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neocitylights · 5 months ago

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SUMMARY: Despite the city’s fast-paced scene of street racing—in which you happen to be the name to be beaten at every race—getting to know Jeno is a steady, quiet affair. Breaking the mechanic’s walls between races and late-night rides, the two of you slowly grow closer, unknowingly surrounded by secrets neither of you are ready to reveal. Still, in a world that’s driven by speed and adrenaline like yours, surprises are inevitable—even those that end up breaking your heart before mending it. GENRE: Romance, fluff, action, street racing au WORD COUNT: 16k WARNINGS: Cursing, suggestive themes, implied sexual content, depictions of violence NOTES: Yay to the official start of the NCU series with a Fast & Furious inspired Jeno fic! Please let me know what you think!! It’s gonna make my day!!

The atmosphere feels heavy with energy, the smell of motor oil and burned rubber lingering in the air as the hum of engines blend with the pounding bass of whatever music’s currently playing in the warehouse.

A row of neon-lit and vivid colored cars line up all the way outside, the buzzing audience placing their bets as they mingle with the racers and crew alike.

Despite its overwhelming chaos, the environment wraps you like a second skin with ease—laced with nothing but familiarity and comfort, race nights always feel like your personal sanctuary. Under the sounds of revving engines, roaring crowds and blaring music, you’d found your own twisted kind of peace, a vicious sense of belonging that only racing could give you through its unpredictability and adrenaline.

It also doesn’t hurt that you’re good at it.

After all, there’s a reason why your name currently holds the highest number of bets and has been for the last five races, no competitor coming close to dethroning your streak of wins.

While a handful of racers walk past your car, their wandering eyes occasionally lingering over the red Mazda RX-7 gleaming under the warehouse’s bright lights, anticipation slowly builds in your chest as you meticulously check the final details before the official start, brain already racing ahead through the layout until a familiar voice calls for your name.

Startled, you look up just as Gigi approaches with rapid steps. The pink-haired girl quickly intertwines your arms, pulling you closer with a grin that characteristically only means one thing, especially when knowing her antics.

“Oh, here we go,” you tease, raising an amused eyebrow at your fellow racer turned best-friend. “I wonder what piece of gossip I’m gonna have to roll my eyes at this time.”

“I mean, if you don’t want to know about the new guy from Neo Tech that just signed up to take you…” Gigi starts, offering a nonchalant shrug with a mock dramatic touch lacing her voice. “We can totally talk about something else, if you want?”

As the words hang in the air for a second, your amusement shifts to confusion as you scan Gigi’s face for any traces of exaggeration. “What?”

“You heard me, Cherry,” she continues, excitedly cozying up to your side as her grin returns with your peaked curiosity. “Jaemin says he’s been around for two weeks—”

“There’s a new guy at Neo Tech?” you cut in, furrowing your eyebrows before offering the racer an exasperated huff. “Also, why are you making it sound like I’m having sex with him? He just signed up to take me?”

Gigi bursts into a laugh, giving you a look as mischief takes over her eyes. “I’m not. You’re the one thinking of it!”

“I’m not the one who said it,” you argue, playfully rolling your eyes at her in an attempt to play off the curiosity suddenly gnawing at your thoughts. “Who even told you this?”

“Didn’t I just say Jaemin?” she taunts, holding back another laugh at your half-hearted glare. “Apparently, Taeyong’s short on crew since Mark and Hyuck are still in Seoul, so he’s been pulling in new blood.”

Although you don’t necessarily worry about your victory streak nor being challenged for it, the new information does sound… interesting. Since Neo Tech’s more than just a regular garage, the crew notoriously known for building damn near perfect cars for a few lucky racers in the city—a short list that includes you—it’s not unusual to find one of Taeyong’s mechanics listed up for a race every now and then.

Given their knowledge, it’s always fun racing with them, which you’ve already done several times against Mark, Jaehyun and Yuta specifically.

As you’re about to fish more details from Gigi, the low growl of a particular engine pulls your attention to the far end of the warehouse. A green Nissan Skyline GT-R turns a few heads as it crosses the lot, the car’s polished, pristine exterior looking nothing but sleek under the lights. It comes to a smooth stop just a few spots away from you, the driver’s door soon swinging open under the crowd’s attentiveness.

It’s almost impossible not looking at the guy, his tall figure turning as many heads as the car did. With a glance around the bustling place, holding a posture that looks entirely too relaxed for a first-timer, his dark eyes suddenly land on you, lingering for a second too long to be just a coincidence.

Instinctively straightening under his gaze, your curiosity doubles as he walks over to the corner where the Neo Tech’s guys are usually posted on, almost as if he’s done this a hundred times before.

“That’s him!” Gigi murmurs, oblivious to the blasting background music while gently elbowing at your side. “That’s the new guy from Neo Tech!”

You hum softly, finally breaking your gaze from him to shoot your best-friend an inquisitive look. “Do you know his name?”

“What for?” she asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow as a knowing smirk tugs at her mouth. “Why are you suddenly so interested? Don’t tell me that you actually want him to take you—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Gigi!” you interrupt, scoffing at her words as warmth spreads through your cheeks. “I just wanted to know who I’m racing against, that’s all!”

The pink-haired racer snorts, shaking her head as she gives you a side-eye. “I don’t know his name, sorry. Maybe Jaemin told me, but you know I can’t ever remember shit, so…”

Johnny’s voice suddenly echoes over the speakers, calling the racers to the starting line with one of his quick-witted remarks. Exchanging one last look with Gigi before she leaves to her bright pink Honda S2000, the warehouse’s mood has already significantly changed, a competitive streak flaring the audience into life.

Pulling your Mazda into position on the makeshift track marked outside the warehouse, your fingers tighten around the steering wheel as you exhale, ignoring the crowd outside calling out your nickname.

Still, you can’t help a brief glance as a certain green Skyline slides right beside you, catching Neo Tech guy’s gaze through the window. As a silent acknowledgement of the challenge set between both of you, he gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod as the corners of his mouth hint a tight-lipped smile.

It takes Johnny to break the moment, the man hyping up the crowd before starting his usual pre-race discourse, listing a handful of rules and warnings to the racers.

“You know the drill, folks!” he remarks, finishing the speech with a grin at the racers, though it seems somewhat too directed at you. “Our current five-win streak means five grand to whoever ends it!”

The words immediately light the audience into life, engines equally roaring as the sound reverberates into the night, the flag now in Johnny’s hands.

As you focus ahead, adrenaline settles on your stomach—whether you keep the streak or give five thousand to another racer, it doesn’t really matter. You race for yourself, not for the money, not for the praise, and most definitely not for anyone else’s ego or expectations.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel, foot hovering over the pedals, waiting for the signal.

Johnny raises the flag high, his voice cutting through the roaring engines and the buzz of the crowd.

“Three!”

You inhale deeply, pulse racing as strongly as your car’s engine.

“Two!”

Your foot presses lightly on the accelerator, the cherry red RX-7 growling in anticipation.

“One!”

Johnny drops the flag.

The car launches forward, tires screeching against the asphalt as the racers surge ahead. Despite the force pining you back, your grip is steady, holding firm enough for the car to quickly take the lead.

As you pick up speed to a stretch of free road ahead, Neo Tech’s guy edges right behind you, purposefully touching the rear of your Mazda a few times. Despite your annoyance—it took Jaemin a long time to perfect the cherry tone you begged for—you can’t help chuckling at the attitude, definitely impressed with his skills.

The first turn comes fast, your hands moving with precision as the car makes a perfect curve, tight enough for you to accelerate further with the bend. With the new guy matching the move, it takes a second for him to hold the Skyline side by side with you.

You dare a brief glance at him, catching a glimpse of his focused, determined expression. It’s clear that he’s in to win it, instantly making you wonder what’s truly driving him to it—if it’s the money, the challenge or just the sense of triumph that comes from a rookie victory.

You do also admit to yourself that he’s… stupidly good-looking.

Once you barrel into the return stretch, both looking for an opening to overtake each other, your muscle memory takes you ahead with a slightly wider inside curve, foot heavy on the accelerator as the RX-7 takes the lead again. It’s not enough for the guy to give up, his GT-R somehow pushing harder as you approach the final section of the course. As you pour everything into the last seconds of the race, heart pounding against your chest, the finish line comes into view.

A blur of green and red cut through the finish line together, the audience erupting in stunned and thrilled reactions as Johnny waves the flag for a second time, signaling the end of the race.

As you slam the brakes, the car skimming to a stop into the swarming crowd, your breath’s still heavy as realization strikes—without the need for Johnny’s confirmation, you know Neo Tech’s new guy just broke your infamous five-win streak.

Once you step out of the car, adjusting your skirt with an eye-roll at Johnny’s mock astonished face, the dark-haired guy quickly emerges from his Skyline, his expression nothing but calm, almost unreadable. The mass of people around opens the way for him as he walks towards you, watching the scene with curious eyes.

Taking the lead, you reach out a hand before offering your name, a playful smile curling on your mouth as he frowns for a second, visibly skeptical of your light attitude.

“It was a cool race,” you start, smile widening at the way his eyebrows raise upon the words. “Neo Tech guys are usually fun to race against. Good to know you are, too.”

“It was a tough one,” he answers, pausing for a second before finally taking your hand with a polite nod, the tone of his voice neutral before introducing himself. “I’m Jeno.”

The simplicity of his interaction shifts something within you. As you’re left staring bemusedly at the calm, laidback confidence in the guy’s words and body language, maybe the loss should sting… for a little, at least.

It’s a known fact between the racers that you aren’t the type to obsess over winning, proving a point or whatever that comes with the territory of racing. That’s exactly what leaves most contenders sore about their loss whenever challenging you—while they’re racing specifically to beat you, winning has always been just a bonus for you, instead racing for the fun and your passion for cars.

Now, Jeno has not only beat your streak, but also has properly acknowledged you as an equal competitor.

Even though he did race to win, he’d raced with you, not against you.

So for the first time in a long time, you suddenly find yourself wanting the win, for whatever twisted reason your brain has fooled you into.

“Well, enjoy it while it lasts, Jeno,” you say, smiling mischievously before letting go of his hand, purposefully locking eyes with him. “I’ll take you for a rematch if you’re back next time.”

The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, gaze unwavering from you as he nods firmly. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

As you turn around to leave, heading toward Gigi and the rest of her crew, you can’t help glancing over your shoulder. Already surrounded by a few of Neo Tech’s guys and curious spectators, Jeno’s eyes meet yours for a second before you disappear into the crowd again.

