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servicpop · 8 months ago

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kinktober week 3 — hate fuck callahan ( detective oc ) x criminal m reader

ⓘ kind of rushed T T : use of boypussy (1) , reader passes out , callahan is mean in this

Slippery like a damn eel you were.

Callahan loathed you, hated that smug look on your face everytime he caught you. He hated the way you'd flash your teeth with each smile as he pushed you against the cold walls of a dark alley, fumbling roughly with the metal handcuffs. He'd yell at you to shut your mouth, always running on about something he has to block out to properly cuff your wrists behind your back.

Your bubbly giggles, your beautiful smile, the way your hair swayed with every rash movement you made. He just wish you'd stop resisting, give in and be locked away in the prison cell you deserved to be in. Just so he could get you off his mind.

Shoving you in his car, Callahan swore he'd take you straight to the station, pushing at your collar to get you into the back seat.

"Dont make this harder for me, thief," he spits out, eyebrows knitted together. His eyebags were as dark as usual from the endless nights filing reports, he hated this damn detective job but he couldn't quit. His hands were laced with veins that ran all the way up his arms like the spindly branches of an old tree, straining as he gripped your shirt, attempting to push you down onto the seat.

"Why won't you just—" He's cut off by your cuffed hands meeting his shirt, pulling him close as your lips crashed together. He didn't fight it as much as he should've. His hands slowly dropped from your collar, clenching his fists as you held his tie with your bound wrists, drawing him even closer.

You were so beautiful up close, he couldn't help himself from staring at your shut eyes. The way he could just count each eyelash from this proximity. But he knew better.

"Just fucking get in," he grunted, practically tearing himself away from your soft lips and grabbing your legs, swinging them in before buckling your seatbelt and slamming the car door in your face. Callahan slid into the drivers seat, adjusting the rear view mirror to sneak a look at your face just to find you staring right back at him. He diverts his eyes quickly, locking onto the dimly lit road infront of him and starting the engine up.

Straight to the station, he told himself. A left turn, then a right, and then another left off the main road.

"This isn't the way to the station, detective," you chime from the back seat. The way you purr out the word 'detective' elicts a scowl from Callahan's mouth. He knows, he knows this isn't the way but his hands are just moving without a thought, driving to the nearest motel he could find.

Just one night together would be enough.

He's pulling into the carpark, before he gets out, leaving you alone in his car as he goes to the receptionist to score a room. You're still uncomfortably sitting with your hands cuffed behind your back but you remain silent, watching as Callahan opens the door to his car and glares down at you with those thin, almond eyes.

"Is this what you wanted?" He growls out, clearly upset by his own actions. He pulls you out the car roughly by your arm but loosening his grip the second he hears you wince slightly. "This is more what you wanted—" "Shut it, boy."

When you two arrive at your room, Callahan shoves the keys in and unlocks the door, letting you go in first before he steps in and closes the door behind himself. He's already grabbing the back of your head and pulling you in before you can even utter a word.

The kiss was rough, messy and very clear that it was an output for Callahan's stress. His hands were hastily meeting yours, unlocking the cuffs with a turn of his smaller keys and throwing them off to the side. "How many times have you slipped past my hands, huh?" He growled into your mouth, biting down on your bottom lip enough to bruise it.

Despite his roughness, Callahan's arms are wrapped around you tightly, but so tenderly that you can't help but wonder if this was an act of love or lust.

He pushes you onto the bed, the mattress dipping from your shared weight, and mounts you with one hand eagerly slipping his navy tie off. "Why can't you just be obedient for once and just follow my orders?" Callahan barked out, practically tearing your pants off, discarding them somewhere in the room. He leans back to slide off his belt, still pinning you down under his sheer weight. Callahan tugs at the zipper on his black pants, pushing down his boxers with it.

His dick slings out of its confinements, standing proudly in the dim light. You can't see it well from the abundance of darkness but you know it's an intimidating size. "Fuck and you're not even saying anything?" He scoffs, sliding down your underwear, but this time, his movements are a little bit gentler than it was previously. "You're just letting me do whatever I want."

You whimper at the cold air against your skin and you shiver while Callahan gropes at the flesh on the underside of your thigh, pushing it up. "Do you want me to say something?" You ask with a smug smirk, squirming into a comfortable position as Callahan slings your legs over his shoulder. He shoots you a hateful glare despite asking you the question.

"You've taken it up before, right?" His breaths are almost feral sounding as he bends your legs to your chest, creating the perfect opportunity to slip his tip in, "I still remember bending you over that damn metal table and fucking your brains out," he recalled, shaking his head with a harsh laugh, "Lets see if you can still take it without lube."

"Who am i kidding? Of course you can," He grunted, slamming his hips up into yours with a loud plap noise. Your body jolted from his balls slapping against your ass and you found yourself helplessly clawing at Callahan's forearms. "Dirty detective," you scowl out, shooting him a shit-eating grin, teasing him.

You let out a small squeal when Callahan pushes your knees further to your chest bending you in half. His veiny hands were securely underneath your thigh, pushing your legs down as he easily slid in and out of you.

"What did you say?" He spoke through closed teeth, leaning his face down to glare at you. He watches as your eyes roll back and your hands grip the white sheets, balling the white fabric in your fist. You're so easily crumbling underneath him, writhing in his grasp as you tried to move your legs into a more relaxed position but he just won't let you, "Bratty mouthed boy aren't you? I hate criminals like you."

From this angle, Callahan was able to thrust deeper, hitting that one spot that shot sparks in your veins. It hurt from the dryness but it felt so good at the same time. He ended up spitting a glob onto your hole, fucking the saliva in as makeshift lube. "Does it hurt?" He hummed, almost like he was content with how he had quietened you down despite your whimpers of pleasure.

You screamed into your hand when Callahan leaned his weight against your, driving himself deeper into your wet walls. You have half the mind to shake your head frantically, unable to speak through your words since all that came out was moans and whines.

"Well its about to," he grinned lazily, almost like he was drunk off your hole. He pryed your legs further apart, giving him a better view of your lower half before sliding a finger down your body and stuffing his thumb into your hole along with his dick. The stretch make your eyes widen and your body shudder violently as tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes.

"Look at your little boypussy taking so much in, greedy bastard," Callahan's arm moved from gripping the back of your leg to planting his forearm beside your head and leaning his head down to meet your face. He was so close to you that you could feel his breath fan against your ear.

"The real case i need to solve is how much dick you can take" He was mocking you at this point, making a dumb detective joke, but everything he said fell short from your ears. You were only focused on cumming.

Callahan roughly grabs your cheeks, squeezing the soft flesh and pulls you closer, smashing lips together. Spit streamed down your chin from how harshly he was kissing you, forcing his tongue down your throat. He didn't pull away, not once to let you breathe, and you felt your vision darkening from the lack of oxygen, little black stars appearing in your vision as you came, splattering your stomach with your white sticky mess.

Callahan let out a low groan into your mouth, squeezing your pelvic bone before he buried himself to the hilt. The weight in his balls lifted as he emptied himself out into you, shallowly thrusting so he could push his cum into you. He let out a small chuckle as he watched your eyes close but then he realised they didn't open.

"Shit— are you okay? Don't black out on me now," He asked, but his panic subsided once he saw the steady rise and fall of your chest, you probably just passed out. With a small sigh, he pulled out, watching as his cum dripped out of you, letting a rough grunt escape his lips. He'd have to clean you up including your insides.

#servicpop — fics/drabbles #bottom male reader #sub male reader #uke male reader #bttm male reader #x male reader #x bottom male reader #mlm nsft #oc x male reader #oc smut #amab reader #kinktober 2024

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papayainsectorone · 18 days ago

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teach me to be seen

summary: the internet swirled with blurry theories, but oscar only had eyes for you—on the grid, in the chaos, and later, when the world faded and all that was left was breathless reverence.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, heavy emotional intimacy, soft!Oscar, dirty talk, oral (f receiving),afterglow fluff

word count: 3 k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

teach me series - a´s masterlist

Of course the date didn’t go unnoticed by the media.

The photos had gone viral—but in a stroke of luck, or maybe fate, you were never clearly visible. Your face was always just slightly turned, your hair falling forward at the right moment, or Oscar’s shoulder blocking the view. Each shot was tantalizing but incomplete. Enough to spark rumors. Not enough to prove anything.

It became part of the intrigue.

“Who is she?” became the question that lit up every fan forum and gossip site. A dozen TikTok theories, blurry zoom-ins, comparisons to every woman Oscar had ever been seen near. But no name. No certainty. Just mystery.

Oscar knew. Of course he did. He checked the photos the second they surfaced, scrolling slowly. Then again. His jaw tightened.

"You got lucky," he murmured, looking at one close-up where your face was turned just enough to remain anonymous.

“Did I?” you teased, trying to lighten the air.

He didn’t smile.

By the time he scrolled far enough, hefound threads dissecting your dress, your shoes, zooming in on your blurry face trying to guess your name. Fans speculated wildly—an old flame, a new fling, a stylist, a cousin.

Oscar didn’t say anything. But when you looked at him that morning—bare-chested, hair still messy from the night before—he didn’t seem surprised.

“They were always gonna find out,” he said simply, his thumb brushing your hip under the blanket. “It’s just… early.”

You gave a small laugh, not unkind. “You’re famous. I knew what I was getting into.”

But you hadn’t. Not really. Not until the internet made you a headline.

“Please tell me you won’t read what they’re writing.” he said.

“I won’t.”

A few weeks later, he asked gently. Like he was afraid you’d say no.

“There´s a few cool races coming up. I want you there. Properly there. On the grid.”

You blinked. “Like… with you?”

He grinned. “With me.”

He’d always talked about racing with a certain softness. Like it wasn’t just speed and metal—it was home. And when he asked you to be part of that, you didn’t hesitate.

The day was already warm when you arrived at the paddock, credentials dangling from your neck like a neon sign: Piastri Guest. Oscar was already in his team gear, fireproofs pulled halfway on. His smile when he saw you made your stomach flip.

He reached for your hand immediately. “You good?”

“I’m great. You look like someone who’s about to drive a spaceship.”

He laughed, leaning in to kiss your temple. “It kind of feels like that.”

You walked the paddock together. He showed you the garage, introduced you to engineers, handed you a headset when he talked strategy. He explained DRS like it was poetry, held your hand when you paused too long near the nose of the car, unsure if you could touch it.

“This one’s mine,” he said softly. “Like you are.”

The camera crews buzzed past, but you didn’t care. Not yet. The moment was his.

You should’ve expected it. The minute you stepped onto the actual grid pre-race, surrounded by teams, officials, photographers, it was like someone lit a fuse. The noise, the energy, the chaos.

People stared.

Phones were out.

Flashes came again and again and again.

Oscar kept his hand on your back, calm but firm. “Just keep close,” he murmured. “Don’t look at them. Look at me.”

You tried. God, you tried.

