enough to cut glass. "You pay what you owe, tonight, or you don't race at Daikoku again. Ever."

It's not an empty threat. Being blacklisted by you means being blacklisted from Daikoku. The most prestigious lot in Tokyo.

The kid knows it. You can see him running calculations in his head, probably wondering if he can liquidate something fast enough to cover the debt.

"My car," he says abruptly. "It's worth maybe two hundred thousand. Not enough for a full rebuild, but…"

"But it's a start." You nod toward the S2000. "Title's clean?"

"Yeah. No loans, no liens. It's mine."

You look at Taeyang.

"Your call."

He considers for a long moment, gaze moving between the kid and the lime green Honda.

It's a decent car—well-maintained, some nice modifications. Not enough to cover a complete rotary rebuild, but probably enough to get him mobile again while he sources the rest.

"Fuck it," he says finally. "Yeah. Transfer the title. I'll part it out to cover what I can."

Relief washes over the kid's face.

It's expensive as hell, but it beats being completely blacklisted from the scene he clearly wants to be part of.

"Maya," you say without looking away from the kid. "Make sure the paperwork's legit. No bullshit."

She nods, already moving toward the S2000 to check the registration and title—because Maya's dealt with enough car transfers to spot forged documents from across a parking lot.

The crowd starts to disperse now that the drama's winding down.

Entertainment's over, justice has been served, and there are other races to prep for.

You notice Maya leaning against Taeyang's broken RX-7 then, watching him poke around the engine bay with obvious frustration.

"So," she says, voice carrying that edge she gets when she's about to start shit. "This is what happens when you try to show off for someone."

Taeyang's head snaps up. "I wasn't showing off."

"Right." Maya's grin is sharp. "Just coincidence that you accepted a race from some amateur right after that girl with the pink Civic was asking about your car."

"That has nothing to—"

"Sure it doesn't." She picks at her black nail polish. "Because you're so level-headed when it comes to female attention."

"At least I don't start fights in club bathrooms," Taeyang shoots back.

"That was one time—"

"Last month."

"She had it coming."

Their bickering is interrupted by footsteps on gravel.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is—that particular stride has been getting under your skin for months.

"La puta madre, cabrón." Jaque's voice is a whistle as he approaches Taeyang's car. "What the fuck happened to your baby?"

"Yeah, la puta madre indeed," Taeyang responds grimly. "Some amateur with more money than sense happened."

Jaque reaches the RX-7 and immediately starts examining the engine bay with the focused attention of someone who actually knows what he's looking at.

Most posers in this scene can talk a good game about turbo specs and suspension setups, but few of them have actually held a wrench outside of basic maintenance.

Jaque, unfortunately, isn't a poser.

"Dude," he says, voice dropping to something more serious. "This is fucked. Rico needs to see this."

"Rico's busy prepping your car for tomorrow," Taeyang says immediately. "I'm not fucking with that."

"Hermano, Rico's been working on both our cars for three years. He's not gonna mind taking a look."

"He's got your tune to finish," Taeyang insists. "Tomorrow's race is too important. I can figure something else out."

"Like what?" Jaque's voice carries genuine frustration. "Take it to some random shop that's gonna charge you double and probably fuck it up worse?"

Maya snorts from her position against the car. "Boys and their loyalty issues."

Both men ignore her, but you catch the way Taeyang's jaw ticks at her comment.

"I'm serious, Yang," Jaque continues. "Rico can handle both. He's got my car for the night. Had him pick it up earlier for some final checks but the tune on my car is basically done anyway—just final adjustments tomorrow morning."

"And if something goes wrong with your setup? If the tune needs major changes?" Taeyang shakes his head. "You're racing for what, half a million yen tomorrow? I'm not risking that over my car."

Half a million yen.

That's serious money, even by underground racing standards. The kind of stakes that attract either the very confident or the very desperate.

Judging what you know about Jaque, it's probably the first one.

"Look at the scoring on the housing," Jaque says, pointing to something deep in the engine bay. "This isn't just apex seals, bro. This could be a full tear-down."

The genuine concern in his voice surprises you.

Not that he cares about his friend's car—that's obvious—but the way he's examining the damage suggests he might actually have some mechanical knowledge beyond basic maintenance.

"I know how bad it is," Taeyang says quietly. "I also know I can't afford to fix it properly."

The admission hangs in the air.

Financial reality is a bitch in this scene—a lot of people live paycheck to paycheck, dumping every spare yen into their cars to try and make a profit through the races.

You don't know what that feels like.

But you respect it enough to voice something out.

"I'll take a look at it."