Entering his third week at Neo Tech, Jeno has already grown accustomed to the garage’s bustling routine, the controlled chaos entirely familiar by now.

With Tayeong running the crew under a sharp eye, it’s not a secret that the place holds an unique energy that’s equal parts professional and chaotic—the exact reason why the garage is so sought after in the first place, besides the highly qualified crew that works on and off the streets.

After the race, the buzz of his win is yet to quiet down, especially with the stream of racers that stop by the garage for either routine check-ups or simply to scope out the new Neo Tech guy who’d taken a certain racer’s five-win streak. Despite the attention, Jeno keeps his head down, choosing to only acknowledge the crew’s interest every now and then and focusing on work instead.

Still, that’s not to say that he isn’t curious himself about you.

Even if he deliberately avoids the crew’s knowing glances towards him when your Mazda suddenly pulls up at the garage a few days later.

The familiar hum of your engine immediately pulls Jeno’s attention from his work, the RX-7’s contrasting cherry red easily catching his eye from outside.

You climb out of the car with a flair to your step, coming to a stop at the entrance as you briefly scan the space, exchanging casual greetings with some of the guys on the way. As soon as you spot Jaemin hunched over a rebuild project, a grin immediately spreads across your face.

Jeno discreetly watches as you sneak up behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a back hug that visibly startles the ever nonchalant mechanic.

“Hi, Nana,” you greet, teasing Jaemin with a gentle squeeze while pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Did you miss me?”

“Do you really want me to answer?” he says, giving you a dry look over his shoulder despite the warmth in his voice. “Took you long enough to show up this time, didn’t you?”

“I know you missed me, but I’m a very busy woman,” you quip, flashing him a grin before jumping up to sit on a workstation nearby. “Besides, you of all people should know I’d never let my baby unattended if something had happened.”

Jaemin shakes his head with a chuckle, side-eyeing you suspiciously for a second. “Then why are you here, Cherry?”

“Just thought I’d drop by to see you,” you answer breezily, shrugging as your fingers fiddle with the two red hearts locked to your car’s keys. “We didn’t really talk last time and Gigi’s crew left the race earlier than usual, so…”

With a hum, Jaemin raises an eyebrow in his direction before turning to you again, eyes gleaming with purpose. “I take it you’ve met Jeno, then?”

As the mechanic gestures towards him, Jeno can’t help the tension from spreading through his body, caught off guard over suddenly being pulled into the conversation. For a moment that feels too long, it almost feels like he’s being sized up as your gaze lands on his frame, sharp and assessing.

“Yeah,” you admit, a laugh escaping from your lips when catching the slight surprise on his face. “What’s up, Jeno?”

He nods politely, pursing his lips in a half-hearted, hesitant greeting. “Hey.”

“I bet you’ve had a lot of visitors dropping by to check you out after the race, right?” you ask, teasing him as your tone shifts to a mischievous one. “Are you sick of it enough for a rematch yet?”

Still holding your gaze, Jeno simply shakes his head. “They’re not here because of me.”

Despite his deadpan delivery, the way your eyes immediately flicker in understanding isn’t lost on Jeno, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as the implication behind his words settle between you.

“Taeyong sure knows how to pick a crew,” you muse, mostly chuckling to yourself before raising an eyebrow towards him. “Have you been racing for a long time?”

Turning his attention back to the engine in front of him, Jeno nods vaguely. “A while.”

As you watch him, maybe a little too attentively for his liking, a mix of amusement and exasperation take over your face. “You don’t really talk much, do you?”

Jeno doesn’t immediately respond, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the tools spread over his workstation. As he gives a half-hearted shrug, the silence instantly serves as an answer for you.

“Right,” you mutter, chuckling softly before curiously peering at his engine from your spot. “That’s a cool V8 you’re working on, by the way.”

He quickly glances up at your words, his hands pausing the screwdriver in his grasp as a hint of intrigue replaces the indifferent attitude. “You know your way around cars.”

“It comes with the territory,” you answer, an amused smile widening on your face at his reaction. “Also, I’ve had good teachers… Vic taught me a lot about it, too.”

The name catches Jeno off guard, a frown betraying the confusion on his face. “Vic?”

As the loud, unmistakable rumble of a Dodge Charger R/T suddenly resonates through the garage, heads turning to the entrance over the black, pristine 1970’s model stopping outside Neo Tech, the question stays unanswered.

For a second time, Jeno catches himself cautiously watching you—as the puzzled look on your face shifts to a smile of recognition over whoever’s arrived, you’re quick to jump off Jaemin’s workstation, hurrying outside with a demeanor he can’t quite figure out.

Behind the Charger’s wheel, sits a man that looks somewhat familiar, his appearance seemingly fitting around early to mid fifties given his rugged presence.

As you share a high-five with him, leaning against the window of his car for a chat, Jeno notes how the man seems to hang onto your words, a visible sense of camaraderie laced to the interaction. Despite your childlike excitement, it doesn’t take long until he playfully waves you off, a giggle escaping from your lips while you quickly climb into your Mazda, soon leaving right behind him.

It’s only when Jaemin clears his throat that Jeno breaks away from the scene, looking back to find the mechanic grinning knowingly at him.

“That was really interesting,” he starts, leaning back against a nearby tool cart before crossing his arms. “Cherry doesn’t usually have to work for it.”

Ignoring the insinuation of Jaemin’s comment, Jeno plays it off with an amused scoff. “Is there a reason for that nickname?”

“Everyone’s been calling her that for as long as I’ve known her.” Jaemin shrugs, chuckling fondly. “She owned up to it when she started racing, so we painted the RX-7 red to match her.”

Jeno hums, briefly shooting him an inquisitive glance. “You two seemed close.”

As he seems to understand the catch, the grin on Jaemin’s face grows even bigger. “Oh, it was a long time ago,” he explains, sounding annoyingly reassuring for no reason. “We mutually decided we’re better off as friends, so don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not,” he counters bluntly, frowning at the fellow mechanic before turning back to the V8 again. “Who was that in the black Charger?”

“That’s... Victor Torres,” Jaemin answers, seemingly puzzled at the question. “Vic’s a bit of a legend around the neighborhood. He’s been racing, mentoring a few racers around here for a while. Cherry’s one of his star pupils.”

Jeno pauses briefly, his eyebrows furrowing in thought over the memories from that night. “I don’t think I’ve seen him at the race.”

With a curious smirk curling his lips, the mechanic shakes his head. “The old man was out of the city for a dealership,” he explains, squinting his eyes in his direction for a second. “You’re settling in pretty quick for new blood.”

A half-hearted smile tugs at Jeno’s mouth, the answer measured with a nonchalant shrug. “Things aren’t too different from what I’ve done before.”

“So you have raced before,” Jaemin notes, an inquisitive edge to his voice despite the humorous gleam in his gaze. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned that when you signed up last time.”

“Nobody asked,” Jeno replies, looking up at the mechanic again with a taunting glance. “It didn’t seem important.”

Amused by the off-putting answer, Jaemin studies him for a beat before clicking his tongue. “Maybe you shouldn’t have raced against Cherry,” he says, shooting him a playful wink. “Winning against everyone’s favorite tends to draw attention.”

As Jeno stands up from his workbench, subtly signaling the end of the conversation, a touch of finality hangs to his voice. “I’m not here to impress anyone.”

“Fair enough,” Jaemin counters with a chuckle, backing off with a lazy shrug. “Just don’t think we’re not all wondering, though. People are paying attention.”

Though Jeno doesn’t react outwardly, the weight of Jaemin’s words linger over his head for the night.

Settling in at Neo Tech truly had been smoother than he’d expected—maybe a little too smooth, now that he thinks of it. Jeno knows he’s playing a careful game, but days like this make him feel like the pieces are shifting faster than he can anticipate.

Despite being as old as time, The Bluebird is considerably packed for a Friday night, the few worn-out tables of the diner all taken as you walk past through the door.

As the jingle of the bell announces your arrival, the smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee immediately surround you, welcoming and familiar as a childhood memory.

Nestled on the corner of the neighborhood’s busiest street, The Bluebird is the kind of place where the food is deliciously greasy, the coffee a little too strong and everyone knows your name even if you don’t. Though it’s not the case with Daria, one of the diner’s waitresses that has pretty much seen you grow up over your visits for their milkshakes and cheeseburgers.

She’s quick to spot you through the diner’s buzz, gesturing for you to sit by the vacant counter with a smile. You rush through the tables, softly returning the older woman’s smile.

“I didn’t know you were back, Daria!” you start, sliding into a stool with a curious glance at her. “How was your trip? Did you see your grandkids?”

“It was wonderful!” she says, her face lighting up with warmth before setting the menu in front of you. “The little ones are growing so fast, it won’t take long until they’re taller than me.”

Leaning against the counter, you smile at her between mischief and curiosity. “What about your boyfriend? Did he go with you?”

“You know that an old woman shouldn’t kiss and tell,” Daria jokes, though her face quickly shifts as she shoots you a knowing look. “What about you? Don’t think I haven’t heard about your little things with Taeyong’s boys.”

You quickly avert your gaze to the menu on the wall, feigning a cough under her amused scrutiny. “Oh, I think I’m ready to order?”

Daria chuckles, visibly unimpressed by your poor attempt to change the subject. “I’m sure you are,” she teases, pulling a notepad from her apron. “Let me guess. A cherry milkshake, cheeseburger and fries, like always?

As you nod eagerly, a grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “You just get me, Daria.”

The older woman laughs, jotting down your order just about to head towards the kitchen when a familiar voice cuts through the chatter around you.

“Add it to my tab.”

The sudden intrusion makes you glance over, eyes instantly locking with Jeno’s as he sits a few stools away, casually holding a steaming mug of coffee. The faintest hint of a smirk plays on his lips as he notes your surprised features, having been oblivious to his quiet presence until now.

Daria raises an eyebrow at him, suspiciously glancing between both of you. She hesitates, tapping a pen against the notepad as if weighing whether to prod further or leave her curiosity alone.

With a playful shrug, you laugh reassuringly at the waitress. “You heard the man, Daria. I’m having free dinner tonight.”

She hums, looking nothing but unconvinced as she side-eyes Jeno for a second. “Alright, then,” Daria says, ultimately tucking the notepad into her apron again. “I’m watching you two. Don’t cause trouble, I’ll bring your food soon.”

As she heads towards the kitchen, leaving you two alone in the diner’s bustling atmosphere, Daria doesn’t resist smirking knowingly at you.