But the questions started spilling even before he reached the starting line. A few reporters lingered just long enough to shout:

“Who’s she, Oscar?” “Is this your girlfriend?” “Can we get a name?” “Is she with you for the full season?”

You stiffened, head down.

Oscar glanced back just once eyes sharp, jaw locked and muttered something to his PR manager that sent a ripple through the group. A boundary, clearly drawn.

He turned back to you, pulled you in by the waist, kissed your cheek firmly. “You’re okay,” he whispered. “You don’t owe them anything.”

Oscar placed well. You met him in the motorhome after the race, where the doors shut tight behind you and the silence hit like a wave.

You didn’t realize how wound up you were until you sat on the sofa and couldn’t stop bouncing your knee.

“They were loud,” you murmured.

He crouched in front of you, still in race gear, hands warm on your thighs. “I know. I shouldn´t have made you come. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to be sorry for your life.”

“I do when it makes you feel like this.”

His hands came to your cheeks, thumbs stroking just under your eyes. “I want you in all of it. Not just the soft parts. But I don’t want them tearing you apart either.”

You smiled faintly, reached for his wrist. “I just need you to keep doing that. Pulling me back in.”

“I will.”

And when you pulled him close, he kissed you slow, slower than usual, like grounding himself through your lips.

“I’m gonna remind you who you’re here for,” he whispered, voice low and rough against your skin.

His hands slid from your cheeks, fingers trailing down the column of your throat like he was tracing the shape of your pulse. His lips followed, pressing soft, deliberate kisses along your jaw, then lower, down your collarbone. You felt the warm exhale of his breath before every touch, his mouth reverent as it moved like a promise.

He was still kneeling in front of you, grounding both of you with the quiet weight of his body. One hand gripped the side of your thigh, steadying himself, while the other rested lightly on your hip—his thumb brushing gentle, rhythmic strokes over the fabric of your dress.

You tipped your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed. The tension of the day still hummed under your skin, but it was slowly unraveling now, thread by thread, under his hands.

“I’ve got you,” he said, barely more than a breath against your stomach.

You opened your eyes in time to see him look up—his gaze holding yours, unwavering. “Let me take care of you.”

There was nothing cocky in his tone. Nothing playful. Just soft certainty, deep affection laced through every word.

You nodded, breath catching. That was all he needed.

He shifted, both hands now skimming up your legs, slow and deliberate, pushing the fabric of your skirt higher as he went. You felt his fingertips graze the back of your knees, then higher, parting your thighs with a careful, wordless patience. His movements were tender but sure, like he’d been thinking about this, about how to give you all of his focus, all of his care.

Your breathing deepened with every inch of skin he uncovered. There was nothing hurried in him, nothing rushed. Just the heat slowly pooling between you both, stirred by the sound of your breaths syncing, the small catch of your moan when his thumbs brushed the inside of your thighs.

He pressed a kiss there first, right above your knee. Then another, higher. A series of them, up one thigh and then the other, worshipful and slow. You could feel how close he was, how intently he moved without breaking eye contact.

You shivered not from nerves, but from the intensity of his focus. It was like you were the only thing in the world. His whole body was language now, telling you you were safe, wanted, seen.

He exhaled a soft “Fuck,” under his breath, as if even now he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Then his hands slid under you, lifting just enough to reposition you, easing you to the edge of the couch, closer to him. Your dress was rucked up fully now, bunched around your hips and you felt his breath hitch when he finally took you in, eyes flicking across every inch of skin exposed to him, then up to your eyes again.

Still holding your gaze, he kissed the inside of your thigh one more time.

You half-expected his lips to travel further up your thigh, to bridge that tantalizing gap, but instead he just stayed still, his eyes locking fully onto yours with a steady, almost worshipful intensity. The quiet between you stretched, thick and warm, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

You whispered his name, “Osc,” barely audible, a soft invitation that felt like a secret.

That seemed to be the cue he’d been waiting for.

His hand beneath you tightened gently, steadying your body as his other hand now also slid around your thigh, pulling you even closer, his fingers pressing just enough to remind you he was there.

Slowly, his fingertips traced lazy, feather-light paths over your hip, mapping the curve where your skin met fabric. The touch was deliberate, a slow exploration that teased your nerves awake. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand moved lower, inching down the slope of your side, where warmth pooled and your breath hitched.

Your mind began to blur, a soft haze settling in as the delicate brush of his fingers sent shivers curling through you. Every nerve ending seemed alive, humming with anticipation, caught between the sweetness of his restraint and the heat simmering just beneath the surface.

His gaze never wavered, holding you steady, grounding you in this fragile moment suspended between promise and release. Your breath caught again as his thumb circled gently over a sensitive spot, the slow, teasing rhythm building a tension that was both tender and electric.

You could feel the press of his body beneath your hands, the steady beat of his heart echoing your own, and the silence around you wrapped like a cocoon.

He leaned in just slightly, his warm breath ghosting over your skin, his lips hovering close but not quite touching. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you two, every subtle movement amplified in its meaning.

He paused just above your skin, eyes lifting to meet yours with a steady, smoldering intensity. “Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice low, steady, commanding in a way that sent a shiver straight through you.

You couldn’t help it, a soft moan slipped past your lips, betraying how much that simple phrase stirred something deep inside. It was so different from the Oscar you knew, the easygoing, teasing side that usually let you lead. This was something new. This was him taking control, taking you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as you whispered, “I need you.”

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. He lingered for a moment, savoring the words, then his tongue traced a deliberate path up over the thin strip of fabric left between you, licking a thick, heated stripe that left your skin tingling in its wake.

His breath was hot against your skin as he paused, lips hovering just above where you burned for him. The smirk faded, replaced by something darker—something reverent. He peeled the fabric aside with aching slowness, as though unveiling a secret meant only for him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over silk. “Already shaking.”

And you were. From the anticipation, from the way his gaze devoured every inch of exposed flesh. From the way he didn’t rush, didn’t fumble, just took his time like he had all evening, all year, to ruin you the way you were silently begging to be ruined.

When he finally pressed his mouth to you, it was like a lit match striking skin. A deep, languid stroke of his tongue, deliberate and possessive, tore a breathless cry from your throat. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating through you, anchoring you to the sheets as he wrapped his hands under your thighs and pulled you closer, grounding you to him—to this moment.

Oscar didn’t tease. He worshipped.

Every flick of his tongue, every suck and kiss was purposeful, focused, a silent litany of mine, mine, mine written into your skin. He read your body like a language he'd studied in secret, adjusting each movement with devastating precision until your fingers clenched in his hair and your hips bucked helplessly beneath him, chasing the waves building inside of you.

But he wouldn’t let you fall just yet.

He pulled back just enough to make you sob his name, lips slick and glistening, eyes locked onto yours. “I want to hear it again,” he growled softly. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I want you, Oscar,” you whispered, then louder, rawer, like it hurt to keep it in. “I need you. I’m yours.”

His breath hitched like the words knocked something loose in him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Say it again.”

You did. You couldn’t stop yourself.

“I’m yours.”

His jaw clenched. You could see the way it wrecked him, how fast his chest rose, how tight his grip got on your thighs. There was nothing teasing left in his eyes now. Just hunger. Reverence. Something close to desperation.

That’s when he let go of your panties, finally unhooked one arm from your thigh but only to tug down the soaked fabric completly, clinging for a moment before slipping away, forgotten.

You barely had time to breathe.

The moment you were bare to him, his fingers were already moving again, confident, relentless, drawing slick, unhurried circles that made your hips jerk beneath him. And then his now-free hand brushed lower, featherlight over your entrance, a cruel, careful contrast to the pressure building inside you.

You whimpered, back arching into his touch.

Without warning, the first hand parted you, two fingers spreading your lips open with sinful ease just as his mouth descended again.

He latched onto the bundle of nerves between your thighs with a precision that made you cry out, the heat of his mouth grounding you and unraveling you all at once. And before your body could even catch up, his fingers pushed in, two at once, deep and unforgiving, curling in a way that made your thighs clamp around his head.

Your breath hitched, then broke, trembling as you tried to hold on.

But Oscar didn’t stop. His tongue worked you in tight, dizzying circles while his fingers moved in slow, deep thrusts that dragged moans from your chest, your throat, your very core.

He was everywhere—inside you, all over you—devouring you like he’d been starving for this. For you.

And you could feel it building tight and hot and sharp like something about to snap, like the only thing holding you together was the sound of his breath and the slide of his fingers and the unbearable, unrelenting want between you.

Then his voice muffled, desperate slipped out against you between strokes:

“Let go for me.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry kindling, hot, fast, consuming. Something inside you clenched, wound so tightly around the rhythm of his fingers and the relentless press of his tongue that you couldn’t hold it back even if you tried.

Your whole body tensed, breath shattering into fragments as the first wave crashed through you, white-hot, blinding. A cry tore from your throat, raw and broken, as your hips bucked helplessly against his mouth, chasing every last flicker of sensation.

But he didn’t stop. If anything, he tightened his grip, holding you there with one arm thrown over your hips as he worked you through it, dragging every ripple of pleasure out until you were trembling, twitching, begging for mercy between gasps of his name.

Your hands clawed at the couch, at him, fingers tangling in his hair, not sure whether you were pulling him closer or trying to get him to stop before it became too much. But Oscar only moaned against you, the sound vibrating right through your center, as if he needed this just as much as you did.

You felt yourself pulse around his fingers, aftershocks rolling through your core, and only then did he finally ease up—slowly, reverently. He withdrew his fingers with aching care, mouth brushing one last kiss over your swollen, oversensitive clit, soft now. Worshipful.

And when he looked up at you lips slick, hair mussed from your grip, eyes dark and tender, you saw it.

Not just hunger.

But pride. Possession. Love.

He crawled up your body, pressing a kiss to your thigh, your hip, your ribs, until his mouth hovered just over yours.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need.

And you didn’t answer not with words. You pulled him down and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungry, tasting yourself on his tongue and offering everything you had left.

You were still trembling small, involuntary shivers coursing through your limbs as the last of the aftershocks ebbed away. Tears rolling down your cheeks. Oscar noticed immediately.

“Hey, shhh,” he murmured, voice low and soothing as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. His skin was warm, solid, grounding. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

He held you like you were breakable but not fragile. Like something precious.

His hands moved slowly over your body, stroking your back, brushing your damp hair from your face. When he kissed your forehead, it was soft, almost reverent. He pressed his lips there for a long moment, like he needed to anchor both of you in the quiet after the storm.

“I’ll always be here,” he whispered against your skin. “You hear me? You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against his chest, overwhelmed, not just from what he’d done to your body, but what he was doing to your heart.

“You’re mine,” he said quietly, with no hesitation. “And I’m gonna take care of you. Always.”

His thumb traced slow circles over your hip, grounding you, calming you.

“No matter what happens,” he added, kissing your temple again. “You don’t have to carry anything alone. I’ve got you.”

And you believed him.

Wrapped in his arms, his scent all around you, your body still aching in the best ways, you let yourself fully exhale. Safe. Seen. Wanted in a way that felt bigger than lust.