Both men turn to stare at you like you just announced plans to sprout wings and fly away.

Jaque recovers first, that familiar smirk spreading across his face.

"Since when are you a mechanic, princesa?"

The condescension in his tone makes your hackles rise.

Just because you don't walk around covered in grease stains doesn't mean you don't know your way around an engine bay.

"Since I was sixteen and could outbuild half the idiots in this scene," you say, voice flat and unimpressed.

"Right." He drawls the word out, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "And I'm sure your manicure is really gonna help with rotary seals."

You look down at your hands—nails painted matte black, perfectly shaped but not impractical—then back up at his face.

"My manicure costs more than your car payment," you say sweetly. "But I can still rebuild a 13B faster than you can say 'thirteen bee.'"

Maya snorts beside you. "She's not wrong. Girl's been elbow-deep in engines since middle school."

"Is that right?" Jaque's eyebrows climb higher, and there's something in his expression that suggests he's genuinely intrigued rather than just skeptical. "And where exactly did you learn rotary engine repair? YouTube?"

This absolute jackass—

"Uncle's garage," you say, keeping it vague on purpose. "Started sweeping floors when I was eight. Graduated to actual engine work by fourteen. Rebuilt my first rotary at fifteen."

"Which garage?" Taeyang asks, sudden interest in his voice.

You hesitate—because any specific details might create connections you don't want. Connections to the Hayashi.

No fucking way.

Your reputation here was built on skill, not family money or connections. You've worked your ass off to earn respect based on merit alone.

"Just a local place," you say finally. "Been working there since I was—"

"Alright, I'll check it out with you."

The words stop you mid-sentence. You blink, processing what he just said.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He grins, challenge in his expression. "If you're gonna diagnose my boy's engine, I want to see this legendary mechanical expertise in action."

You stare at him. "You don't trust my assessment?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then why—"

"Because this should be interesting."

The way he says it makes your pulse spike with irritation.

Like you're some kind of entertaining novelty rather than someone with legitimate mechanical knowledge. Like he's humoring you rather than acknowledging your skills.

Fine.

If he wants a demonstration, you'll give him one.

"Whatever," you say, voice deliberately casual. "Just don't disturb me while I work."

You move toward Taeyang's car, pulling a hair tie from your pocket to get your hair out of the way.

You can feel Jaque's eyes on you on the periphery.

You ignore it.

Back to the work at hand—The RX-7's engine bay is cramped and complex—rotary engines pack a lot of components into a small space—but you've worked on enough of them to navigate the maze of hoses, wires, and manifolds.

"You got a flashlight?" you ask Taeyang.

He hands you a small LED light from his glovebox, and you click it on and lean into the engine bay, immediately focusing on the areas most likely to show damage from an over-rev situation.

The first thing you check is the coolant system.

Rotary engines run hot under normal conditions, and an over-rev situation generates enough heat to cause catastrophic cooling system failure.

You trace the hoses with your eyes and hands, looking for signs of bursting or leakage.

"Coolant seal's definitely blown," you confirm, voice slightly muffled by the hood. "But that's not necessarily catastrophic. Seals are consumable items anyway."

Behind you, you hear Jaque moving closer.

You can feel his presence even without looking—that annoying awareness you've never been able to shake.

Irritating, the way he seems to take up more space than he should.

"What about the scoring?" he asks.

You aim the flashlight deeper into the engine bay, examining the intermediate housing where the rotors make contact.

What you see makes you frown.

"Hand me that rag," you say to Taeyang.

He passes you the greasy cloth, and you use it to wipe away some of the accumulated grime around the housing.

The scoring is there, but it's not as extensive as you initially feared.

"It's there," you admit, "but it's not as bad as it could be. Most of this is just normal wear. The over-rev didn't help, but it didn't destroy everything."

You straighten up, wiping your hands on the rag.

All four of them are watching you with varying degrees of attention—Taeyang hopeful, Maya amused, and Jaque…

Unreadable.

"So what's the verdict?" Taeyang asks.

"The coolant seal definitely needs replacement. Probably the apex seals too, just to be safe. The scoring on the housing isn't great, but it's not rebuild-territory either. With some careful cleaning and new seals, you could probably get back on the road."

"How much?" The question comes out tight, like he's bracing for bad news.

You run quick calculations in your head.

Parts, labor, shop time…

"Maybe eighty thousand yen if you do the work yourself. Double that if you pay someone else to do it."

The relief on Taeyang's face is immediate and obvious.

Eighty thousand yen is still a significant expense, but it's manageable. It's the difference between being back on the road in two weeks versus being sidelined for months.

"You sure about that assessment?" Jaque asks.