Shifting on your seat to face him, you regard the racer’s laidback posture with narrowed eyes. “I can pay for my own food, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jeno answers, an unexpected hint of amusement lacing his voice as he shrugs lightly. “I’ve got five grand sitting in my bank account, figured some courtesy wouldn’t hurt.”

“Oh, we’re going there now?” you argue, a scoff escaping from your lips. “There’s another race in a few days, should I expect a rematch?”

He hums, taking a sip of his coffee before offering a teasing, small smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I actually would,” you say, crossing your arms over the counter with a mock challenging glare at him. “Aren’t you talking a little too much for new blood? That entire race was mine.”

Jeno quirks an eyebrow, setting the mug down as the smile on his face widens discreetly. “Pretty sure I crossed the line first.”

“By a hair,” you counter, slumping back against your seat just as a deliberate, easy grin tugs at your mouth. “I might’ve lost but I know I made you work for it.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, the admission edged with a touch of honesty that catches you off-guard. “You really did.”

As he holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary, all traces of playfulness slowly shift to a more thoughtful mood, a touch too serious for the moment. The air seems to shift between you—somewhat charged with something you can’t pinpoint, though neither of you back down from it.

Before the sudden tension stretches for longer, Daria steps in, breaking the conversation’s lull with your order in hands.

She glances between you and Jeno with an amused frown, lips twitching for a grin. “Flirting or fighting?”

Jeno snorts. “Neither.”

“Fighting,” you fire back.

Answering at the same time, the coincidence draws a snicker out of Daria before she hurries away to another customer, quickly leaving you for a second time.

“So, Jeno...” you start, attempting to lead the conversation back into your own curiosity’s territory. “What’s your deal? Taeyong’s usually so picky about his crew, I was surprised to hear there was a new guy at Neo Tech.”

Jeno takes his time to reply, almost as if weighing what to say. “Not much to tell,” he says, shaking his head before exhaling a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He needed someone on short notice, I needed the job.”

You pick up a fry in between bites of the cheeseburger, twirling it between your fingers with a hum. “How’d you get into racing then?”

“I grew up around cars. My dad used to work on a few for fun, so I spent a lot of time in our garage with him,” Jeno explains, looking suddenly a bit nostalgic. ”I started tinkering around, learning a bit. Racing just felt like a natural step.”

As you nod, a small smile curls on your lips over the straw of the milkshake. “Sounds like me, except it was my brother.”

He raises an eyebrow, visibly surprised by the words. “Does he race?”

“Nope,” you quickly answer, glancing down at the plate in front of you to pick on the few fries left. “Not anymore.”

As if sensing something there, Jeno chooses to not press further as he nods. “If it’s worth anything, you’re really good at it.”

You blink, feeling warmth spreading through your neck for a moment before quickly recovering, shooting him a mischievous grin instead. “Why did you decide to challenge me that day, by the way?”

Jeno pauses, lips threatening a smile as his fingers brush over the edge of his mug. “I wasn’t going to,” he confesses, chuckling humorlessly. “I wasn’t even thinking about racing that day.”

Unconsciously leaning closer, your curiosity now piqued, you frown at him. “Then... why did you?”

“I heard some racers talking about you—how you don’t race for the money or actually winning,” he starts, his tone somehow caught between amusement and exasperation. “Doing it against someone like that just seemed... fun. Just racing for the sake of it.”

Your grin returns a little wider, mischief slipping back into your tone. “All I’m hearing is that you’re signing up for the next one.”

His lips twitch, Jeno taking a last sip of his coffee under your intrigued gaze. “If you get a ten-win streak, I’ll think about it.”

You snort, feigning a peeved glare. “Is that a challenge?”

He tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curving into a small, teasing smile. “I don’t know.” Jeno chuckles quietly, a hand casually running through his hair. “Is it?”

The sudden shift in his behavior—from the guarded, almost apathetic Jeno you met at the garage to the current playful, teasing Jeno from today—has definitely given you a bit of whiplash. The easy smiles, his gentle confidence and the way he’s been quietly coaxing reactions out of you are a stark contrast to the unreadable, aloof man from days ago. Leaving you to wonder what else he’s possibly hiding underneath his layers, the change only spurs you further.

There’s something there, a growing curiosity that you can’t ignore, making you eager to figure him out even if you’re not entirely sure why.

As your phone buzzes inside the pockets of your hoodie, Vic’s name flashing on the screen once you pick it up, Jeno’s face quickly changes to a more reserved expression, politely turning away in an attempt to give you a little privacy. The call doesn’t last long, Vic ultimately bidding you goodbye as the line clicks off.

You pocket the phone into your hoodie again, turning back to him with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

Jeno nods, his light-hearted demeanor now eased into something more neutral. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah,” you reply with a small smile, lingering for just a second longer than you mean to before standing up from your stool. “Try not to miss me too much, okay? I’ll see you at the race.”

He doesn’t reply, instead only offering you an amused smile watching you skirt around the tables on the way to the door. You send him a quick, playful wink over your shoulder before finally stepping outside, holding back a smile of your own upon noticing the way he laughs.

Heading towards your car, the glow of The Bluebird’s neon sign fading through the street, you shake off the wandering thoughts.

Back at the warehouse again, surrounded by the roar of engines and the usual heavy atmosphere that marks race day, Jeno watches the bustling crowd with attention.

It hasn’t been long he’s arrived, parking his Skyline at Neo Tech’s usual spot as a few racers stop by every now and then, attempting to find out whether his name was at the starting grid for the night.

Though the crowd quickly turns his name into one of the most anticipated contenders once they clock his presence, Jeno knows better than racing tonight. After last time, unexpectedly battling with the scene’s most loved racer, keeping a low profile seems like the safest option for now.

As he leans against the hood of his green GT-R, taking in the line-up of cars over the warehouse, a familiar cherry red shadow easily catches his attention—except you aren’t the one behind the wheel this time. Jeno frowns, straightening slightly as he tries to recognize the figure through the windows of your Mazda until Johnny’s sudden call makes it impossible, the crowd erupting into chaos at his blasting voice.

Pushing off his car, he quickly weaves through the audience outside the warehouse, surrounding the starting line for a better view.

The pre-race procedure stays the same with Johnny listing the rules, giving a quick run-down on the night’s track before hyping up the winning prize, the crowd attentively hanging onto his words.

“We’ve got a bit of a twist tonight though,” Johnny adds, his voice laced with a cryptic touch despite the thrill on his face. “Two of our favorite racers have switched cars for today’s race.”

Before the crowd pieces it together, Jeno raises an eyebrow at his own realization.

“In the RX-7, we’ve got Gigi taking the wheel—” Johnny pauses abruptly, grinning at the sudden cheers and whistles of both surprise and excitement coming from the audience. “—and in the S2000, we’ve got Cherry in command tonight.”

“That’s new,” Jaemin says, chuckling as he steps beside Jeno, glancing between the two cars at the far end of the line-up with interest. “I don’t think Cherry’s ever done that.”

Following his eyes, Jeno finally glimpses your focused figure inside the pink Honda. “She seems to know what she’s doing.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he replies casually, arms crossing over his chest as a grin slowly grows on his face. “It’s not about the car with her, but I am curious as to why she’s doing it tonight.”

Jaemin gives him a sharp glance, expressive enough that Jeno immediately gets the picture he’s painting.

Though he doesn’t respond, it feels like his silence speaks volumes.

As Johnny finishes his speech, the roar of the engines revving up adds to the building tension. The crowd surges forward once Johnny raises the flag, pressing closer to the edge of the track as it blazes under bright headlights.

The flag drops.

Despite being at disadvantage at the corners, you easily push through with Gigi’s Honda, tires screeching against the pavement as the car takes the lead.

At his side, Jaemin lets out an amused whistle. “Yeah, she’s definitely pulling it off.”

It doesn’t take long until the cars are doubling a corner after the first long straight, the blind spot simmering the crowd with anticipation for a few minutes. As a commotion at the outskirts of the grid catches Jeno’s eyes, his attention momentarily shifts to a familiar figure stepping into the chaos.

Victor Torres walks through the cluster of people, thoroughly scanning the place in the company of two broad-shouldered, stone-faced men right behind him.

Jaemin notices the shift in Jeno’s attention, curiously glancing around until a puzzled sound escapes his mouth. “Oh? Vic usually doesn’t show up unless he’s got a reason.”

Trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible, Jeno clears his throat. “So he doesn’t usually watch her race.”

Though the question sounds more like a statement, the mechanic still shakes head with a thoughtful hum. “Not anymore. He could be here for literally anything, though.”

As the sounds of running engines approach, getting louder by every second, the audience quickly flares up waiting for whoever’s currently leading the race. Jeno can’t help but grin as the S2000 makes a perfect curve into the final stretch, leaving you seconds ahead as the first racer to reach the last bit of the course.

The blur of pink easily blazes across the finish line, the atmosphere erupting with cheers and applause. Behind you, the cherry red Mazda follows close as Gigi skillfully holds the second place.

Jeno watches as you slow the car into the surging crowd, climbing out of the Honda with a thrilled glow on your face. Despite the swarm congratulating you, your attention seems to be on something else, eyes scanning the faces until unmistakably locking with his own. A grin immediately curls on your lips as you push through the handful of people, walking towards him with a poised stance.

You cast a mischievous glance at him as you approach, arms crossing over your chest. “Are you really backing out of our rematch?”

Jeno chuckles, holding a hand out for a surprise high-five. “Congratulations. That was one hell of a race.”

Jaemin clears his throat dramatically at Jeno’s side, watching you reciprocate the gesture with a frown on his face. “Oh, sure, don’t mind me,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “I mean, I wasn’t really here rooting for you the whole time, it’s fine.”

“Don’t be like that,” you coo at him, stepping closer before throwing your arms around Jaemin’s neck, hanging onto his figure with a laugh. “You know I love you, Nana.”

The mechanic hums, letting you go with a teasing side glance. “Do you?”

With a slap to his arm, an amused scoff escapes your lips. “You’re a menace,” you say, giving Jaemin a light, playful push. “You should go, Gigi’s probably wondering why you’re not hovering around her yet.”

Jaemin grins, ruffling your hair in retaliation before stepping back with an exaggerated bow. As he disappears into the crowd walking over to Gigi’s parked Honda, there’s a subtle change in the air now that you’re left alone.

Despite the hectic post-race, heavy music now echoing from inside the warehouse as Johnny takes the DJ stand, a few curious eyes are still watching both of you, conversations pausing momentarily to become hushed mumbles. Whether it’s about your win over Gigi, the fact that you’re openly engaging with him of all people or something else entirely… Jeno can’t really tell.