PREVIOUS PART - NEXT PART

smol taglist

@sealife-for-life @notgirlsummerr @koalalafications @urmomsgirlfriend1 @wadupppp @elle-28 @saudianna @18lovers @kaworusgf @random-movie @lilasthoughtss @maiyaholics @theskinofakillerbella @graceln4 @diorrgrl

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri #op81 #𓊆papayainone𓊇 #op81 smut #f1 smut #oscar piastri smut

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hameesstuff · 2 months ago

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Tokyo drift

Jaehyun x Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Tokyo Street Racing AU

Word count: ~5k words

Warnings: Tension, rivalry, heavy smut (2 scenes), one crash, fluff at the end.

___________________________________________

Part I: Smoke and Mirrors

Tokyo never slept—but neither did you.

Midnight painted the city in neon veins and roaring engines, and your car—a wine red Mazda RX-7—was the sharpest predator in the streets. You lived for the thrill, for the reverberating growl of tuned engines and the rush of slicing through Shibuya traffic like a ghost in carbon fiber. And at the very top of your “Do Not Fuck With Me” list?

Jeong Jaehyun.

Arrogant. Smirking. Too rich, too smooth, and maddeningly fast. His Green Supra was more than just a car—it was an insult. Every time he passed you at the finish line with that annoyingly perfect smirk, your fists curled.

He parked beside you like he always did—too close, too smooth—and leaned against his car like he owned the entire goddamn city.

“You look tense,” he said. His eyes flicked to you, dark and amused. “Nervous?”

“Only because you’re here,” you replied dryly, tugging your gloves tighter. “The smell of desperation’s hard to ignore.”

He grinned, shameless. “Desperation? Sweetheart, I just like watching you lose.”

“Keep dreaming.” This was your thing. The constant bickering. The heat. The impossible tension that turned every race into a war, and every stare into something that lingered a little too long.

The flag dropped.

Engines screamed.

And you were gone.

PART 2: NECK AND NECK

He was good. Annoyingly, infuriatingly good. You’d pushed every gear to the limit, drifting through Tokyo’s back alleys like a ghost, but he was always right there in your mirror. Too close. Too fast.

It was always like this. He pushed you. And you hated how much you loved it. At the finish, he beat you by half a second. Half a goddamn second.

When you pulled up, engine still humming, he was already leaning against your car—again. “Still behind,” he teased. “But hey, you’re consistent.” You shoved your door open with a little more force than necessary. “One day you’ll eat those words.”

He stepped closer. Too close. You could feel his heat. Smell the leather of his jacket. The subtle twist of his smirk. “One day?” he murmured. “I was hoping it’d be tonight.” Your breath hitched—just for a second. But he caught it. His eyes darkened.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you warned.

He tilted his head. “Aren’t we always?”

PART 3: COLLISION COURSE

It had rained earlier. The asphalt was slick, shimmering under streetlamps like oil-slicked glass. The underground buzzed with heat—bets were placed, engines revved, and you felt that itch in your bones. The one that said win or die trying.

Jaehyun pulled up beside you, engine growling low like a challenge. His eyes met yours across the line—smoldering, unreadable.

He tapped his temple. Focus, the gesture said.

You revved your engine. Bring it.

The flag dropped.

The world exploded into motion.

You and Jaehyun were locked—sliding around corners, tires screaming, headlights slicing through the Tokyo dark. He tried to pass on the inside. You blocked him. He clipped your rear fender.

“Shit!”

Your car fishtailed. You overcorrected.

There was a flash of a wall. A scream of steel. Then—

CRASH.

Metal twisted. Your windshield shattered. The airbags exploded.

You felt pain—sharp, sudden, and terrifyingly real.

Everything blurred.

Then—Jaehyun.

He was there. Hands bloody, face pale.

“Y/N! Y/N! Can you hear me?”

You blinked, dazed. “...Jaehyun?”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice tight. “I’ve got you. Don’t move—ambulance is coming.”

You wanted to speak. Wanted to fight. But everything went dark.

PART 4: FALLOUT

You woke up in the hospital to harsh light and dull aches. Bandaged ribs. Splinted wrist. And… Jaehyun. Asleep in a chair beside your bed.

He looked wrecked.

When he noticed you stir, he jolted awake.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse. “Hey, you're okay.”

You swallowed hard. “I crashed.”

“You spun out,” he whispered. “I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

Something in his eyes cracked, and you suddenly saw the version of Jaehyun no one else got to see. Raw. Stripped. Real.

“You stayed?”

He nodded. “I couldn’t leave.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

He looked away. “Because this was never just racing for me.”

PART 5: BURNING RUBBER, BURNING HEARTS

A week later, you were back on your feet—bruised, sore, but defiant. The crew welcomed you like royalty. Everyone had seen the crash. Everyone had seen Jaehyun’s face when they pulled you out.

Now, at the underground garage party thrown in your name, the music was too loud, the lights too low, and Jaehyun… was watching you from across the room.

Again.

Always.

You moved past him on purpose—brushed his arm. He followed. Of course he did.

The hallway outside was quiet. Cold.

“Stop following me,” you said, not turning.

“Can’t,” he said behind you. “I think about you every time I close my eyes.”

You turned slowly. His gaze was molten.

“You almost died,” he said. “I couldn’t breathe when they pulled you out. You haunt me, even when you're not there.”

Your voice trembled. “It was a race.”

“No. You were the risk.”

And then—he kissed you.

Hot, angry, desperate.

You shoved him back against the concrete wall, your lips colliding with his, teeth grazing, hands tangling in his jacket. He growled into your mouth—low, needy.

“Tell me you want this,” he rasped.

“I want to forget we’re enemies,” you whispered. “Just for tonight.”

PART 6: WALLS AND WHISPERS

Clothes were yanked—half ripped. His mouth devoured yours as he lifted you against the wall, your legs locking around him instinctively.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your throat. “You drive me insane.”

“You like it,” you panted. “Admit it.”

His fingers slid beneath your waistband, stroking hot, wet skin. You gasped, bucked.

“You’re soaked for me,” he muttered, eyes glazed. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

You didn’t. Not even a little.

His mouth moved lower, worshipping your skin. He dropped to his knees like he meant it—tongue tracing fire along your thigh before burying himself between your legs.

Your moan echoed off the walls.

By the time he stood again, you were trembling.

“Condom?” you whispered.

He pulled one from his jacket. “Always prepared.”

He slammed into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“Jaehyun—”

“Say my name again,” he growled, thrusting deep. “Say it like you mean it.”

You did. Again and again.

And when you came—writhing, clinging, breaking—he came too, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours.

PART 7: POST-IGNITION SILENCE

After, you sat beside him in the back of his car, half-dressed, winded, stunned.

“Well,” you said breathlessly, “that escalated.”

He chuckled. “So... rivals?”

You smirked. “More like… complicated coworkers.”

His fingers brushed your jaw. “Let me complicate it more.”

You let him kiss you again—slow this time. Sweet.

Which was worse, really.

Because this? This could hurt.

PART 8: CRACKS IN ARMOR

The weeks that followed were a mess of races, glances, almost-touches, and unfinished confessions.

Sometimes he’d find you alone in the garage, brush your fingers accidentally-on-purpose, lean close but never kiss you again.

Until the night you lost.

Your engine gave out mid-race. You limped back in last. Jaehyun found you behind the tents, crouched beside your smoking hood.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“No, you’re not.”

He stepped close. “Why are you pulling away?”

“Because I can’t lose like that again,” you said. “Not to a race. Not to you.”

Jaehyun reached out, his fingers curling around yours.

“You never lost me,” he said softly. “You’ve had me since that first night.”

PART 9: GARAGE GLOW

That night, he took you home.

Not to fuck—not at first.

He undressed you slowly, reverently, like you were something rare. Every kiss was a promise. Every touch a confession.

When he slid inside you this time, it was slow. Deep.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I need to see you.”

You did. And it undid you.

He rocked into you with steady thrusts, fingers intertwined with yours, lips pressing soft nothings into your shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Every time. Always.”

And when you came this time, it wasn’t fireworks. It was sunrise. Warmth. A release so gentle, you cried.

He held you through it, kissing the tears away.

FINAL LAP, FINAL HEARTBEAT

The crowd was wild. The stakes were higher than ever.

Tonight wasn’t about the crown. It was personal. One last race. You vs. Jaehyun. One-on-one. Winner takes all.

He leaned into your window before the race. “You ready?”

You gave him a look. “For victory?”

“No,” he said softly. “For us.”

Your breath caught.

Then the lights went green.

You shot forward, your RX-7 screaming, tires spinning smoke into the air. He was right beside you, his Supra a green blur.

You weaved through the city’s veins like lightning—dodging trucks, skimming barriers, pushing past limits. Jaehyun tried to pass you on a bridge curve. You blocked. He smiled.

“You trust me?” he called through the comms.

“Not even a little!”

He laughed—and then pulled a stunt you didn’t expect. He tapped your rear, just enough to send you into a spin. But instead of crashing, you drifted through a narrow alley, gaining time.

“You crazy bastard,” you muttered, catching control again.

“Just helping,” he smirked.

The last stretch was an abandoned Tokyo highway—lit only by your headlights and adrenaline. You were side by side, neck and neck, screaming toward the finish.

Then—a sharp turn. Jaehyun clipped a cone. His car wobbled.

“Shit—!”

Without thinking, you nudged him with your rear fender—steadying him.

He looked over at you in disbelief.

And you smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You crossed the line at the exact same moment.

A tie.

The crowd went insane.

But all you heard was your heartbeat—and his voice, suddenly at your ear.

“You didn’t want to win?” he whispered.

“I already did,” you said, turning toward him. “I’ve got you.”

He kissed you right there in front of everyone. Fast, messy, hot with leftover adrenaline and unspoken confessions.

And you kissed him back like the world was burning behind you.

Because maybe it was.

But he’d still be your favorite crash.

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

___________________________________________

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

Text

Just What I Need 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, control, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: In an effort to evade a creep, you walk head first into Bucky Barnes. (short!reader)

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: based on this

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The dress you choose is simple. Light pink. Nothing too over the top. You're not sure about what to wear on a date. It's your first one. Ever.

You flit around your apartment nervously. There isn't much room to do so. You keep knocking into things. Ugh. Why are you so nervous?

Maybe it's because of Bucky. You barely know him. He's a stranger. And he just told you to be ready. Oh, but how many men do you have even asking for a date?

The knock at the door makes you jump. Oh, it better not be Debbie telling you to turn down music you don't even have playing. You swear she imagines things to be unhappy about.

You shuffle to the door and slowly pull it open, keeping the chain in place. You let out a squeak of surprise.

"Bucky? How-- you didn't buzz up. Didn't I give you the number?"

He smirks and tilts his head as he extends an arm to lean on the door frame. "I have tricks," he assures you. "You ready, doll?"

You look at him. He looks nice. A black button-up and black pants; polished shoes that shine. His hair is parted and combed neatly. You can smell his rich cologne.