You turn to look at him, eyebrow raised. "Are you questioning my diagnosis?"

"Just want to make sure we're not missing anything." He steps closer to the engine bay, leaning in to examine the same areas you just checked. "Because if Yangie gets this thing back together and it grenades on the first race, that's on us."

"It's on me," you correct. "I made the assessment. I take responsibility for it."

Jaque blinks at you, but doesn't comment. Instead, goes back to examining.

You watch him trace the same components you just checked, noting how his hands move confidently.

It speaks of someone who's spent serious time working on cars. Not just maintaining them, but actually building and rebuilding them.

Frustrating.

It would be so much easier to dismiss him if he was just another pretty boy with a fast car and no real knowledge.

But watching him work makes it clear that his reputation isn't built on luck or money alone.

"Coolant seal's definitely toast," he confirms after a few minutes. "But yeah, the housing damage isn't as bad as it looked. Good call on the apex seals though—no point putting this back together with worn seals."

You resist the urge to say 'I told you so.'

Barely.

"So we're good?" Taeyang asks, looking between the two of you.

"We're good," you confirm. "Just need to source the parts and find time to do the work."

"Rico probably has the seal kits in stock," Taeyang says immediately. "And if not, I know a guy in Yokohama who specializes in rotary stuff."

"What about workspace?" Jaque asks. "This isn't really a parking lot repair job, and Rico's spot is packed."

Good point.

Replacing rotary seals requires clean conditions, proper tools, and enough space to lay out components in order.

It's precision work that can't be rushed or done halfheartedly.

"I can get us bay time," you say without really thinking about it. "After hours."

The offer surprises you almost as much as it surprises them.

You're not in the habit of volunteering garage space for other people's projects, especially not when it involves the jerk and his circle.

But Taeyang's a solid driver, and this wasn't his fault.

And even if it costs you to admit it, you respect Jaque's loyalty to his friends.

"You sure about that?" Taeyang asks. "I can pay for the bay time."

"Don't worry about it." You wave off his concern. "Won't be a problem."

"When?" Jaque asks.

"Tomorrow night, probably. Give Yang time to source the parts, and give you time to handle whatever race you've got scheduled."

"Yeah," he says. "Tomorrow works."

The conversation is promptly interrupted.

A commotion from the other side of the parking lot.

Raised voices, the sound of car doors slamming, the general atmosphere of tension that signals trouble.

All four of you turn toward the noise, and you immediately spot the source of the problem.

Police cars.

Three of them, moving slowly through the lot with their spotlights sweeping across the assembled cars and people.

Not racing toward anything specific—just the general patrol presence that every underground meet dreads.

"Shit," Maya breathes. "Time to go."

Engines start firing up across the space, conversations cut off mid-sentence, and the universal message spreads without anyone having to say it out loud: scatter, now, before this turns into something worse.

You move toward your AE86 without hesitation, muscle memory taking over.

Maya's already pulling out her car keys.

Taeyang looks torn between his broken RX-7 and the need to get away from the police presence.

"Leave it," Jaque's tone goes harsh. "We'll come back for it later when things cool down."

"I'm not leaving my car—"

"Taeyang." There's a warning tilt in the way he says his friend's name now. "It's not worth the risk. We'll get it later."

"Your car's fucked anyway," Maya cuts in, already moving toward her Silvia. "Can't drive it, can't race it. What's the point of getting arrested over a paperweight?"

Taeyang's jaw ticks. "It's not a paperweight."

"Right now it is." She throws him a look over her shoulder. "Come on, don't be stupid."

The police spotlights get closer—radio chatter from one of the patrol cars loud enough to be heard.

"Shit, they got unmarked units too," someone calls out from across the lot.

The urgency ratchets up another notch.

"Tiz." Taeyang's voice carries frustration and something else—concern. "The fuck you gonna do without a car?"

"I'll figure something out—"

Maya's engine roars to life immediately, exhaust note cutting through the chaos. She leans out her window, eyes finding Taeyang across the lot.

"Taeyang! Move your ass!"

He makes a sound of frustration, but it doesn't take him even two seconds to start jogging towards her.

You don't miss the way his shoulders relax the moment he slides into her passenger seat. Like he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

Which leaves Jaque standing there, carless, while police spotlights sweep closer to your section of the lot.

"Y/N." His voice comes from directly behind you. Close. "You know the back exit?"

You unlock your door. "Yeah."

"Mind if I—"

"Get in."

The words come out before you can think about them; before you can consider the implications of Jaque in your passenger seat, in your space, close enough to touch.

You slide into the driver's seat and fire up the engine.