As you turn to him again, your expression shifts to a mix of confusion and excitement. “Why did you come if you weren’t racing tonight?”

“To watch you,” he replies, the blunt answer clearly catching you off guard as your lips twitch, resisting a smile. “I told you, I don’t really race that much anymore.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you argue, offering a light shrug with a coy glance at him. “At least it’d be more fun for me.”

Jeno regards you knowingly, lips pursing in a small smile. “I’m pretty sure you were holding back on the straights tonight,” he notes, huffing a quiet laugh at your guilty wince. “How long have you known Gigi?”

“We went to school together,” you answer, fondness suddenly lacing your voice. “If my brother and Vic taught me everything I know, Jaemin and I taught her everything she knows.”

“She had a good teacher, then,” he says, still smiling with a thoughtful nod. “Seems like you’ve got a lot of people in your corner.”

You smile in a way Jeno hasn’t seen yet, a hint of pride flashing in your eyes. “I’m the luckiest to have them.”

As he studies you for a second, your expression unexpectedly wavering to a sheepish one, Jeno can’t help a soft chuckle from escaping his lips. “I can tell.”

A beat of silence passes before you break it with a playful sparkle in your eyes. “So… where’s your car, anyways?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder towards the warehouse. “I’ve never driven a Nissan before. When are you giving me a chance to drive that beauty?”

Jeno raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a teasing smile. “You sure you can handle it?” he asks, crossing his arms in a laidback gesture. “It’s not exactly a car for amateurs.”

“Are you calling me an amateur?” you provoke him, taking a step closer before playfully raising your chin at him. “If you think I can’t handle it, then let me take a ride to show you what I got.”

Though he laughs at the words, warmth slowly spreads through his body as Jeno leans closer to you, just enough to subtly tower over your figure. As his heart picks up, your dazed face just inches away from his, Jeno can’t help his eyes from dipping to your lips.

It feels like something snaps in his brain as he suddenly looks up, instantly finding Vic near the entrance of the warehouse, the man’s gaze fixed intently on both of you. His posture is tense, arms crossed as if he’s been watching for a while.

Jeno takes a step back, exhaling sharply at the way your expression falters, looking genuinely confused by his sudden attitude.

As his voice falls into indifference again, he offers you an apologetic glance. “It’s getting late, you should probably go home.”

You huff a short laugh, a mix of bewilderment and defiance crossing your face. “Right... I probably should.”

Before Jeno can say anything else, you quickly turn around to leave—not before giving him a final, lingering look with arms crossed over your chest. As he watches you cut into the remaining crowd, your name slips from his mouth before Jeno can consciously stop it.

“You’ll have to buy me dinner before I let you ride it.”

A grin slowly tugs at your lips before you offer him an eye-roll.

“We’ll see about that, Jeno.”

The streetlights cast dark shadows over the rows of cars parked outside Neo Tech, its large doors already halfway closed as you slowly come to stop, the engine of your Mazda humming gently in the silent neighborhood.

Inside, you can spot Jeno’s figure still moving around, his back towards the entrance as he seems to finish up for the night, clearing his workstation with a relaxed posture.

As your fingers tap the steering wheel, you debate with yourself for a second—you hadn’t exactly planned on stopping by the garage this late, yet you’re still there with a takeout bag ready to be shared, unpretentiously anticipating his reaction over the surprise.

After the race, Jeno had left you feeling something deeper than just curiosity, especially with a certain little moment lingering at the corners of your mind for the following days. Given how much he’s changed since first meeting him at the garage, you can’t help the growing expectation inside your chest, though you’d never be one to openly admit so.

Though before you can talk yourself out of it by overthinking, the sound of a door rolling open draws your attention.

While throwing a few goodbyes to the crew over his shoulder, Jeno steps outside, eyebrows instantly furrowing in surprise as he spots you. Closing the garage behind him, shrugging a black hoodie jacket on, he walks towards your car with a knowing smirk breaking into his face.

As he approaches, Jeno bends down to your window, holding an arm over the car’s roof. “If you’re here for Jaemin, he left a few minutes ago.”

“I’m here for you, actually,” you say, holding back a grin of your own at his bemused expression. “You said I should buy you dinner first, so that’s what I’m doing.”

His eyebrows shoot up briefly, the smirk widening into something caught between disbelief and amusement. “Dinner, huh?” Jeno repeats, tilting his head as if to get a better read on you. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d keep tabs on promises like that.”

“Well, I’m trying to keep things interesting for you,” you quip, starting the engine again before looking up at his figure, still leaning against your car. “I’ve got food and I know a place. Are you coming?”

Jeno just shakes his head, laughing softly as he steps back towards his GT-R. “Lead the way, let’s see what you’ve got.”

You can’t help the spark of satisfaction warming your chest as his car rumbles to life, soon pulling onto the neighborhood’s main street right behind your RX-7. Glancing in the rearview mirror every now and then, Jeno’s got the same expression from the day he’d raced you, serious and focused enough that you almost don’t resist suddenly pulling him into a challenge.

The road stretches out ahead to a highway shortcut, the city glowing in the distance as both of you escape from it for the night.

As the buildings and bright lights start giving way to rolling hills and open fields, you lead Jeno onto a dirt road, following it until a secluded, almost undetectable clearing. The space’s quiet, surrounded by trees, with a clear view of the stars above and the city’s skyline far ahead.

Jeno steps out of his Skyline first, looking around with attentive eyes. “Nice spot. How’d you find this place?”

“My brother,” you answer, the diner’s bag in hands as you join him with a small smile. “He used to bring me here when I was a moody, grumpy pre-teen.”

Taking a seat on the hood of his car, Jeno hums softly. “Not anymore?”

Debating with yourself as you watch him for a moment, the words slip from your mouth with surprising ease. “He passed away, so not really,” you say, snickering softly at the quick change in his expression. “It’s been a long time though, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m still sorry,” he starts, voice shifting to a quieter tone. “Can I ask what happened?”

You sigh wistfully, moving to sit beside him on the GT-R’s hood before starting to set up the food between you. “Would it be weird to say that I have no idea?”

Jeno frowns, visibly caught off-guard by the odd answer. “What do you mean?”

“I still don’t know what happened,” you repeat, humorlessly huffing a laugh as you pick up a fry to start. “He just… went out of town for a race one day and never came back. Vic was the one to break the news to me.”

A flicker of something you can’t read crosses his face, though he quickly recovers by offering a half uneasy, half reassuring glance. “I’m not sure what I should say—”

“It’s fine, Jeno,” you interrupt, deliberately lighting up the mood with a growing grin on your lips. “We should probably talk about how you’re letting me drive your car back to the city today.”

As Jeno chuckles, his gaze is steady but softer than usual. “You really don’t waste time, do you?”

“What can I say?” you joke, taking a sip of your milkshake with a coy shrug. “I’m a very focused person and right now my focus is exactly getting behind the wheel of your GT-R.”

Still not breaking eye contact, he shakes his head to resist his grin from growing. “So you win a few races and suddenly think that earns you the keys to my car?”

Your fingers are playing with the straw of the cherry drink as you smirk at him, tilting your head for added effect. “I mean, I did buy you dinner like you asked,” you counter, clicking your tongue. “The least you can do is uphold your promise.”

“Was it a promise?” Jeno asks, feigning confusion with a quirked eyebrow. “I don’t remember that.”

“Do you want me to remind you?” you shoot back, leaning just a little closer to taunt him. “You said that I should buy you dinner before you let me ride it. Remember that?”

As he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head again, there’s a subtle hint of a blush dusting Jeno’s cheeks. “You’re relentless.”

You smile teasingly, leaning back on your hands against his car. “Well… you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You barely finish the sentence before Jeno suddenly leans over your frame, closing the distance between you without hesitation. The kiss catches you completely off guard, your breath hitching as his lips meet yours. For a moment, your mind goes completely blank, overwhelmed by his unexpected action.

Jeno’s hand firmly holds your jaw, anchoring you in place with the same intensity as he’s kissing you—almost as if he’s acting on an impulse after holding himself back. You can’t help giving in, something warmer and deeper quickly melting the surprise as you instinctively kiss him back, your fingers tightening around his hoodie.

As he pulls away, exhaling a laugh against your mouth, his forehead lingers close to yours. “Sorry, that wasn’t part of the deal.”

You blink at him, trying to pace yourself again as heat rushes through your cheeks. “Not really,” you admit, grinning softly with a light-hearted shrug. “I’m not complaining, though.”

Jeno rubs the back of his neck, the action laced with a hint of bashfulness that contrasts with his usual composure. “Maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“I hope you’re not implying I’m a bad kisser,” you cut in, squinting your eyes in mock annoyance before pulling back with an exaggerated gasp. “By the way, was that you giving your car to me or is this just an attempt to trick me out of it?”

He laughs, the sound coming off low and genuine, his eyes almost sparkling under the dim light. “What if it’s both?”

A grin immediately tugs at your lips before you lean forward, pressing a quick smooch to his mouth with a giddy laugh. “I’m racing your GT-R next time then, just so you know.”

Jeno shakes his head, holding back a smile as he purposefully looks away to the city’s horizon in the distance. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Your laughter softens as you settle back against the hood of his car, attentively watching his profile. “So I’ve been told a few times,” you answer with a playful shrug. “I prefer to think of myself as ambitious, though.”

He smirks, glancing sideways at you with raised eyebrows. “Ambitious is definitely one word for it.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease cheekily, bumping your shoulder lightly against his with a smile. “I know you like me, it’s okay to admit it.”

Jeno hums, shaking his head as something akin to tenderness flashes in his eyes for a second. “I’ll admit you keep things… interesting.”

The weight of his words subtly change the mood, especially as your heart takes the lead by racing annoyingly fast for your liking.

As the night stretches on, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm of conversation in between bites of your usual order from The Bluebird, exchanging a few stories and memories here and there. The night air feels cool against your skin by the time both of you finish, momentarily falling into a comfortable, yet charged silence.

Jeno breaks the pause with a deep breath, glancing at his watch with a touch of reluctance. “It’s late,” he says softly, offering you a knowing glance. “We should probably head back before someone finds us here.”

Though you know that nobody’s going to find the secluded place so late, you hum softly before hopping off the hood of his car. Just as you’re about to take a step towards your Mazda, Jeno holds you back by the arm. You watch as he silently takes off his hoodie, draping the fabric over your shoulders with a satisfied nod.

Before you can thank him, he gently grabs one of your hands, pulling it out of the long sleeve with a chuckle.

Then—the keys of his green Skyline GT-R are in your palm.

Your jaw drops as you stare down at them, blinking in both disbelief and excitement. “Are you serious?”