"I think," you say. "Just a minute."

You shut the door and spin away. You grab your purse and stumble to step into your shoes. Maryjanes with a short kitten heel.

You unhook the chain and open the door. Bucky pushes himself straight. "Thought you were about to ditch me," he chuckles.

"Sorry, no, I..." you lock the door and smile at him nervously. "Grabbing my stuff."

"Well, doll," he steps back and gestures to you with open hands. "Give me a spin. Let me see."

"Huh?"

"Well, you look good in the front. I bet the whole picture is even better."

You fidget and hook your purse on your shoulder. You wring your hands and turn slowly. Your body thrums with heat. You come to face him again, his teeth dug into his lower lip as he hums.

"Gorgeous, doll. And you're all mine."

He offers his hand. Your eyes flick over to the other; the one with the glove hiding metal plates. You quickly latch on. You don't want to be rude and you have no idea what you're doing. You'll let him lead the way.

He shifts his hand to grip yours. His hold on you is strong. He turns you down the hall. He struts proudly along beside your sheepish slink. You've never been the type to stand out.

Outside the building, the evening air is balmy. The street lights glow above and the moon beams down. He gestures along the sidewalk.

He stops you at a sleek black car. Even in the dim, you can see how the paint shines. It sticks out like a sore thumb in your neighbourhood. He opens the door and doesn't let go of you until you're in the seat.

He shuts the door gently and circles around to the driver's side. You take the subway, you walk, rarely you'll dole out for a cab. He has his own car. He must be well off. Is he as famous as he let on? Why didn't you look that up yet? Too busy, too anxious.

"Go for a nice dinner, get to know each other," he says as he turns the engine and it hums quietly. "Sounds like a dream getting to spend the night with a girl like you."

You blush. He's flattering. Almost too much. The praise is overwhelming and you don't want to come off ungrateful.

"Thanks."

"Thanks. No need. It's just the truth." He insists.

He pulls out from behind the car parked ahead of him. He steers with one hand as he snakes the other over the shifter. He grabs yours again. As he steers casually, his thumb rubs your knuckles. The touching is almost as smothering as his words.

You watch the streets pass by. You're not sure what else to do or say. You don't know if you've been to this part of the borough. He finds a spot and puts the car into park. He squeezes and reluctantly lets you go.

"Don't move," he commands.

He shuts off the engine and unclicks his seat belt. He gets out and hooks around, opening your door so swiftly it frightens you. You fumble to untangle from your seat belt and he once more opens his hand. You take it and he helps you to your feet. Your purse catches awkwardly on your hip as you stand and the contents spill onto the ground.

Bucky tuts and releases you. He bends to gather up your lip gloss, mascara, and your phone. He examines the last. His eyes drift up to yours.

"Wanna turn these off for the night? No distractions?" He asks.

"Oh, uh... yeah," you straighten your purse and reach for your things. He hands over the makeup but keeps the phone. He holds down the side button. You stare. It's another moment before he gives it to you.

He reaches under his jacket and slides out his phone. He taps the button at the top and puts it away again. He takes your hand just as you drop your phone into your purse.

"Come on. I booked us a table."

He tugs you up to the pavement. He pauses as he steps over the curb. He stops you as three men pass by, garbling loudly and laughing. He growls and shakes his head. He ways until they clear the space before he pulls you forward. "Punks," he mutters.

He guides you down the sidewalk to the hazy restaurant beneath a neon blue moniker. He lets you go and opens the door. He's so polite. You're glad to have him to lead you.

He enters behind you and greets the woman stood just inside with a tablet leaning on her bent arm, "hey, table for two. Barnes."

She scrolls through with a smile, "ah, yes sir, I see it here." She taps and lifts her head. "This way, please."

She strides through the doorway behind her and Bucky nudges you ahead of him. You follow her and he tails you. He puts a hand on your hip and keeps it there, as if not to lose you. His fingertips curl into you as he lets out a silty drone. He gets closer as you're shown to your table. He pulls out the chair as the hostess promises the quick arrival of a server and taps away on her heels.

You fold your hands on the table and look around. There's women in sparkling necklaces with beautiful chignons. You feel underdressed and underdone. You chew your lip.

Bucky sits. His own eyes scan the space and his forehead stitches. He huffs and arches a brow. You follow his gaze to another table. The blond man there shifts and quickly looks down at his menu.

"I didn't realise it would be so... fancy," you twiddle your fingers nervously.

"What'd you mean? You look wonderful, doll. The only girl in the room I can see," he pushes his shoulders wide and winks. "Not just me either."

He looks around once more. You don't understand what he means. You stare at the table.

"Something to drink?" He reaches for the smaller leather folio on the table.

"Hm, just water," you shrug. "I don't really... drink."

"Of course you don't, doll. You're a good girl. I know that," he considers the first page then closes the menu. "You don't want something fancier? Sparkling?"

"I think I'm okay," you assure him and wring your hands. Overly conscious of the frantic act, you pull your hands into your lap.

He clucks and his eyes narrow over your shoulder. He hunches slightly, almost defensively. He sighs.

You twist and look behind you. You just see tables with shadows. There's too much to focus.

"You notice it too, huh?" He rasps.

"Notice?"

"All these men. Staring at you."

"Me?" You squeak.

"Uh huh," he nods. "The minute we walked in."

"No, I don't think..." you eyes crawl over the table and find another pair. Brown eyes that seem to look above you, not at you, but you can't be sure.

"Right? I mean, that dress is amazing on you, sweetheart. Spectacular." He purrs. "But I'm not into sharing."

"Sharing... no. They aren't looking at me."

"Oh yeah? And what about that creep I scared off the other day? He wasn't following you?" He turns his blue eyes on you. "You don't get it, doll. You don't see the bad in people. That's why you asked me for help. You're this little mouse scurrying around in a city full of tomcats."

"What?" You shift in your seat as heat scalds across your chest.

"Look around then... tell me they aren't looking."

You gulp and do as he says. Shyly, you skim the space with your eyes. You frown and face him with a fruitless shrug.

"But... why?"

"Look, doll, you deserve the best. It's what I'm tryna give you but we can't stay here. I can't sit here and let them gawk at you. You're my girl," he grips the table and pushes his chair out. "Come on, we're going."

"What? Where?"

He sniffs and steps around the table. "Somewhere private. Somewhere safe."

He shows his palm and waits. You accept his hand and he pulls you up.

A woman in all black approaches. "Oh, I was just coming for drinks--"

"No need. You can release the table," Bucky grits. "We're leaving."

"Oh, sir, I'm sorry. Is there something the matter?"

"Nothing you can fix," he shoulders past her and drags you with him. You give an apologetic wave and bow your head down.

He doesn't stop until you're outside. He heaves out a breath and his grip on your tightens. You squirm.

"I just couldn't stay. I'm sorry, doll. It's okay. How about we go back to mine, order in?" He turns to you. "Just us. That'd be perfect, wouldn't it?"

You stare up at him. Your nerves are still flickering. You can't believe what just happened. And after that man on the subway, you're starting to see these things more and more. You can't trust people in this city. It's lambasted across the newspapers and whispered outside your apartment door.

"Sure," you agree. "I just want to get out of here."

🤍

Bucky's building is nice. Just as nice as his car. Nicer than your place.

His life is so much bigger than yours...

He takes you up on the elevator as you bounce nervously on your feet. You never imagined your first date going like this. It isn't that you imagined one of those silver screen romances but the night has been unexpected for sure. You never thought you'd be going home with a man on the first night. It's not like that, but still.

He unlocks his door with a small fob on his keys. You just have an old-fashioned key. Another shortcoming. You feel smaller and smaller by the moment.

He holds the door and waves you inside. He flips on the lights as he follows you in. The high ceilings and open concept have you in awe. Windows stretching from floor to ceiling let in the night sky.

"Wow," you murmur.

"Bigger than I wanted, but the building is high security." He explains. "Got nothing to fill the space with."

It is a bit sparse but not any worse for it. He brushes by you, dragging his hand around your lower back.

"I got some sparkling juice. Buddy brought over this organic stuff. He can be a bit much," he chuckles. "What kinda food you into? Steak? Sushi?"

You watch him pass through a wide doorway. You can see right into the modern industrial kitchen. That's a style, right? It's like one of those decor magazines. Or a set for a photoshoot that's used once and torn down.

"Sure, juice sounds nice, thank you," you take off your heels before you trail after him. "I'll have whatever you like. I'm not picky."

"I wanna know," he insists as he searches the fridge. He takes out a long-necked bottle, "raspberry apple? Sound good?"

"Yeah, um, thanks."

He nods and moves along the counter. He's at ease. Not like at the restaurant. He was on high alert. You understand. You're much more comfortable at home.

He pours a tall glass of the juice and replaces the bottle on the fridge shelf. He grabs shorter brown bottle and pops the cap with his thumb. He takes the glass off the counter and offers it to you. You take it with another thanks.

"So, what do you usually get when you go out?"

"I don't eat out," you shrug.

"Aw, come on. Doesn't have to be fancy. Pizza? You know, when I was a teen, we lived off water pie. It's... different," he chuckles.

"Pizza's good with me," you sip the juice and your cheeks pinch.

"Whatever you say, doll. And I mean that. I want to give you everything you want so I don't want you just agreeing with me to agree," he nears and smiles as he reaches to pet your cheek. "A thing like you can ask me to get on my knees and I'll be kissing your feet."

You giggle in surprise, "please don't."

"Ha, alright," he shows his palm and swigs from the beer in his other hand. "Like I said, you're the boss."

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #just what i needed #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #avengers #captain america

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sophsbookstore · 5 months ago

Text

Shifting Gears

Charles leclerc x driver!reader ｡･:*˚:✧｡

Word count: 6560

F1 Masterlist

A/N: Enemies to lovers af

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, pressing against Y/N as she adjusted her helmet. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a familiar pre-race rhythm. She glanced across the grid. Charles Leclerc, in his Ferrari red, was a few spots over, his focus seemingly fixed on his steering wheel. Even from this distance, she could feel the tension radiating off him, a mirror of her own. Their rivalry, a carefully constructed performance for the cameras and the fans, was a constant hum beneath the surface.

Flashback – Karting Track, Monaco, Age 10

"You cheated!" Y/N shrieked, pointing a finger at Charles, who shrugged, a smug grin plastered on his face. He’d just bumped her kart off the track in the final turn, snatching victory by a hair's breadth.

"All's fair in love and karting," he retorted, his French accent thick even at that young age. Y/N gritted her teeth. This wasn't the first time he'd pulled a stunt like this, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Their rivalry had started the moment they’d met at this very track, two precocious kids with a burning passion for speed.

End Flashback

Y/N scoffed internally. Some things never changed. He was still pulling stunts, albeit on a much grander scale now. The stakes were higher, the consequences more severe, but the underlying dynamic remained the same. They were locked in a perpetual battle, two sides of the same coin, driven by an ambition that bordered on obsession.