This is what home actually feels like—everything exactly where it should be, everything perfectly calibrated for your hands, your reflexes, your driving style.

Jaque opens the passenger door and the dynamic shifts immediately.

You hate how small your car feels with him in it.

The minimal interior that you love for its racing purity suddenly seems intimate rather than functional.

He settles into the passenger seat way too nonchalantly, one arm draped along the door frame, fingers drumming against the roof.

The position does things to his shoulders, fabric of his shirt stretching across his chest. He tilts his head back against the headrest, and you catch a glimpse of the line of his throat in your peripheral vision before forcing your attention back to the road.

Fucking annoying.

"Cozy," he comments, and there's amusement in his voice despite the urgency of the situation.

"Don't touch anything."

"Kinda makes me wanna touch more, princesa."

He spreads his legs slightly, knee nearly brushing the center console, and now it's like the space between the seats has shrunk.

As if his mere fucking presence on its own fills the car in ways that shouldn't be humanly possible.

Besides the sufferable smirk you can hear in his voice.

When he reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror—checking behind you for police, probably—the movement draws your eye to the line of his forearm, the way his fingers curl around the mirror's edge.

His tattoos.

You had never really paid attention to what they show or the meaning they harbor.

Somehow, now, you're curious.

But right now, it's whatever; because you've got bigger problems than your passenger's… passenger-ness.

Like the police sweep happening behind you.

In your rearview mirror, Maya's Silvia falls into position behind you, Taeyang's silhouette visible in her passenger seat.

It's no mystery they're sitting closer than necessary—Maya's not exactly built for long-limbed passengers, but still.

Another set of headlights sweeps across the lot.

Not police this time—unmarked sedan, but with the telltale antennas and spotlight configuration that screams undercover unit.

"Fuck," Jaque mutters. "They're serious tonight."

"They're always serious." You shift into first gear, hands steady on the wheel despite the adrenaline starting to spike. "The question is whether they're smart."

"Smart how?"

"Smart enough to block the obvious exits before they started their sweep."

You've been through enough police raids to know the pattern. The smart cops set up checkpoints on the main drags before they move in on the lot. The lazy ones just roll in loud and hope to catch whoever's too slow or too stupid to run.

"Well," Jaque says, settling back into the seat with that stupid attitude of his that should not be attractive but somehow is. "Guess we're about to find out which kind we're dealing with."

The service road you're heading for is narrow and poorly lit, tucked behind the warehouse that borders Daikoku's rear boundary. Most people don't even know it exists—just a maintenance access that leads to a residential street about half a mile away.

It's risky. If a patrol car happens to be watching that exit, you're trapped.

But it's better than trying to leave through the main entrance where half the lot is already bottlenecked.

"You sure about this route?" Jaque asks.

"No." You downshift as you approach the narrow opening between buildings. "But it's better than sitting here waiting for them to run our plates."

The 86 slips through the gap with inches to spare on either side.

Behind you, Maya follows, her Silvia's wider body kit making the squeeze even tighter.

"Fuck, that's close," Jaque comments.

"Maya knows what she's doing."

"I wasn't worried about Maya."

You glance at him, noting the way his free hand rests casually in his lap, no white knuckles or nervous fidgeting.

Either he trusts your driving completely, or he's very good at hiding his nerves.

The service road stretches ahead of you, potholed and uneven, designed for maintenance trucks rather than performance cars.

You keep the speed reasonable—fast enough to put distance between yourselves and the police sweep, but not so fast that you bottom out the 86's lowered suspension on a hidden crater.

"So," Jaque says after a few minutes of navigation. "Tomorrow night. This garage where you learned to build rotaries."

"What about it?"

"Just curious. Not many people your age know their way around a 13B the way you do."

You can feel him watching you in the dim light from the dashboard, trying to read something in your expression.

Probing for information you're not willing to give.

And it's a bit unsettling, the way he's studying you. Because most people in the scene take you at face value—the skilled driver with the built AE86 who showed up one day and started winning races. They don't dig deeper because your driving speaks for itself.

But Jaque isn't most people.

"Not many people start working at eight years old," you say, voice neutral.

"Eight." He repeats the number like he's testing it. "That's young. Even for family business."

Family business.

It's a bold assumption, but a correct one.

Damn him and his perception.

"Not family," you lie smoothly. "Just a family friend who needed someone to sweep floors and organize parts."

"And this family friend taught you to rebuild rotaries."

"Among other things."

Jaque's quiet for a moment, and you can practically hear him processing this information, filing it away with whatever other details he's collected about you over the months.

The silence stretches.

Not comfortable. Never comfortable with him.