Amused by your reaction, Jeno smirks challengingly. “You wanted to drive it, didn’t you?” he asks, leaning closer as his voice drops. “If you make it to the city in under 10 minutes, I’ll let you actually race it.”

You can only snort, tiptoeing to press another kiss to his lips. “We’re on.”

Driving his car through the highway as you head towards the city again, watching him closely follow behind with your Mazda, you can’t help but feel like the night has set something in motion—something you’re more than ready to see through now.

Looking around, Jeno can’t remember the last time he’s been in a conference room.

The place smells like burnt coffee, the hum of its fluorescent lights almost serving as white noise to mask the unnerving silence surrounding him.

As he sits in the large, secluded corner at the agency for the first time in three months, Jeno can’t help nervously clasping his hands over the table, waiting for Doyoung to arrive.

The walls, covered in bulletin boards that display very specific files and photos, are a twisted reminder of the reason he’s there in the first place. A folder lies in front of him, his jaw tightening at the sight of it every time he glances at the worn out edges and stained cover.

As the door suddenly clicks with a loud sound, Doyoung is quick to step inside, his sharp, intimidating features immediately softening upon seeing him in person again. Holding another handful of files, the oldest manages a brief side-hug, offering a pat to Jeno’s back before settling on a chair at the head of the desk.

“It’s good to see you in one piece,” Doyoung starts, leaning back against his seat with a knowing glance in his direction. “Sorry that we pulled you out on short notice, the order came from high-up—”

Jeno shakes his head, pursing his lips in a tight line. “It’s fine, I was probably up for a check-in anyway.”

The agent regards him for a second, humming in agreement despite the flicker of reservation in his eyes. “You were,” Doyoung admits, nodding curtly. “We’ve been looking into your intel, and it adds up with what we have so far.”

“I thought we’d already established that the last time we talked,” Jeno answers, glaring at his co-worker impatiently.

“We did,” the man agrees, resting his elbows against the desk before huffing a peeved scoff. “Except Victor’s not a middleman like we thought, he’s actually the head of the entire thing.”

Jeno leans back against his seat, the weight of the information settling in after a second. “You’re telling me Vic’s the one running the smuggling operation?”

Doyoung nods again, sliding a file over the desk. “Everything points back to him—the money trails, the coded messages, the shipments’ timing,” he explains, his expression seemingly hardening by each word. “He’s not just managing the cargo, he’s intercepting it and passing it forward internationally.”

His jaw tightens, eyes quickly scanning the pages. “What’s his deal with the races?”

“Recruitment ground, maybe? That’s what we gathered from your intel, anyway,” Doyoung clarifies, offering a shrug. “He needs good drivers, fast ones. What’s a better way to have that than making them yourself?”

The memories of his conversations with Jaemin instantly resurface in Jeno’s mind.

Despite the relationships you’ve built through your brother, most with the guys from Neo Tech, Victor has still played a key role in your life by guiding you, eventually molding you into one of the best racers in the city. The connection isn’t just a passing detail— now it feels deliberate, purposeful.

If Victor’s been intentionally shaping and recruiting racers, then his investment in you isn’t just about talent and skills alone.

Jeno exhales slowly, voice giving away a hint of stress. “What’s the next step then?”

“There’s new shipment coming next week. They’re planning to take it out of the city, so we’ll be looking out for that,” Doyoung starts, leaning back with an apologetic wince. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but we can’t bring him in without solid evidence... we’re getting close, Jeno.”

“Can I join the team on that?” he asks, his expression hardening.

The agent raises an eyebrow, clicking his tongue at the request. “It’s risky but I’ll see what I can do,” he answers, hesitating for a second before shooting Jeno a meaningful glance. “I know I’ve asked before, but I just want to be sure we’re still on the same page about—”

Even though he knew it was coming, Jeno’s stomach still twists at the mention of your name. “She’s not a problem,” he firmly cuts in, body quickly growing tense. “She’s just there to race, nothing more.”

The oldest studies him carefully, visibly cautious despite the insistence. “Are you sure about that? Victor needs good drivers, and if she’s the best one in the scene—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupts again, his fists subconsciously clenching under the desk. “She’s not part of the operation.”

“You know that I trust you, Jeno,” Doyoung says quietly, though not looking entirely too convinced. “I hope you know what you’re doing. If you get too close, it’s not just you who could get hurt.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Jeno argues, glaring at the agent in a way that looks too forceful to feel genuine. “I’m undercover and she gets me closer to the scene, that’s all. I’m not about to compromise the investigation, Doyoung.”

The agent simply nods, sliding another file across the desk. “We’ve also got something new from the surveillance team. Do you recognize these names?”

Scanning the list of names printed on the paper, Jeno points at the last two ones. Shotaro and Sungchan. “I’ve seen these two race before… Vic’s drivers?”

“It seems like it, at least for the next shipment,” Doyoung confirms, regarding him with a knowing look. “If you can scout anything about them at the garage...”

He nods, closing the file before roughly pushing it over. “Sure, I’ll get back to you.”

As Doyoung gathers the files together, a deep exhale suddenly escapes from his mouth once silence settles in the conference room again.

“Now, I’m asking you as a friend, not as a co-worker or an agent,” he starts, almost sounding exasperated under his characteristic concern. “It’s been three months. Are you sure you can keep doing this?”

The agent watches him attentively, his cranky professional facade slipping for a moment as Jeno clocks a hint of apprehension on his face.

Doyoung has always been more than just a co-worker, having stepped into an older brother role from the moment he’d joined the agency as a fresh-faced, out-of-school rookie.

Over the years, the oldest had become a steady presence in Jeno’s building career as one of the top agents in the team—whether through a firm warning when he pushed too far on something or simply seeing his potential when no one else would, there isn’t a single doubt that Doyoung holds a significant place in his life now.

Still, Jeno can’t help hesitating over the question, ultimately nodding despite the weight behind his words. “I’m fine.”

The agent doesn’t answer right away, watching him as though waiting for something. “Well, you don’t really seem like it,” Doyoung counters, standing up from his seat with the files in hands again. “You look like a guy who’s starting to lose sight of what side he’s on. I’d know about that.”

As the oldest steps aside to leave, the silence feels heavier than before, settling between them like the unspoken truth that Jeno’s been tightly safeguarding. Opening the door, Doyoung squeezes his shoulder in reassurance, nodding firmly despite the softness in his eyes.

“You’ve got this, Jeno.”

The sound of tires crunching against the gravel outside your place immediately draws your attention, a familiar engine’s hum echoing through the quiet evening. A small smile tugs at your mouth as recognition settles in, the sound almost unmistakable by now. Peering outside the window, you watch as Jeno’s green GT-R comes to a smooth stop into your driveway, a quiet warmth blooming in your chest.

It’s been a couple of days since you last saw each other, both staying busy enough with work and life between race days.

In the three months since Jeno first challenged you, your relationship—or whatever that you can possibly call it—has slowly become something that’s been lingering in a space with no definitions or expectations.

Though neither of you are entirely sure of what to call it, even under the occasional teasing quips from Neo Tech’s crew, you’ve come to realize that you don’t really mind it. There’s a certain comfort in not overthinking it, trusting Jeno to exist in your life in the way he does—steady but gently, with an ease that feels very characteristic of him.

The evening chill rises shivers on your bare legs as you step outside, smirking at the way Jeno’s figure is sitting on the hood of his car, hands tucked into the pockets of a bomber jacket. His head lifts slightly at the sound of your quick footsteps, a groan escaping from his lips as you jump against him, arms wrapping around his neck in a tight hug.

“Hello to you too,” Jeno starts, sounding nothing but amused as you pull back, a hint of surprise giving him away for a moment. “Didn’t think I’d get this kind of welcome today.”

“Why? Did you think I’d only do that when we’ve got an audience?” you ask, your tone playful as you stand between his legs, arms now loosely holding him. “I’m a loyal girl, Jeno Lee.”

He nods solemnly, a sudden flicker of seriousness catching his eyes. “I know you are.”

“You could’ve texted me,” you argue, sighing dramatically as you give him a glare. “We could’ve gone out if I knew you were coming tonight.”

Jeno smiles, his hands lightly squeezing your hips before pulling you closer. “What if I wanted to surprise you?”

Rolling your eyes, a grin spreads through your face before you can stop it. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today,” you tease, taking a step back again as you reach for his hand. “We can order some dinner then, I’ll know just the place—”

“I can’t stay tonight, Cherry,” he cuts in, gently stopping you with an apologetic glance. “I’m leaving town for a few days, I just wanted to see you before I go.”

As the words catch you off-guard, you blink confusedly at him. “You’re leaving? What for?”

“Family stuff,” Jeno answers, a heavy sigh escaping from his lips. “It came up suddenly but I’ll only be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

You frown, pursing your lips in a pout before giving him a playful curious glance. “Family stuff? That’s all I get when there’s probably gossip?”

Jeno laughs, shaking his head in amusement for a second. “Gigi’s been rubbing off on you,” he teases, voice soon dropping to a mix of reassurance and tenderness as he exhales. “It’s not that exciting, I promise. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You could’ve told me earlier,” you mutter, your fingers playing with the zipper of his jacket, purposefully avoiding his gaze. “The next race’s gonna suck if you’re not going to be here.”

His fingers grasp at your chin, lifting your face up until your eyes meet. “You’re the main part of these races, so I doubt that’ll happen,” he counters, clicking his tongue with a sly, playful grin tugging his lips. “I’d let my car with you but I’ll need it, so…”

With a scoff, you half-heartedly swat his chest. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He doesn’t answer, instead pausing the conversation for a moment with a soft brush of his thumb along your jaw, the warm touch contrasting against the evening. You lean closer first, but Jeno’s quick to capture your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and lingering, his hand moving from your face as he gently cups your neck.

In the comfort of his arms, you completely lose track of time—the sounds around you become white noise, fading into the background between his embrace and the softness of his lips, one kiss turning two, then three, and so on.

The loud rumble of a specific Charger pulls both of you from your shared bubble. Jeno’s arms drop slightly, though his hands remain resting at your hips as Vic suddenly comes into view on the street. The atmosphere instantly changes it, Jeno subtly tensing while watching the man pull up beside his Skyline.

You don’t seem to notice the skeptical look on Victor’s face, greeting him with a smile once the car comes to a stop. “Vic? What’s up with you guys surprising me tonight?”

“Great minds think alike, Cherry,” Victor says, glancing between both of you with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just came by to say goodbye before I head out for a job.”