Flashback – Formula 3 Press Conference, Age 18

"Leclerc," a journalist drawled, "rumors say you deliberately blocked Y/N during qualifying. Care to comment?"

Charles’s expression was carefully neutral. “Just racing,” he said smoothly. “Y/N knows the game. If she can't handle the pressure, maybe she should find another career.”

Y/N, sitting a few seats down, bristled. “Oh, I can handle the pressure,” she snapped, her voice laced with ice. “Unlike some people, I prefer to win with skill, not dirty tricks.”

The tension in the room crackled. Their rivalry, carefully manufactured for the media, was starting to feel very real.

End Flashback

The lights on the starting gantry began to blink out one by one. Five… four… three… Y/N took a deep breath, centering herself. She could feel Charles’s gaze on her, a silent challenge. Two… one…

The lights went out. The engines roared, and the race began.

—

The cars surged forward, a blur of vibrant colors against the grey asphalt. Y/N’s reflexes were lightning fast. She slotted her Red Bull between a McLaren and an Aston Martin, gaining a position before the first turn. The track twisted and turned, a high-speed dance of precision and nerve. Charles, starting a few places ahead, was aggressive, pushing his Ferrari to its limits. He and Y/N traded places several times in the opening laps, a constant push and pull, each driver refusing to yield an inch. The tension was palpable, not just between them, but throughout the entire grid.

Lap after lap, they danced on the edge of control. Then, on lap fifteen, disaster struck. Coming out of a tight hairpin, Charles’s rear tires lost grip. His car fishtailed violently, spinning him across the track. There was a sickening crunch of metal as he collided with the barrier. The air filled with smoke and debris. Y/N, just inches behind, narrowly avoided the wreckage. Her heart pounded in her chest. For a split second, she was concerned, but then the competitive fire reignited. This was her chance.

With Charles out of the race, the path to victory was clear. Y/N seized the opportunity, pushing her car to the absolute limit. She overtook the remaining contenders one by one, her focus laser-sharp. The roar of the crowd faded into the background. All that mattered was the checkered flag.

As she crossed the finish line, a wave of exhilaration washed over her. She had won! Not only that, but with Charles’s unexpected exit, she had likely taken the championship lead. The team radio crackled with congratulations. Y/N grinned, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

The post-race interviews were a whirlwind. Y/N, beaming, answered questions about her victory and the championship implications. “It’s an incredible feeling,” she said, her voice filled with excitement. “The team did a fantastic job, and the car was perfect. Of course, it’s unfortunate what happened to Charles, but this is racing. Anything can happen.”

Meanwhile, in the Ferrari garage, the atmosphere was somber. Charles, his face grim, faced the cameras. He was furious, and he didn't try to hide it. ��I don’t know what happened,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “One minute I was in the lead, the next I was in the wall. It’s… frustrating.” He paused, then added, his eyes flashing, “And I’m sure some people were very happy about it.” The implication was clear. He believed Y/N had somehow been involved in his crash.

Later, in the paddock, Y/N was celebrating with her team when she saw Charles. He was walking towards her, his expression dark. She braced herself.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m so glad my misfortune brought you such joy.”

Y/N’s smile faltered. “Charles, I…”

He cut her off. “Don’t even,” he spat. “You know what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Y/N protested, her voice rising. “It was an accident.”

“An accident that conveniently took me out of the race and handed you the win?” He scoffed. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to sabotage me since we were kids.”

Y/N’s eyes started to sting. “That’s not true,” she whispered.

“Oh, please,” Charles sneered. “You’re just as bad as everyone else in this paddock. A fake, just like the rest.”

His words hit her hard. Y/N’s throat tightened, and she blinked back tears. She couldn't believe he was saying these things. She turned away, unable to face him any longer.

Charles watched her go, his anger slowly giving way to a gnawing guilt. He knew he had been harsh, but the frustration of the race and the suspicion that she was involved clouded his judgment. Seeing her almost cry made him feel terrible. He had gone too far.

He watched her walk away, his heart heavy. He knew he needed to apologize, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. The rivalry, the pressure, the constant need to win – it had all boiled over. He had let his anger get the better of him, and he had hurt her. He knew he had to make things right, but he didn’t know how.

—

The days following the race were a blur of media scrutiny and strained interactions. Y/N, despite her victory, couldn't shake off Charles's harsh words. She avoided him at all costs, dodging interviews where they might be paired together, and slipping away from events early to avoid any chance encounters. The media, ever eager for a rivalry narrative, continued to pit them against each other, twisting their every word and action into fuel for the fire.

Charles, meanwhile, was consumed by guilt. He knew he had messed up, and he desperately wanted to apologize. But Y/N was making herself scarce. He tried texting, calling, even leaving messages with her team, but she remained elusive. The more she avoided him, the worse he felt. The rivalry that had once seemed so exhilarating now felt like a heavy weight, dragging him down.

One evening, seeking solace and advice, Charles found himself at his mother’s apartment in Monaco. Over a plate of her famous pasta al pesto, he confessed his troubles. He recounted the events of the race, the crash, the post-race confrontation, and his failed attempts to apologize.

Pascale Leclerc listened patiently, her expression a mixture of concern and disapproval. “Charles,” she said gently, “I never liked this rivalry between you and Y/N.”

Charles frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s always seemed so… forced,” she explained. “You two are so alike, so passionate about racing. I always thought you could be friends.”

Charles scoffed. “Friends? With Y/N? That’s impossible.”

Pascale smiled. “You might be surprised. You know, her mother and I have been friends since we were young, back when you and Y/N were just starting out in karts.”

Charles’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? I had no idea.”

“Yes,” Pascale continued. “And Y/N always spoke very highly of you. She admired your talent, your drive. She always looked forward to racing against you.”

Flashback – Y/N’s Childhood Home, Age 8

A young Y/N burst through the door, her face flushed with excitement. “Mama!” she exclaimed, “I raced against Charles Leclerc today!”

Her mother, smiling, knelt down to her level. “Oh, really? And how did it go?”

“He’s so fast!” Y/N gushed. “He almost beat me, but I managed to win! He’s the only one who can really challenge me. It’s so much fun racing against him!”

Her mother chuckled. “Well, that’s wonderful, sweetheart. It sounds like you’ve found a worthy rival.”

Y/N nodded enthusiastically. “He’s the best! I can’t wait to race him again!”

End Flashback

Charles sat stunned. He had always assumed Y/N hated him, just as he had pretended to hate her. The idea that she had admired him, looked up to him, was a revelation. It made the guilt he was feeling even more acute.

“Charles,” his mother said softly, “you need to apologize to Y/N. Properly this time. And maybe… maybe you could even try being friends.”

Charles looked at his mother, his heart filled with a strange mix of hope and trepidation. Could he really be friends with Y/N? After all these years of rivalry and animosity, was it even possible? He didn't know the answer, but he knew one thing for sure: he had to try.

—

The paddock at the next race weekend was a hive of activity, but Charles wasn't focused on the usual pre-race buzz. He was searching for Y/N. Armed with his mother's words and a newfound determination, he was on a mission to apologize. He scanned the crowds, checked the usual haunts, even peeked into the Red Bull hospitality area, but she was nowhere to be found.

Finally, after a frustrating hour of searching, he spotted her. She was tucked away behind a storage building, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Charles's heart clenched. He approached cautiously, his own emotions a confusing mix of guilt, concern, and a strange tenderness he couldn't quite explain.

He slid down the wall beside her, the silence stretching between them. "I know I'm the last person you want to see," he began, his voice barely a whisper.

Y/N sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked up at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and resentment. "What do you want, Charles?"

"I… I wanted to apologize," he said, his voice earnest. "For what I said after the last race. I was angry, frustrated… I didn't mean any of it."

Y/N remained silent, her gaze fixed on the ground.

"I was a jerk," Charles continued, "and I'm truly sorry. It's just… this rivalry, the pressure… it gets to me sometimes."

He hesitated, then added, "My mom told me about your mom, about how you used to admire me when we were younger. It made me realize how stupid this whole feud has been."

Y/N finally looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed but curious. "You… you knew about that?"

Charles nodded. "It made me feel even worse about how I acted. I never realized… I always thought you hated me."

"I didn't hate you," Y/N said softly. "I… I admired you. But then, as we got older, the teams, the media… they made it seem like we had to be enemies. And I started to believe it."

She took a deep breath, then confessed, "It's hard, you know? Being the only girl on the grid. The pressure to prove myself, to represent women… it's a lot sometimes."

Charles listened intently, his heart aching for her. He had never considered the unique challenges she faced. He had been so caught up in his own world, his own ambitions, that he had failed to see hers.

"I get it," he said, his voice gentle. "It's tough. But you're doing amazing. You're talented, you're strong… you deserve to be here."

Y/N smiled weakly. "Thanks, Charles."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their years-long rivalry slowly lifting. They had both been so caught up in the game, in the pressure to win, that they had lost sight of the person on the other side.

"You know," Charles said, a small smile playing on his lips, "we were pretty ridiculous as kids."

Y/N laughed, a genuine laugh that made Charles's heart soar. "We really were."

Flashback – Karting Track, Monaco, Age 9

A young Charles found Y/N sitting behind a stack of tires, tears streaming down her face. She had spun out of the lead on the last lap, handing the win to another driver.

Charles, despite their rivalry, felt a pang of sympathy. He sat down beside her, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "Hey, it's okay," he mumbled. "It happens to everyone."

Y/N sniffled, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. "But I was so close," she whispered.

"You'll get them next time," Charles assured her. He felt his cheeks flush, suddenly aware of how close they were.

Y/N nodded, wiping her eyes. "Yeah, you're right." She looked at him, a shy smile forming on her lips. "Thanks, Charles."

"No problem," he mumbled, his own cheeks burning.

They sat in silence for a moment, the awkwardness hanging heavy in the air. Finally, Y/N spoke. "Let's… let's never talk about this again."

Charles nodded eagerly. "Deal."

They both knew this shared moment of vulnerability was something to be kept secret, hidden away from the prying eyes of their competitive world. And beneath the embarrassment, a tiny seed of something else was planted, a secret crush that neither of them dared to acknowledge.

End Flashback

As the memory faded, Charles and Y/N looked at each other, a shared smile passing between them. The years melted away, and for the first time, they saw each other not as rivals, but as something more.

—

The atmosphere between Charles and Y/N had undergone a palpable shift. The animosity that had defined their interactions for so long was gradually replaced by a tentative warmth. They started acknowledging each other in the paddock, exchanging brief smiles and nods. The tension was still there, a lingering echo of their past rivalry, but now it was laced with something new, something that felt… exciting.

The media, ever eager for a story, noticed the change. Speculation ran rampant. Were they friends now? Was there something more? The questions were relentless, but Charles and Y/N remained tight-lipped, their newfound connection something they wanted to protect from the prying eyes of the world.

After a particularly thrilling race in Monza, where they both landed on the podium – Charles in second, Y/N in third – he finally decided to take a chance. As they were walking back to their respective motorhomes, he caught up to her.