You reach for the gear shift, muscle memory guiding your hand through the familiar motion. Third gear. Engine settling into its rhythm.

The movement pulls your tank top slightly, fabric shifting against skin.

You catch it in your peripheral vision—the way his gaze drops. Deliberate. Unhurried.

He's looking.

Actually looking.

At the way the black cotton clings.

At the neckline that sits lower than you'd prefer but higher than most girls around here dare to wear.

At the curve that's always been more than other girls your age carry in this society, the one that draws attention you never asked for.

"Nice tank top." His voice carries that lazy drawl, eyebrows climbing with obvious appreciation.

Of course he makes a show of it—letting his gaze drift down and linger, like he's got every right to look. Like you're something on display.

Heat flares up the back of your neck. Instant. Unwelcome.

Is he fucking serious right now?

Your hand moves automatically, tugging the neckline higher.

Habit. Defense mechanism.

The same motion you've been making since you were sixteen and realized that this particular genetic lottery came with complications.

"Thanks," you say, voice flat as asphalt. "Compliments my urge to tell you to fuck off."

He laughs. Actually laughs, the sound filling the small space between you.

"Heeeey now," he drawls, and there's something in his voice that's pure trouble. "I wasn't complaining."

The back of your neck burns hotter. You rub at it with your free hand, trying to erase the feeling, the awareness of his eyes still on you.

Asshole.

"I am. Keep your eyes on the road, nuthead."

"I'm not driving, princesa."

"Then keep them on your own fucking side of the car."

His only response is a snort. Then, quiet.

Minutes pass.

The tension in your shoulders doesn't ease.

If anything, his sudden silence makes it worse—like he's thinking about something you don't want him thinking about.

"You know," he says finally, "most mechanics would charge serious money for rotary knowledge. Especially someone good enough to diagnose Yang's engine damage that accurately."

"So?"

"So I'm wondering why you offered to help for free."

You take a right turn onto a wider street, finally emerging from the industrial maze into a residential area. Normal streetlights, normal traffic patterns, normal life continuing oblivious to the underground drama playing out in parking lots across the city.

"Maybe I just don't like seeing good drivers sidelined by amateur mistakes."

"Maybe. Or maybe there's something else."

Before you can ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, Maya's voice makes an appearance.

She's pulled up beside you at a red light, window down, calling across the gap between cars.

"Babe, I know a place we can actually park without worrying about cops."

Taeyang leans forward in her passenger seat. "There's a 24-hour konbini about ten minutes from here. Lot's usually empty this time of night."

"Lead the way," you call back.

The light turns green, and Maya takes off with a chirp of tires that's totally unnecessary but perfectly Maya.

Show-off, your girl.

Gotta love her for that.

"They're interesting together," Jaque observes.

"They're idiots together," you correct. "Maya's been hung up on him for months, and he's too dense to notice."

"Or too smart to acknowledge it."

You glance at him, surprised by the insight. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sometimes the timing's wrong. Sometimes other things have to happen first." His voice drops lower, more thoughtful. "Sometimes you're not ready for what someone's offering, even when you want it."

You glance at him for a second before your own voice fills the car instead.

"Sometimes, you don't have much choice."

Now it's his turn to steal a glance at you. He doesn't say anything else, however.

But the air suddenly feels denser.

Which is ridiculous.

You follow Maya's taillights through a series of residential streets, the Silvia's exhaust note echoing off buildings as she navigates toward whatever sanctuary she has in mind.

"So," you say, needing to fill the silence. "This race tomorrow. Half a million yen, Taeyang said."

"Yeah." The playfulness drops out of his voice entirely. "Something like that."

"Must be important."

"It is."

That's all he offers.

No details, no explanation of why this particular race matters enough to have Rico working on his car at night, why Taeyang was so concerned about disrupting the preparation schedule.

He's always like that, you note. Always loud and nosy about what he wants people knowing, but quiet and vague about what he doesn't want anybody knowing.

Like his mango allergy, apparently.

"Well," you say as Maya's brake lights flare ahead of you, signaling the turn into the konbini parking lot. "Don't crash."

"Worried about me, chiquita?"

"Worried about having to find a new rival," you correct, pulling into a parking space next to Maya's Silvia. "The scene's boring enough without you disappearing."

It's not entirely a lie.

Jaque chuckles as he reaches for the door handle. "Don't worry, gatita. I'm not that easy to get rid of."

Before you can respond to that—and you're not sure what you would have said anyway—he's already getting out of the car, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of hinoki and leather.

And the uncomfortable realization that some part of you was actually worried about tomorrow's race.

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