As Jeno’s eyes harden at Vic’s words, the quiet shift in his demeanor isn’t lost on you. There’s something in the way the two men regard each other in that moment—not hostile, but definitely not friendly either, leaving curiosity to gnaw at you.

With a half-hearted huff, you ignore the edge in their interaction, instead glaring at both of them. “Great, I’ll just ignore the fact that you’re both suddenly leaving and just wish you a safe trip, then.”

The man’s eyes flicker to Jeno for a second, a look of subtle recognition in his gaze. “I’m sure we’ll be back soon,” Victor answers, eyes returning to you again in a sharp glance. “You and I’ll talk when I get back.”

Puzzled by the striking weight in his tone, you hum with a hesitant nod. “Take care, Vic.”

It doesn’t take long until Victor’s car disappears down the street, the red tail lights slowly growing smaller into the evening. Jeno remains quiet in front of you, his hands still resting lightly on your hips, almost as if he’s distracted. You glance up at him, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his gaze’s been fixed towards the direction Vic’s just headed to.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you raise an eyebrow as he glances back at you again, a touch of agitation in his eyes. “You okay?”

He blinks, expression softening slightly at your touch. “Yeah,” Jeno replies after a beat, his tone calm but not entirely convincing. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” you ask, gently hoping to pull him from whatever had him so lost in thought.

As he stands up from the hood of his car, moving both of you by a step, a half-hearted smile curls on his lips. “Nothing worth worrying about.”

“Everyone’s running off tonight,” you say, sighing in mock exasperation upon realizing that he’s leaving soon too. “Should I start taking it personally?”

“You should go visit Jaemin at the garage while I’m gone. He’s been missing you these days,” Jeno jokes, brushing his fingers against your cheek. “I’ll be back before you can even miss me.”

Not resisting the faint smile that tugs at your mouth, you roll your eyes. “Bold of you to assume I’ll miss you in the first place,” you taunt, though a little softer than intended. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to go bother him then.”

He’s the one to lean down for a kiss again, though it’s a gentle, soft one to your forehead first. It’s enough for you to tug him by his jacket, pressing your lips to his with a sigh against his mouth. When Jeno pulls back, he regards you for a second, almost as if he’s trying to commit your features to his mind.

You watch as he climbs into the GT-R, the engine roaring back to life in its familiar growl. Giving you one last look through the open window, a faint smile plays on Jeno’s lips.

“I’ll see you soon, Cherry.”

Crossing your arms, you smile tauntingly at him, the words slipping with a touch of fondness.

“We’ll see about that, Jeno.”

Outside the windows of his apartment, the city’s skyline is casted with a deep orange glow as the sun sets, drawing a picture that Jeno rarely indulges in whenever he’s at home.

Now that he’s back, the sight quietly tugs at the strings of his heart, especially after everything that has happened in the last few days. It sets a strange, confusing impression in his mind—one that makes him distinctively remember Doyoung’s words from last time.

The whiplash of feeling at home without really being at home rings several alarms in Jeno’s head, even if he’s been purposefully ignoring them for a while now. He still doesn’t know how to feel about the ease in which he slips in and out of… whatever this is supposed to be, having been toying so effortlessly with the line that draws his two personas.

Still, despite the noise in his head, you’re the one thing that Jeno’s felt recklessly sure about. He might not know what the mission can possibly mean to the future, but he knows what it means to him, at least for now.

The knock at the door leaves him anticipating something Jeno can’t quite tell.

It almost feels like he hasn’t seen you in months, his lingering eyes getting caught as you step into his place, walking past him with a smirk on your lips.

“Hi,” you say lightly, the familiar teasing touch in your voice pulling at his chest. “Did you miss me?”

“I don’t know,” Jeno counters, raising an eyebrow as an amused chuckle betrays him. “Did you miss me?”

As you pause for a second, your gaze suddenly hinting a mix of softness and apprehension, the last thing he’s expecting is to feel your arms wrapping him in a firm, almost distraught hug. The suddenness of it takes Jeno by surprise, his hands hovering in the air for a moment before settling reassuringly against your back.

“Hey, look at me,” he calls, pulling back just enough to catch your eyes as his voice drops to a concerned tone. “Is there something wrong?”

You’re quick to shake your head, offering a half-hearted smile in an attempt to brush it off. “It’s nothing,” you say, stepping back from his embrace with a glance around the place, expression shifting into something lighter. “What are we having for dinner today?”

Despite his hesitation at the moment, Jeno reluctantly moves on, the dinner eventually starting off easy enough with you raving over your love for the take-out menu he’s picked. It feels that way for a while as he listens to you recount updates from the crew at Neo Tech, your win at the last race that’s just marked your second five-win streak, a few tidbits about Jaemin and Gigi fooling around with each other.

Still, even through your laughs and the way you accept his touch every now and then, there’s a quietness about you today, an edge to the smiles that doesn’t reach your eyes.

The subtle pauses between your words, the heavy way your eyes linger on his figure whenever you think he isn’t looking—Jeno knows there’s something on your mind, even if you’re not saying it.

It isn’t until later, after the plates are cleared and the hues of oranges have faded to a blue evening outside the windows of his place, that your voice breaks the silence of his room.

“You’re not really a mechanic, are you?”

The soft flow of the bedside lamp casts a warm glow to your features, seemingly devoid of any emotion. With your head resting against his chest, your fingers have been idly tracing patterns against his skin, though it immediately stops as you feel his sudden tension.

The question hangs in the air for a second, Jeno’s heart beating hard enough that he’s sure you can hear it.

You lift your head to look at him, your eyes quietly searching for answers. “I mean… you’re good at it, you’re an amazing racer, but—” you pause, exhaling deeply despite the ease that you continue. “It just doesn’t add up, Jeno. I think you’re something else, and… I think I know that.”

It’s clear that you’re giving him a chance to deny, to tell you that you’re wrong. The tiny hint of hope in your eyes slowly fades away as his silence stretches, serving more than a spoken confirmation as it quietly tells you everything.

“Vic told me,” you say, voice barely a whisper. “He said you’re an agent.”

As you acknowledge the truth in the open, Jeno’s stomach sinks, a wave of unease crashing over him. He’d known that this moment would come, but not like this, not there or today or with you looking up at him like that.

“Is he telling the truth?” you ask, arms wrapping around knees as you sit up. “Is that why you’re here? Is that why you’re… with me?”

Jeno can’t seem to find the right words to answer, hating himself the longer his silence grows between you. It seems to be your breaking point too, leaving the bed to stand up a few feet away from him.

A look of exasperation settles on your face, sharp eyes glaring at him. “You’re not denying it, Jeno,” you urge him, your voice breaking for a second before you huff a bitter laugh. “Are you kidding me? Was any of this real or just part of your job?”

The answer is quiet, his voice almost cracking. “It’s not like that—”

“Right, then what is it like?” you snap, raising an eyebrow in a mock challenge. “I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ve been lying to me the whole time.”

Jeno exhales shakily, a frown set between his eyebrows. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Didn’t have a choice?” you repeat, an ironic chuckle escaping from your mouth. “You had a choice to not approach me at all, you had a choice to lay me off ages ago, you had a choice to tell me the truth. How’s that for you?”

“It’s not that simple,” he argues, running a hand through his hair, jaw tensing for a moment. “I wanted to tell you, but… I just couldn’t. It’d put you in risk and I wasn’t about to do that.”

“So what? You just use me instead?” you start, anger crashing down as you suddenly grow quiet, your voice trembling. “Get close to me because it’d help with whatever you’re doing here?”

Jeno’s fists clench upon the tears brimming in your eyes, his breath turning shallow as he avoids your gaze. “No,” he mutters, firm enough to contrast against the flicker of dejection on his face. “This is not what this is.”

For a moment, he wonders if you’ve picked up the white lie, your expression unreadable as you simply watch him. He hates himself for lying to you, for letting you get close when he knew he couldn’t give you the truth. More than that, he hates how much he cares—how much losing you is feeling like losing something more important than his own job, than the entire investigation itself.

Shaking your head with a finality that’s almost meant to defy him, you harshly wipe the tears off your eyes. “Let’s just not do this anymore.”

Once the words click, Jeno can’t help but freeze for a moment before panic surges through him as you walk around the room. With shaky hands, you quickly gather your clothes, not sparing a single side-eye towards his direction.

“Look at me,” Jeno calls, voice raising to a rougher tone as he sits up, trying to get a look at your face. “Hey, look at me!”

Your movements remain frantic as you shrug a jacket on, continuing to ignore him as if you hadn’t noticed the hard change to his demeanor. Without a word, you head straight to the door, the tension between you thick enough to feel suffocating. Jeno groans, his chest twisting in frustration and regret as he scrambles off the bed.

Just as your hand reaches for the doorknob, his hand closes around your upper arm, pulling you back with a careful force.

You finally turn around to face him, hurt and anger laced to your features. “What?”

“I don’t want to see you at the next race,” Jeno orders, the weight of his stony eyes visibly surprising you for a second. “Don’t go.”

As you frown, your confusion is evident, body almost relaxing under his touch. “What?”

With a glare, he makes sure that the words are not a request, but rather a command. “Don’t come to the next race, Cherry.”

The anger in your gaze hardens into something more painful as you pull your arm from his grasp. “Fuck off, Jeno,” you say, the venom in your words cutting deep as you open the door, this time without hesitation. “I’m the one that doesn’t want to see you at the next race.”

The door closes with a simple click, sounding miserably loud to the silence of his apartment now.

Jeno’s fingers curl into fists at his side, a ragged breath escaping from his lips as he stares blankly at it. Though the thought feels just as hollow as his lies, Jeno tells himself that maybe it’s better this way. After all, the job does demand sacrifice—relationships, connections, anything that can possibly jeopardize his missions.

Now left with the company of his heavy heart, Jeno wonders how many times he’ll have to tell that lie in order to convince himself instead.

The night air feels thick with tension as Jeno comes to a stop outside the warehouse, parking in a spot away from the usual crowd and their curious eyes. The race’s just about to start, a few cars already lining up with the blasting music in the background as usual.

Race days are always charged with a raw energy that he’s grown accustomed to, one that never failed to make him feel alive—but today, it feels skeptically different.

Jeno can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong tonight, despite Doyoung having already warned him about the change of plans in the investigation after his cover was blown by Victor. For a moment, he wonders if that’s just his mind playing games. While keeping his distance from you, Jeno has been subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop, anticipating you to eventually expose him.

His arrival plays out as nothing out of the ordinary though, Jaemin and Taeyong waving off from a distance as he steps out of the car, walking through the swarm of people to scan the racers of the night.