"Hey," he said, a nervous flutter in his stomach.

Y/N turned, her eyebrows raised in surprise. "Charles? What's up?"

"I was wondering… maybe we could… exchange numbers?" he blurted out, mentally cringing at his own awkwardness.

Y/N's lips curved into a playful smile. "Took you long enough," she teased, pulling out her phone.

Charles grinned, relief washing over him. He quickly typed in his number and sent her a message. "There. Now we can officially trash-talk each other without the media eavesdropping."

Y/N laughed. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find plenty of creative ways to annoy me, even in private."

And so began a new chapter in their relationship. At first, their texts were mostly about racing – analyzing strategies, debating tire choices, sharing the occasional frustrated rant about their respective teams. But gradually, Charles started venturing into more personal territory.

Charles: How was your day? Aside from the usual media circus, of course.

Y/N: Surprisingly productive. Managed to squeeze in a sim session AND a pilates class. Feeling very virtuous. How about you? Ferrari not driving you crazy yet?

Charles: Ha, you know they are. Vasseur keeps trying to make me eat quinoa. I tell him I need carbs for fuel, but he doesn't listen. Send help.

Y/N: Maybe you should try hiding the pasta under the quinoa. Stealth carbs.

Charles: Genius! You're a lifesaver. Speaking of saving… any chance you're free for dinner sometime? Strictly professional, of course. We could discuss… tire degradation. Yeah, tire degradation.

Y/N: Hmm, tire degradation, you say? Sounds riveting. But I might be persuaded. How about Friday night? I know this amazing little trattoria that makes killer carbonara.

Charles: It's a date… I mean, a meeting. About tires. Definitely about tires.

Y/N chuckled as she read his message. He was so bad at this, and yet, so endearing. She couldn't wait for Friday night. This new, unexpected chapter in their story was proving to be far more interesting than the old rivalry ever was.

—

The paddock was abuzz with its usual pre-race frenzy, but this time, there was an extra layer of anticipation in the air. All eyes were on Charles and Y/N as they approached each other near the Ferrari garage. The tension was palpable, not the hostile kind that had characterized their past interactions, but a different sort, charged with an unspoken energy.

Charles, his heart pounding in his chest, reached out and pulled Y/N into a hug. It was a spontaneous gesture, fueled by a mix of nerves and a growing affection he could no longer deny. Y/N, surprised at first, relaxed into his embrace, the warmth of his body a comforting presence amidst the chaos of the race weekend.

The hug lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. When they finally pulled away, the paddock had fallen silent. Every driver, mechanic, and journalist within sight had witnessed the unexpected display of affection. Cameras flashed, capturing the moment for posterity. The whispers started immediately, spreading like wildfire through the tight-knit community.

After the race, where Charles finished a respectable fourth and Y/N a close fifth, he was bombarded with questions. His fellow drivers, a mix of curious and amused, couldn't resist poking fun at the situation.

"So, Leclerc," Pierre Gasly grinned, nudging him with his elbow, "are you and Y/N still rivals, or are we witnessing the beginning of a beautiful romance?"

Charles, his cheeks flushed, remained tight-lipped. He wasn't ready to share his feelings with the world, not yet. But the sparkle in his eyes and the slight curve of his lips betrayed his happiness.

That evening, Charles prepared for his date with Y/N with a mix of excitement and trepidation. He chose his outfit carefully, opting for a stylish yet casual ensemble that he hoped would impress her. He picked her up in his sleek Ferrari, the purr of the engine a symphony to his ears.

As Y/N emerged from her apartment building, Charles's breath caught in his throat. She was breathtaking. A simple black dress hugged her curves, her hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves, and her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. He couldn't believe he was lucky enough to be going on a date with this incredible woman.

He drove them to a renowned restaurant nestled in the heart of Monaco, a place known for its exquisite cuisine and intimate atmosphere. He had reserved a private room, wanting to ensure their conversation remained undisturbed.

As they settled into their seats, the initial awkwardness was undeniable. They started with safe topics, discussing the intricacies of tire compounds and the challenges of the upcoming race in Singapore. But as the wine flowed and the delicious food arrived, their conversation took a lighter turn.

"You know," Y/N chuckled, "the whole paddock thinks we're dating now."

Charles grinned. "Well, they're not entirely wrong, are they?"

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips. "Oh? And what exactly are we then, Mr. Leclerc?"

Charles leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. "I don't know yet, Miss Y/L/N. But I'm certainly enjoying finding out."

He paused, then added, "And for the record, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if they were right."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. She met his gaze, a warmth spreading through her chest. "No," she agreed softly, "it wouldn't be the worst thing at all."

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled with unspoken possibilities. They continued to chat, sharing stories about their childhoods, their families, their dreams for the future. The conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by laughter and genuine connection.

As the evening drew to a close, Charles walked Y/N back to her apartment. They stood on the doorstep, the city lights twinkling around them. The air was thick with unspoken emotions.

"I had a wonderful time tonight, Charles," Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Me too, Y/N," he replied, his gaze locked with hers. He wanted to kiss her, but the fear of ruining the moment held him back.

Instead, he reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Can I see you again?" he asked, his voice filled with hope.

Y/N smiled, a radiant smile that lit up her face. "I'd like that very much."

—

he rain hammered against Y/N's windows, a relentless drumming that mirrored the panic rising in her chest. A pipe had burst in the apartment above hers, and water was cascading down into her living room, soaking everything in its path. Furniture was ruined, her belongings were drenched, and the floor was quickly becoming a small, indoor lake. She frantically called her landlord, but they were unreachable. She was alone, stranded in her flooded apartment with no idea what to do.

Her mind raced, searching for a solution. Then, a name popped into her head: Charles. He was the closest person she knew in Monaco, and despite their still-relatively-new connection, she trusted him. Hesitantly, she pulled out her phone and typed a message:

Y/N: SOS! My apartment is flooding. Pipes burst upstairs, and it’s a disaster. Any chance I could crash at your place for a few days until I can sort things out?

She hit send, her heart pounding with a mix of hope and anxiety. Within minutes, Charles replied:

Charles: Absolutely! Of course, you can stay here. Don’t worry about a thing.

Relief washed over Y/N. She quickly gathered a few essentials, stuffing them into a duffel bag.

Meanwhile, at Charles's apartment, a flurry of activity was underway. He had received Y/N's message while he was relaxing after a long day at the simulator, and he immediately sprang into action. He cleaned every inch of his apartment, scrubbing, dusting, and rearranging furniture to make it as welcoming as possible. He wanted everything to be perfect for his unexpected guest.

Just as he was finishing up, his mother, Pascale, arrived, carrying a basket of freshly baked madeleines. "Charles, darling, I just wanted to drop these off," she said, beaming. She noticed the immaculate state of his apartment and raised an eyebrow. "My, my, you've been busy. Expecting company?"

Charles blushed slightly. "Yes, Mom. A friend is going to be staying with me for a few days."

Before Pascale could ask any further questions, the doorbell rang. Charles opened the door to find Y/N standing there, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Pascale's eyes widened in surprise and then lit up with excitement.

"Y/N! What a lovely surprise!" she exclaimed, embracing her warmly. "Charles has told me so much about you."

Y/N smiled, feeling a bit overwhelmed by Pascale's enthusiasm. "It's nice to finally meet you properly, Mrs. Leclerc," she said.

Pascale chatted with Y/N for a few minutes, making her feel comfortable and welcome. She then glanced at Charles, a knowing smile on her face. "Well, you two have fun," she said, winking. "I should get going. Charles, darling, don't forget to offer Y/N some of my madeleines!"

As Pascale left, Charles and Y/N stood in the hallway, a comfortable silence settling between them. "Make yourself at home," Charles said, gesturing towards the living room. "The guest room is just down the hall."

"Thank you, Charles," Y/N said, her voice filled with gratitude. "I really appreciate you doing this for me."

"Don't mention it," Charles replied, his eyes sparkling. "I'm happy to help."

Later that evening, after Y/N had settled in, they decided to cook dinner together. Charles, despite his earlier claims about needing carbs for fuel, turned out to be a surprisingly good cook. They prepared a simple but delicious pasta dish, laughing and chatting as they worked side-by-side in the kitchen.

They ate their dinner on the couch, watching a movie that neither of them was really paying attention to. Y/N, feeling relaxed and comfortable in Charles's presence, gently stretched her legs out, placing them on top of his. Charles didn't flinch. Instead, he got up and grabbed a soft blanket, carefully draping it over his lap and Y/N's legs.

They sat in comfortable silence, the warmth of the blanket and the closeness of their bodies creating a cozy atmosphere. Y/N's eyelids started to feel heavy, and she moved her body closer to Charles and leaned her head against Charles's shoulder. He gently placed an arm around her, pulling her closer.

Soon, Y/N had fallen asleep, her breathing soft and even. Charles watched her, his heart filled with a tenderness he had never experienced before. He carefully scooped her up in his arms, surprised at how light she felt. He carried her gently to the guest room, tucking her into bed and turning off the lights.

He lingered for a moment, watching her sleep peacefully. He couldn't help but smile. This unexpected turn of events had brought them closer than he ever imagined possible. He knew that this was the beginning of something special, something that went beyond their shared passion for racing. He quietly closed the door, his heart filled with a quiet joy.

—

A week had flown by in a blur of shared meals, late-night conversations, and stolen glances. Y/N's apartment remained uninhabitable, but she found herself strangely reluctant to leave the comfort of Charles's home. The easy banter and undeniable chemistry between them had blossomed into something deeper. Behind closed doors, they were openly flirting, their touches lingering a little longer, their laughter echoing through the apartment.

The Monaco Grand Prix arrived, casting a long shadow over their newfound intimacy. The pressure was immense, especially for Charles, racing on his home turf. As they arrived at the circuit together, the media frenzy was unavoidable. Cameras flashed, microphones were shoved in their faces, and the questions were relentless.

"Y/N, are you and Charles more than just friends?"

"Charles, is Y/N the reason behind your recent improved performance?"

"Are you two living together now?"

Y/N, ever the composed professional, handled the barrage with grace. "My apartment flooded," she explained with a slight smile, "and Charles was kind enough to offer me a place to stay. He lives closest to the track, so it's been convenient for both of us."

Charles, standing beside her, simply nodded in agreement, his eyes conveying a silent message of support. The speculation continued, but they weathered the storm, their bond seemingly strengthened by the shared scrutiny.

The race itself was a tense affair. Charles, starting from pole position, was determined to win in front of his home crowd. Y/N, starting a few rows back, was equally focused, eager to prove her skills on the challenging street circuit.

The roar of the engines filled the air as the lights went out. Charles took the lead, but Y/N was hot on his heels, her Red Bull car weaving through the narrow streets with precision. The tension was palpable, the drivers pushing their cars to the absolute limit.