A part of him knew it was futile to warn you off the race, no matter how much he didn’t want you anywhere near the place tonight, regardless of the operation falling apart or not. It almost surprises him to not spot your Mazda at the starting line until he sees you, standing a few feet away from the grid while talking to Gigi, both of you visibly bickering.

He knows that your presence’s probably making things a lot more complicated to him.

The frustration quietly builds in his chest, mostly out of his own impotence than your choice to disregard his instruction. After all, the more he thought about it, the more he realized—if Vic knows about him and has kept quiet the entire time except to turn you against him, Jeno can’t really protect you, not without giving himself away or ruining the investigation entirely.

Given they most definitely are getting too close to Victor’s home, it feels fitting for the man to pull his own strings somehow.

The man’s presence at the race today is a dead giveaway of that, standing by his black Charger with a few of his shady-looking guards, watching the audience with an air of stress to his face. Jeno can’t help noticing the way his eyes keep flickering through the lot and the racers, almost as if expecting something.

Not having enough time to prod further, Jaemin suddenly approaches with a pat to his back, eyeing him with a flicker of both curiosity and exasperation in his gaze.

“You should probably fix whatever happened between you and Cherry,” the mechanic starts, snickering almost bitterly. “If neither of you are racing, who’s going to make this entire thing exciting?”

A chuckle escapes from his lips, Jeno relaxing for a second as he shakes his head at the guy. “I bet Gigi would love to hear that.”

“Please, it doesn’t seem like it but Gigi worships her,” Jaemin discloses, the playfulness on his face quickly fading to a mock warning look in his direction. “Don’t tell Cherry that if you don’t want Gigi to fuck you up.”

Before he can respond, the cars roar to life with Johnny’s voice, revving engines interrupting the conversation as the usual procedure starts.

The crowd tenses once the countdown starts, flag up in the air.

Then, a sharp screech of tires breaks through, the sound of approaching sirens getting louder by the second, flashes of blue and red lights quickly surrounding the warehouse. The crowd scatters around in a frenzy, running off in panic while the racers attempt to break through the chaos through a few secret exits.

This is part of his job—the chaos, the unpredictability, the apprehension. Jeno knows better to keep it cool, keep the cover intact for as long as he can despite everything, even if it means keeping you out of it.

But you aren’t leaving.

With Jaemin hurrying off, shouting something about meeting at the garage and finding Gigi over the booming sirens, Jeno’s eyes easily find you in the havoc of people. You’re frozen in place, simply watching the commotion with wide, confused eyes.

“Get out of here!” he yells, shoving through the crowd as he rushes towards your direction, his outstretched hand waving you off. “Cherry! You need to fucking leave!”

You barely acknowledge him before staring at something else. Following your fixed gaze, Jeno finds Vic standing still at the same spot, unphased by the madness surrounding him.

Something about his calmness, his tranquility in the middle of the chaos doesn’t sit right with Jeno. It’s been long proved by the investigation that Victor Torres isn’t exactly on the up-and-up, but seeing him there, just watching the mess unfold in a way that feels almost detached makes a pin immediately drop in Jeno’s mind.

Whatever’s happening tonight was not an accident—it was planned.

As he approaches you, Jeno quickly grabs your arm, guiding you away from the commotion when a sudden bang echoes through the air. Over his shoulder, he watches your body suddenly lurch as something sharp seems to cross your shoulder. You stumble, your hand instinctively reaching for the spot as Jeno pulls you closer, holding you steady as his eyes frantically search for something.

The sight of blood running from your neck and down your arm surprises him, anxiety rushing through his body as he exhales shakily. “Fuck!”

“Jeno,” you call, eyes wide with shock as your shaky hands fist his jacket. “What the hell is happening?”

“I don’t know,” Jeno answers, trying to keep his voice steady in an attempt to mend the visible fear in your eyes. “You’re going to be okay, we’ll get out here.”

A burst of gunfire sends the place into mayhem again, both of you almost losing balance over your feet as Jeno half-carries you, shielding you with his body on the escape.

It feels like a lifetime until you reach his car, the way your body grows weaker by each second sending chills down his spine. He’s quick to help you onto the passenger seat, slamming the door shut and rushing to the driver’s side, barely managing to reach for his phone before emergency-calling Doyoung.

It rings once, the agent’s distressed voice coming off the speaker just as Jeno starts the engine. “What’s happening?”

“You fucking tell me, Doyoung,” he starts, the tone suddenly ragged in anger as he reverses out of the corner, picking up speed while expertly dodging the few stray racers still around. “Why the fuck is the police here? I thought the plans had changed—why the fuck are they here opening gunfire out of nowhere?”

“The police’s there?” Doyoung asks, giving away his aggravation even through the phone. “We didn’t send anyone, the plans really have changed. Can’t you identify them?”

“There’s no time for that,” he bites back, hands tightening around the steering wheel as he takes a look at your unmoving, quiet figure. “She’s been shot, I’m taking her to the hospital.”

“Shit,” the agent curses, an uncharacteristic behavior that feels fitting to the sudden weight of the situation. “I’m calling the team, we’ll see what we can do. I’ll meet you at the hospital, wait for me.”

The call disconnects as Jeno takes a back exit inside the warehouse, acutely aware of your silence. You’re gripping the seat with loose fingers, breathing uneven as you stare ahead, eyes unfocused. As his Skyline reaches an empty alley on the way out of the lot, Jeno presses the accelerator harder, feeling as if there’s not much time left.

“Look at me,” Jeno calls, the words ironically bringing a bad taste to his mouth as he presses you, still not looking at him. “Cherry, look at me!”

As you turn to him, your eyes are looking far too unfocused and dazed for his comfort. “Where’s Jaemin and Gigi?”

“At the garage,” he says, rushing to answer with an ease that he isn’t currently feeling. “They’re fine. I’ll call them—they’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Jeno feels his composure crack the longer he looks at you, taking in the blood staining your clothes and the way your breath’s slowly growing uneven. The road stretches ahead as he speeds further, though all he can focus on is the time slipping through his fingers no matter how fast he’s driving.

Pulling into the hospital’s entrance, the tires of his GT-R screeching against the asphalt, Jeno doesn’t even bother parking properly.

As he hurries to your side, his movements grow increasingly desperate upon noticing you abruptly losing consciousness. Swinging the door open, Jeno scoops you into his arms, your head falling against his chest as your breathing slows down.

The staff immediately rush to him as he walks through the sliding doors of the ER, fast to take you from his hold. The sight of your unconscious figure on the stretcher feels crushing, leaving him to just stand there with clenched fists as a sense of helplessness seems to weigh him down on the spot.

It’s just when Jeno hears Doyoung calling for his name that he breaks out of the trance, turning around to find the agent’s disgruntled, but worried figure quickly approaching him.

“Hey,” Doyoung greets, the low tone not masking the urgency laced to it. “How’s she doing?”

Stepping back to lean against the hospital’s wall, he can’t help huffing humorlessly. “What the fuck was that, Doyoung?”

“I’m still not sure, our team’s still looking into it,” the agent answers right away, sighing tensely as he glances knowingly at the youngest. “It definitely wasn’t us… but taking a wild guess? I don’t think the police were part of it.”

Jeno’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Are you saying that was Victor?”

Doyoung shrugs, scoffing a dry laugh. “He’s got the means for it, that’s for sure,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest with an eye-roll. “With us pushing back the operation, he had more than enough time to plan something.”

With a frustrated exhale, Jeno runs a hand over his face, features hardening into a frown for a second. “Listen, I don’t think my cover’s blown—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Doyoung interjects, cutting him off with a firm, yet reassuring nod. “We’ll handle the fall-out, Jeno.”

Over the older agent’s shoulder, Jeno suddenly spots Jaemin hurrying into the hospital. The mechanic’s eyes dart around the room for a moment until finding him, suspiciously eyeing the scene before taking a few steps closer. Noticing the shift on Jeno’s face, Doyoung follows his gaze, raising an eyebrow as Jaemin stops beside them. The agent is quick to take the hint, clapping Jeno’s shoulder before leaving with a mumble about needing coffee.

Jaemin breaks the silence first, his usual playful features heavy with a mix of concern and exhaustion. “What happened? Is Cherry okay?”

Unsure of how much to reveal given his position, Jeno can’t help hesitating. “She got caught in the middle of gunfire,” he replies, pausing for a moment before glancing apologetically at the mechanic. “I got her out as fast as I could.”

“We’ve been safe for years, the cops have never bothered us before,” Jaemin argues, nervously running a hand through his hair, frowning in confusion. “Why today?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jeno answers, trying to keep the tone as steady as possible despite the truth behind the words. “It didn’t seem like they were targeting anyone specific, if that’s worth anything.”

As Jaemin regards Jeno for a second, a chuckle escapes from his mouth, the sound coming off sharply. “She told me.”

He feels his chest tighten, taken aback by the unexpected twist. “What?”

“You’re a cop, right?” the mechanic asks, voice down to a quieter, solemn tone. “Cherry told me everything and made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even you or Gigi.”

Shaking his head with a deep breath, Jeno feels the weight of his persona pressing down on him heavier than ever. “I’m sorry.”

Jaemin shrugs, surprising him by huffing a short laugh. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” he says, a flicker of something softer crossing his eyes. “Just… whatever you’re planning, make sure it doesn’t screw both of you over more than it already has.”

The nurse’s voice suddenly cuts the conversation, Jeno faltering for a moment as both of them look up at the same time, their shared tensions immediately replaced by a sense of relief with over words.

“One of you can go in and see her now.”

The soft beeping of the monitor fills the silence of the hospital room, contrasting with the lingering, annoying buzz still echoing in your ears. The bandage on your neck feels perfectly snug, covering the bullet’s graze almost down to your shoulder.

After the chaos of earlier, you can’t help but feel misplaced once the nurse leaves, unconsciously replaying the entire night in your mind—the loud, sharp gunfire, the panic in his voice during your escape, the detachment you’d fallen into. It doesn’t take long until Jeno slowly steps into the room, features guarded despite the softness in his eyes upon meeting yours.

There’s a sense of hesitation in the way he moves, almost as if he’s unsure of his own presence around you. Taking a seat by the chair beside your bed, the silence between you holds for a second, only for Jeno to break it with a tired sigh first.

“Hey,” he greets quietly, glancing at the bandage on your neck with a touch of attentiveness. “How are you feeling?”

You shrug instinctively, the stiffness in your movements betraying a light discomfort. “It wasn’t as bad as it felt,” you say, placing a careful hand over the bandage with a dry chuckle. “It was just a graze. I’m just bad at handling stress and blood, apparently.”