Then, disaster struck. Y/N, pushing too hard to close the gap on Charles, misjudged a corner. Her car slammed into the barrier, the impact echoing through the grandstands. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath followed by a stunned silence. Charles, witnessing the crash in his rearview mirror, felt his blood run cold.

Ignoring the instructions from his team, he slammed on the brakes, his Ferrari screeching to a halt. He jumped out of the car, his heart pounding in his chest, and sprinted towards the scene of the accident. He reached Y/N's mangled car before the medics, his mind filled with a terrifying sense of dread.

He yelled for help, his voice hoarse with panic. Charles reached in, his hands trembling, and gently removed Y/N's helmet. Her eyes were closed, her face pale. Charles's breath hitched in his throat. "Y/N? Y/N, can you hear me?"

He gently shook her shoulder, his voice filled with desperation. There was no response. Fear gripped him, a cold, suffocating feeling. He felt tears prick his eyes, his vision blurring.

Suddenly, Y/N's eyelids fluttered open. She looked at Charles, a weak smile forming on her lips. "Hey there, Leclerc," she rasped, her voice hoarse. "Fancy seeing you here."

Charles's relief was so overwhelming that he almost sagged against the car. "Y/N! Thank God you're okay!"

"Well," she winced, "relatively speaking. I think I might have bent a few things."

Despite the pain evident in her voice, she managed to crack a joke. "At least I provided some excitement for the home crowd, right?"

Charles chuckled, his fear giving way to a surge of affection. "You always know how to make an entrance, Y/L/N."

The medics arrived, carefully extracting Y/N from the wreckage. Charles watched as they loaded her into the ambulance, his heart heavy with worry. He knew he had been disqualified from the race for leaving his car, but he didn't care. All that mattered was Y/N's safety.

He followed the ambulance to the hospital, his mind racing with a mix of emotions. He couldn't lose her, not now, not after they had finally found each other. He paced the waiting room, his anxiety growing with every passing minute. He needed to know she was going to be alright.

—

The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room seemed to hum in Charles's ears, amplifying the frantic beat of his heart. He was still clad in his racing suit, his adrenaline-fueled energy slowly giving way to exhaustion and worry. Hours had crawled by since Y/N had been wheeled into surgery, and every tick of the clock felt like an eternity. He couldn't shake the image of her crumpled car, her pale face, the fear that had gripped him when he thought he might lose her.

He closed his eyes, and a memory surfaced, unbidden.

Flashback – Karting Track, Italy, Age 11

Young Charles lay sprawled on the track, his kart flipped on its side. Pain shot through his ankle, and tears welled up in his eyes. The other karts whizzed by, their drivers oblivious to his plight. Except for one.

Y/N, despite being in the lead, slammed on the brakes, her kart skidding to a halt. She rushed over to Charles, her face etched with concern. "Charles! Are you okay?"

He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "My ankle… I think it's broken."

Y/N didn't hesitate. She helped him limp to the side of the track, then flagged down a medic. She stayed with him until the ambulance arrived, offering words of comfort and reassurance.

"It's going to be alright, Charles," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle for their usually competitive dynamic. "You'll be back on the track in no time."

He looked at her, his heart filled with gratitude. In that moment, their rivalry seemed to fade away, replaced by a shared vulnerability and a surprising sense of connection.

End Flashback

Charles opened his eyes, the memory bringing a bittersweet smile to his lips. Even back then, Y/N had shown him kindness when he least expected it. He realized that their relationship had always been more complex than the simple "enemies" label they had worn for so long.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the surgeon emerged from the operating room. Charles jumped to his feet, his voice catching in his throat. "How is she? Is she going to be okay?"

The surgeon smiled reassuringly. "The surgery was successful. She has a few fractures, but nothing life-threatening. She'll need some time to recover, but she'll be back on her feet soon."

Relief washed over Charles in a tidal wave. He thanked the surgeon profusely, then rushed towards Y/N's room, his heart pounding with a mix of relief and a newfound urgency.

He burst through the door, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Y/N, propped up in bed, looking pale but awake. He rushed to her side, his emotions overflowing.

"Y/N!" he exclaimed, taking her hand in his. "Be my girlfriend!"

Y/N, still groggy from the anesthesia, blinked at him in confusion. "What was that?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Charles blushed, realizing how abrupt he had been. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now. "I just… when I saw your car crash, I was terrified. I realized how much you mean to me, and I can't imagine my life without you."

He looked into her eyes, his own filled with sincerity. "Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?"

Y/N's heart melted at his words. She had never seen him so vulnerable, so open with his emotions. She squeezed his hand, a smile spreading across her face.

"Yes, Charles," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "I'd love to be your girlfriend."

Charles beamed, leaning down to kiss her gently. The kiss was soft, tentative, filled with a tenderness that had been simmering beneath the surface for years.

And so, in the aftermath of a terrifying crash and a heartfelt confession, their relationship took a definitive turn. The rivals, the enemies, the competitors… they were all gone, replaced by two people who had finally found love in the most unexpected of circumstances. The paddock would buzz with the news, the media would have a field day, but for Charles and Y/N, none of that mattered. They had each other, and that was all that counted.

—

A month had passed since the dramatic Monaco Grand Prix, a month filled with hospital visits, physiotherapy sessions, and a blossoming romance. Y/N had recovered remarkably well, her determination to get back on the track fueling her recovery. Charles had been a constant presence by her side, his support unwavering. Their relationship, forged in the crucible of adversity, had deepened, the layers of rivalry and pretense stripped away to reveal a genuine connection.

The Canadian Grand Prix marked Y/N's return to racing. As they walked hand-in-hand into the paddock, a wave of murmurs and whispers followed them. The media, alerted to their relationship, were in a frenzy. Charles and Y/N, however, seemed unfazed by the attention. They had faced scrutiny before, but this time, it felt different. There was a newfound confidence in their stride, a sense of unity that radiated from them.

The race itself was a testament to their resilience. Y/N, despite the lingering aches and pains, drove with a fierce determination, her eyes fixed on the podium. Charles, inspired by her courage, pushed his Ferrari to its limits. They battled wheel-to-wheel with their rivals, their shared passion for racing reignited.

As they crossed the finish line, Charles in second place, Y/N a close third, the crowd erupted in cheers. The post-race interviews were a whirlwind of questions about their relationship, their recovery, and their performance on the track.

"Charles, how does it feel to be racing alongside your girlfriend?"

"Y/N, has your relationship with Charles affected your rivalry on the track?"

Charles, with a grin, responded, "It's definitely a new experience, but I'm enjoying it. Y/N is an incredible driver, and I'm proud to be racing alongside her, both on and off the track."

Y/N, her eyes sparkling, added, "We're still competitive, of course, but there's a different dynamic now. We support each other, push each other to be better. And it's definitely more fun this way."

Their confirmation of their relationship sent shockwaves through the Formula One world. Fans rejoiced, the media went into overdrive, and their fellow drivers offered their congratulations. But for Charles and Y/N, the most important thing was the quiet understanding they shared, the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with every passing day.

As they left the circuit that evening, Charles at the wheel of his Ferrari, Y/N turned to him with a thoughtful expression. "Charles," she began, "I was thinking… maybe it's time we took the next step."

Charles glanced at her, a curious look on his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she continued, "maybe we should move in together."

Charles was taken aback. "Move in together? Already? We haven't been dating that long…"

Y/N smiled, reaching out to take his hand. "I know it might seem soon, but it just feels right. We spend almost all our time together anyway. And besides," she added with a playful wink, "I've had a crush on you since I was eight, so I think I've waited long enough."

Charles's eyes widened in surprise. "You have? Seriously?"

Y/N laughed. "Yes, seriously. You were the annoyingly talented kid who always beat me on the track. How could I not fall for you?"

Charles grinned, his heart swelling with affection. "Well, in that case," he said, "I have a confession to make too. I've had a crush on you since we were kids as well. You were the only one who could ever keep up with me, the only one who truly challenged me."

He squeezed her hand, his voice filled with sincerity. "So, yes, Y/N. I'd love to move in with you."

And so, with a shared laugh and a promise of a future together, they embarked on a new chapter in their love story. The apartment hunt began, filled with playful disagreements about décor and compromises about closet space. But through it all, their love for each other shone brightly, a beacon of hope and happiness in the high-pressure world of Formula One. They had found their home, not just in each other's arms, but in a shared life, a shared dream, a shared love for the sport that had brought them together.

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rebabbitting · 2 years ago

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sapphicandgraphic · 5 months ago

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Crash

Summary: An accident pulls you and Melissa further into each other’s orbit.

Chapter: 1/4

Melissa passed the crash on her way to school. By then, road cleanup services were removing shattered glass and twisted hunks of metal from the street. As traffic slowed and she maneuvered around the remains of the accident, she saw a bike that looked just like yours being loaded onto a tow truck. A sick feeling washed over her. She floored it the last few blocks of her commute, tires squealing as she turned into the parking lot of Abbott Elementary.

Classes hadn’t officially started back yet. Today was a designated teacher planning day at the end of winter break. Most of the staff would trickle in later, enjoying the relaxed pace of a morning with no students. But Melissa had left the house early. She wanted to grab a cup of coffee, gab with Barbara, ease into the new year. And alright, yeah, maybe she was also hoping to see you, swap a few family holiday horror stories (“trauma” as you preferred to call it), and make fun of whatever godawful healthy thing you brought in for breakfast. She didn’t usually trust school shrinks—any shrinks for that matter—but everybody knew she had a soft spot for you.

Melissa scanned the parking lot anxiously, praying to see your motorcycle tucked safely into its usual spot. You had been so protective of that stupid bike when you first got hired, she almost wrote you off as a ginzaloon gear-head. But once you realized how gah gah the kids went over it, you started parking right next to the playground—even occasionally caving to the demands of her excited second graders, revving the engine during recess as they cheered you on.

She had rolled her eyes at the time, but she didn’t mind the theatrics. She also didn’t mind the sight of your long legs straddling that leather seat. Had even indulged in a brief fantasy of what it would feel like to join you there, slipping her arms around your waist, nuzzling her face into the middle of your shoulders. That was before this morning, before she’d seen the mangled leftovers in the road. Before she decided she hated motorcycles.

Melissa locked her car and hustled into the school, past your ominously empty parking spot. As the school psychologist, you worked in a private office near the front of the building. It even had an en-suite bathroom, a fact which caught you major shit with the other faculty. Especially from Melissa, who had given you endless grief at the start of your first semester.

She pulled out her cell phone, trying not to panic as she made a beeline for your office. A dozen terrible images flashed through her mind. You crumpled on the side of the road; you being lifted into an ambulance; you lifeless on a cold slab in some distant part of the city. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

The redhead rounded the corner at breakneck speed in her high-heels, starting to dial your number with shaky hands. But the door to your office was slightly ajar and a dim light was spilling out into the hallway. She breathed an instant sigh of relief, calling your name as she booted her way into the room. “Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack—“

Melissa froze in her tracks. A bloody white t-shirt had been discarded on the coffee table, and your helmet sat on the little sofa beside your desk. Its visor was shattered and there were long, ugly scratches on the side. “Melissa?” Your voice sounded strange and faint from inside the bathroom.

She dropped her bags and sprang toward the door, jiggling the handle. “Open this door right now or I swear to god I’ll break it down.”

She heard the familiar huff of your laugh, cut short by a grunt of pain that made her heart clench. “Gimme a sec,” you said softly.

“Right. Now.” Patience had never been one of her virtues.

She shifted back and forth, willed herself to be calm. There was some shuffling, a few more agonizing seconds, and finally the click of the lock. Melissa pushed the door open carefully and you stepped back until your hips hit the sink.

Her hands were on you in an instant, insistent but soft, surveying the damage. You gripped the edge of the porcelain for support, blinking hard through an unpleasant wave of dizziness.

“You should see the other guy,” you said, hoping to ease the tension rolling off the other woman in waves. She ignored you, gently running her hands over your body as she made a thorough inventory of every bump, bruise, and bloody scrape. You swallowed thickly, unsure what to say. Finding yourself half-naked in front of Melissa Schemmenti had not been on this morning’s bingo card. Your heart hammered in your chest.

“I’ve been trying to put on a clean shirt for the past 10 minutes,” you explained lamely, gesturing to the oversized Abbott Elementary Field Day tee folded on the vanity. “But I’m moving a little slow.”

That was an understatement, especially now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off. The EMTs had diagnosed you with one or two cracked ribs, some gnarly abrasions, and plenty of bruising where your bike had slammed into the median. But mostly they had diagnosed you as lucky. Very, very lucky.

“What’s broken?” Her tone was clipped, still tight with fear.

“Nothing.”

She gave you a “cut-the-bullshit” look and you folded instantly.

“Maybe some cracked ribs,” you amended, trying to make this sound as breezy as possible. “It’s ok, really. It looks worse than it is.”

You sucked in a shallow breath as her fingers ghosted over the bandages on your side. Green eyes flashed up at you in outrage.

“It looks worse than it is?” she repeated softly. You shivered as she rested her hand on your hip. “Well, it looks pretty fucking bad. It looks like that tonto bike almost got you killed.”

You swallowed nervously, caught off guard by the absolute iciness of her voice. “It wasn’t my fault,” you tried to explain. “Actually, it was—“

“I don’t want to hear it!”

You flinched as she practically spat the words at you, splotches of red rising in the ivory column of her throat. Her legendary temper was something you’d seen in action plenty of times. But this went beyond angry.

“There’s no excuse for putting yourself in danger, capisce? It’s unacceptable to me!” She was shouting by now, eyes brimming, chest heaving.

You placed a tentative hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off and turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was a gesture you’d seen her make only a handful of times—during the always-tense active shooter drills and, on one frightening occasion, when they’d briefly lost track of a student during a field trip. Seeing it now, and being the cause of it, made you feel miserable.

Melissa had barreled into your life about a year ago when you first started working at Abbott. You liked her immediately. Leather pants, mischievous smirk, loud as hell. She was all rough edges and no apologies. More than anything, she was complicated. Guarded but generous, tough but tender. A dozen fiery contradictions that made your heart race.

She teased you from the first moment she laid eyes on you—for being the new kid on the block, for being a “touchy-feely” therapist, for being a millennial. Rather than making you feel ostracized, the attention lit you up. At first you’d worked your ass off just to impress her, to earn her respect. Then you saw what a dedicated teacher she was. You started seeking her out for advice about some of the more troubled kids in your care, going for drinks with her on Fridays, getting her to open up to you. By the time she realized what was happening, you’d slipped straight past her defenses.

“Sorry,” Melissa said gruffly, wiping at her eye makeup. “I shouldn’t’a yelled.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you said, shifting off the sink and limping toward her. “Why don’t you head down to the teacher’s lounge and get a cup of coffee? I can clean up here and meet you in a bit, you don’t have to deal with all this.”

She looked up at you defiantly. For the first time, she noticed a cut near your hairline. There were small butterfly stitches pinching the skin together. All the fight went out of her at once.

“You think a little blood is gonna scare off a Schemmenti?” She reached up and cupped your jawline. Tender.

“I ain’t lettin’ you out of my sight,” Melissa added with a growl. Tough.

She took a moment to drink in the full miracle of you, alive and mostly in one piece. And what a piece it was. Her gaze drifted down to your sports bra, your low-slung riding pants, the band of your boxer-briefs just visible on your waist. Melissa shook her head, withdrawing her hand.

“Need some help gettin’ dressed?”

You blinked, refocusing on her with considerable effort.

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” you said.

Again you felt a little ripple of shyness, exposed and disheveled in front of Melissa who looked good enough to eat—as always. Thick red hair cascading over her shoulders, clothes that hugged her figure in all the right places, gold necklaces with pendants of the saints cradled in the valley of her creamy cleavage. She smirked, unfolding the fresh t-shirt and giving you an appreciative once-over.

“You been working out?” she asked.

You chuckled. “Glad someone finally noticed.”

Melissa pursed her full lips and tilted her head to the side. “Not bad.”

You knew this was just a game to her. She was a flirt by nature and she loved to make you squirm, make you blush. Still, your stomach twisted pleasantly at the compliment.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, noting your obviously pleased expression. “It’s a little dramatic as far as cries for attention go.”

“What do you mean?” you asked as Melissa guided your head carefully through the neck of the shirt, tucking a few flyaway strands of hair back into place. You shivered at the featherlight feel of her fingertips around the shell of your ear.

“Playin’ evil knievel,” she clarified. “Just for an excuse to take your top off in front of me.”

“Look who’s talking!” you fired back. “For all I know, you hired that guy to run me off the road so you could get me alone in a state of undress.”

Melissa, who had been grinning at you from under her long eyelashes and fussing with the hem of your shirt, stilled. The smile slid off her face.

“What’d ya say?”

You frowned, backpedaling. “Sorry, bad joke—“

“No, not that part.” She waved her hand, gold bangles clattering. “The part about someone ran ya off the road? On purpose?”

You nodded your head.

Her voice dipped back into a decidedly frosty register. “And you’re just now tellin’ me this?”

“Well, I tried to mention it a second ago but then there was all the yelling,” you explained. “And you know how I feel about yelling.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “You feel that it ain’t productive,” she said, applying heavy air quotes around the last word.

“But I appreciate that it’s a cultural norm in many families,” you said. “I know Italian-American households—“

“Jesus fucking Christ!” she exploded. “Someone tried to fucking kill you! Do you appreciate that?”

You winced at the volume of the outburst, headache lurking in the base of your skull. “Yeah, I reported it to the cops who came to the scene, okay? They’re looking for the guy.“

Melissa placed a red lacquered fingernail under your chin.

“You’re never riding that death trap again, you hear me, kid?”

Her green eyes, challenging and possessive, bored into yours. You wondered what would happen if you defied her, told her no, refused outright. The only problem was…you so desperately wanted to give her exactly what she wanted. Not just today, but every day. Trying to please Melissa Schemmenti had become a kind of obsession, a thrill you chased at your own risk.

“Well you don’t have to worry,” you said, mouth suddenly dry. “The bike is totaled.”

She gripped your chin, intent on eliciting a promise. “I mean it.”

A shiver went through you at her low, commanding tone.

“Ok, ok,” you relented. “I’ll be a good girl, mommy.”

It was supposed to be a joke but the words came out as a desperate whine. You felt a flush of color rising in your cheeks as Melissa quirked an eyebrow at you—half scandalized, half delighted. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, the intercom crackled to life. The sudden noise made you both spring apart.

“All faculty please report to the assembly hall in 15 minutes.”

You hissed at the sudden movement, curling over slightly. Melissa’s hands shot out to steady you.

“You alright?” she asked. All traces of teasing laughter had vanished from her face. “What am I, an idiota? Of course you’re not alright. I should drive ya home!”

“No,” you said, waving the suggestion off wearily. “I don’t wanna be by myself all day. I’ll go crazy.”

“Look at youse,” she argued, concern clouding her eyes. “You can barely stand upright. Your helmet looks like it was in a blender, for chrissakes. You came this close to…to—“

She made a small choked noise, unable to finish the sentence. Her hand flew up to her mouth and she squeezed her eyes shut, clearly trying to block out some unwanted mental image. You intertwined your fingers with hers carefully, sweetly, and brought her hand away from her face.

“Nothing happened,” you said evenly. “I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.”

“Don’t use your therapy voice on me,” she warned, dabbing at her eyes again. She looked down at your hands loosely joined together and brushed a finger over the back of your knuckles. When she spoke she sounded uncertain, none of her usual cocksure confidence.

“You swear you’re alright to stay for the day? You won’t…make yourself worse?”

“I’m fine,” you repeated. “Just hurts when I…”

“Move? Breathe? Blink?” she guessed, tone sarcastic once more. “Am I gettin’ warmer?”

You winked. “You’re red hot.”

A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “And don’t you forget it, baby.”

Melissa considered you for a moment. She didn’t like the way the skin around your eyes was pinched, or the protective way you held yourself. But she also didn’t like the idea of you being on your own all day. Better to keep you close.

“Alright, alright,” she said. “You can stay, but on one condition—you don’t overdo it.”

You rolled your eyes. “We work in an elementary school, not the ThunderDome.”

“No jokes,” she insisted. “I mean it, say you swear.”

It was a rare display of vulnerability from Melissa, who walked through life making demands rather than requests. You schooled your face into a serious expression. Looping your little finger around hers, you brought your fist to your mouth.

“I pinky promise,” you said. “Seal it with a kiss?”

Her eyes flickered down to your lips and lingered for a fraction of a second too long. Even a year into this dangerous dance with Melissa, you weren’t quite sure where the line was, or what would happen if (when?) you found it, crossed it.

“Millennials,” she said, but her voice was husky. “What’s next, gonna ask me to join your polycule?”

Slowly, you both leaned in. You were close enough to smell her shampoo and the bright citrusy lotion she used on her face. It made you swoon. Her eyes closed as you both planted chaste kisses on your fists, faces only inches apart.

The tacky sound of Melissa’s lip gloss making contact with the inside of her own hand sent an unexpected jolt of arousal right to the pit of your stomach. Suddenly, you found yourself lost in a little fantasy, wondering what it would be like to pull her close, to drag your fingers through her hair, to feel the inside of her soft mouth with your tongue. A familiar and ferocious longing—one that you worked very hard to neutralize during working hours—seized you, painful and roaring and undeniable. A longing for more of Melissa, for whatever she would give you.

The other woman cleared her throat suddenly, breaking the spell.

“You ready, hon?” She was gazing at you cautiously, like you might break apart. You shook your head, hoping you didn’t look as strung out as you felt.

“Sorry,” you said. “Let’s head down to the auditorium.”

She smirked, looping an arm around your waist and helping you out of the bathroom. “I’ll say this for ya,” she said, flicking the lights out and closing the door behind her. “You sure know how to start the new year with a bang.”

Chapter 2

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader

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