Jeno leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at you, his features looking nothing but distressed. “I’m really sorry, Cherry.”

Your lips twitch for a moment, a bitter smile almost tugging at your mouth. “For what, exactly? The cops raiding us or the lies you’ve been telling me?”

“For all of it,” Jeno answers, the words firm and steady, willingly taking the bite behind your question. “I know it’s not an excuse, but my team’s not involved in whatever happened. We’re looking into it, but…”

At the sudden pause, you lean back against the pillows on your bed, letting out a weary sigh. “Why do I feel like I know what you’re going to say?”

Jeno chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head with a grimace. “I think… I should tell you the truth about me first, right?” he begins, taking a deep breath before locking his eyes with yours again. “I’m an undercover agent. I was assigned to this case a few months ago, to investigate Victor and his crew.”

You swallow hard, doing your best to keep yourself from reacting despite the weight of his confession, the implications subtle. “What does Vic have to do with this?”

“He’s the head of an international smuggling operation in the city,” he reveals, almost looking apologetic over the words. “Everything you can think of, he’s got it—money laundering, trafficking, weapon deals. We’ve been looking into his business for a while, but it’s… complicated. He’s careful, his crew’s good.”

“Is that why you got involved with me?” you ask, the tone of your voice thoughtful, yet not particularly soft. “Did you think I was working for him?”

As he frowns, Jeno’s gaze hardens for a moment. “I’m not lying to you anymore, so I won’t say that I didn’t.”

With a hum, the words are quick to slip out of your mouth, almost too casually for the situation. “I’ve been looking into him too, you know,” you admit, chuckling quietly at the surprise on his face. “After that night, I started digging a little. I’m sure you know how easy it is to connect the dots if you keep your ears open around the racers.”

Jeno sighs, his eyebrows furrowing apologetically. “Cherry—”

“I’m not working for him,” you interrupt, frustration and disappointment laced to your broken exhale. “I don’t know what you know, but I—”

Reaching over for your hand, Jeno gently stops you from fidgeting. “I know you’re not,” he cuts in firmly, his gaze locking onto yours, the heaviness in his voice softening. “I know, baby.”

The unexpected nickname hangs in the air, catching both of you off guard. As the surprise breaks through your frustration, Jeno seems just as much taken aback, his lips parted as if realizing the slip a little too late. For a moment, the weight of the moment shifts, leaving a charged silence between you.

“So, what are you going to do now?” you ask, clearing your throat as if to recompose yourself, looking away from him. “Are you keeping the cover and continuing the investigation?”

“The investigation’s compromised now so…” Jeno hesitates, huffing a peeved laugh before slumping back against his seat. “I’ll probably have to leave. Victor knows who I am and if I stay… it’ll be just dangerous for everyone.”

You nod slowly, heart aching in a way you hadn’t anticipated. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” you say quietly, managing a playful smile despite the tears burning in your eyes, threatening to fall. “For what it’s worth, I don’t regret any of it. It was nice trusting you, Jeno… even if only for a little while.”

He looks at you then, his expression pained as a shaky sigh escapes from his mouth. “Cherry—”

Shaking your head, you silently fist his jacket to pull him up, Jeno immediately following as he stands up with a step closer to the bed. As he leans closer, carefully holding himself over your figure, you cup his face gently. Your fingertips brush against his cheeks, moving to his lips before you close the distance, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth.

The struggle in his eyes is clear as you pull back, though Jeno doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just nods, forehead resting against yours for just a moment more before he stands up.

With a long look at you, Jeno pulls a set of keys from his jeans, reaching for your hand and dropping them into your palm. A genuine, incredulous laugh escapes from your lips over the realization, immediately drawing a small smile out of him.

“You take care of yourself, Cherry,” he says softly, the nickname carrying more emotion than ever before.

You nod, a half-hearted, teasing smile slowly growing on your face despite the ache in your chest. “I’ll see you around, Jeno.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, you know that this the end of whatever it was you’d built together—but only the beginning of something you’ll have to build alone now.

“I can’t believe this is your first vacation since joining the agency.”

Stepping out of the elevator, Jeno lets out a soft laugh at Doyoung’s exasperation, the man walking beside him as they make their way through the lobby.

Despite the cool air conditioning of the building, the bright sunlight slipping through the glass doors hints at another warm, heavy summer day outside. Jeno tugs at the tie around his neck, loosening the knot before undoing the first buttons of his shirt.

“Taking days off under orders is hardly a vacation,” he replies, his tone dry but laced with humor.

Doyoung huffs, shaking his head as they near the building’s exit. “God knows you need some time off,” the agent argues, glancing at him knowingly. “Maybe you should go to the beach these days, you could use some vitamin D—”

As his friend continues the spiel, Jeno quickly glances outside, about to step through the glass doors when his attention’s caught by an unexpected, but familiar sight.

Outside the agency’s building, the green Nissan Skyline GT-R contrasts with the muted, neutral colors from the other cars driving through the same street. Sitting at the hood of the car, flipping a cherry red lollipop between your fingers, you look like a mirage to Jeno’s eyes, maybe a vision brought by the heat from outside.

“—not listening to me?”

He blinks at Doyoung after a second, startled by the agent’s hand waving in front of his face. “What?”

With a suspicious frown, Doyoung trails his eyes in the same direction, a sound of surprise instantly escaping from his lips. “Is that who I think it is?”

He nods, resisting the smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah.”

As recognition suddenly flickers in the agent’s gaze, a scoff escapes from his lips over the car, his tone laced with disbelief. “So that’s where the Skyline we gave you went?”

Jeno chuckles, offering a half-hearted shrug at his friend. “I paid for it.”

“She’s technically a criminal,” Doyoung starts, more playful than anything, giving him a mock indignant glance. “You do know that, right? It might not seem like it but street racing is illegal—”

“I’ll see you later, Doyoung.”

Jeno’s voice cuts the oldest’s teasing, moving to step ahead through the door as Doyoung snickers behind him, shaking his head in amusement.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice him approaching, your lips soon curling in a soft, somehow teasing smile. Despite his surprise, Jeno doesn’t hesitate stepping closer, moving to stand between your legs in a familiar move.

“Hey,” you greet, offering a pat to his chest in a coy manner. “Long time no see, huh?”

“Seven months, exactly,” Jeno answers, giving a firm nod before raising a curious eyebrow at you. “I’m not complaining, but what are you doing here?”

You sigh exaggeratedly, tilting your head at him. “You know words are quick to get around, right? I heard your first vacation ever starts today.”

“You’ve heard it right,” he says, smirking at your antics as if the past months hadn’t happened, a sense of familiarity settled between you.

As you smile, something softer flickers in your gaze. “So I was thinking… if you’ve got some time off, maybe you’d want to spend it doing something cool,” you start, shrugging lightly. “You know, like going for a drive or racing with someone?”

For a moment, Jeno can only stare at you, still taken aback by your abrupt appearance. Then, without thinking twice, he suddenly closes the distance between you, hands reaching for your face as his lips finally meet yours again. Smiling against his mouth, you lean back as your palms rest against the car’s hood, the kiss so unhurried and lingering that Jeno almost pushes you down against it after a while.

When you pull away, his lips still following you for a split second, a smile grows on your face.

“So,” you say softly, your voice laced with amusement. “Is that a yes?”

Jeno grins, hands on your hips as he pulls you off the Skyline, arms holding you closer as if you’ve never left.

“Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @saranghoeforanton @tywritesstuff

#lee jeno #lee jeno x reader #jeno x reader #nct fic #nct dream fic #lee jeno fic #jeno fic #nct fanfic #nct dream fanfic #neocitylights

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occamstfs · 9 months ago

Text

Marichismo

Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.

Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam

Allen was on a side of the campus he’s never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no man’s land that holds the campus’ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.

Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before he’s able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.

Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that he’s never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. It’s not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, it’s- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.

Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly he’s not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, “¡Dios Mio!”

Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, “Ah! Gracias, gracias mijo.” She pulls herself up on Allen’s hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, “¿Qué te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)

Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. “So sorry uh, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to wander into your, uh, space.” gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. “This place isn’t for me so I think I’ll go ahead and step out.” Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all.

The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. “Ah don’t you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,” she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace.

He can’t just tell this old lady that he hasn’t a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesn’t want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet he’s used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. He’ll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.

Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, “Wonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!” Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupe’s hand. “Hah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.” Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake.

“You know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.” Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this granny’s descendants must look like and knowing there’s simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, “Es un joven fuerte! Haha!” She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, “You just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?” Allan nods and reflexively responds, “Si ab- Mrs. Carvajal.”

Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museum’s resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didn’t get art, and not for not trying. It’s just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself.

Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.

Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesn’t have brown eyes, they’re just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning.

Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. “Q- What?!” He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, “¿Qué pasó Alan?” Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it can’t be his fault. Surely he didn’t just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. “I, um? No sé?” He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. “I mean um, I’m not sure?”

Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if he’s alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea he’s put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.

Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, “Oh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?” Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. “Did you do something different with your hair mijo?” eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how he’s always looked right?

Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, “Well I like it mijo.” With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.

“Que chingado…” He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didn’t take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. He’s had that tattoo for years?

Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldn’t have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if he’s been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. He’s a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it.

Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, “didn’t want him in the main hall anyway.”

His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, “un joven fuerte!” He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.

His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, “ayy dios- fuck…” He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.

Only briefly does he wonder why he’s not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. “Ah si, uh. The temporary exhibit,” he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesn’t quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, he’s uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by ‘art’ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.

His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as he’s overwhelmed by everything in front of him. It’s as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.

The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He can’t help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, “Tal vez, just a minute…” He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.

His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needs…

Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesn’t like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him.

It’s impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as he’s racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t do essays anymore. That’s not how he creates.

Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord.

Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate.

Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. “Papa.” He made that statue, he isn’t about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.

He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Who’d he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model.

At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. “¡Gracias a dios!” he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.

Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.

Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, “¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Ponte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)” Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow.

His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, “Espero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ¡ja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesn’t know what they paid for ha!)” His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasn’t made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita can’t help but join in the reverie. She wouldn’t dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far he’s blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she can’t wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.

#male tf #racial change #mental change #masculinization #hair growth #muscle tf #reality change #cultural change #male transformation

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midastouch013 · 1 year ago

Text

Deserted Island

Based on this request

Summary: You and Natasha have never been exactly 'friends', but will it take a change when a mission gone wrong ends up with you both on a deserted island ?

Warnings: None

P.S : In all honesty, I will admit this isn't one of my best works, but I promise I'll try to make the next ones better.

The mission had gone south faster than a lead balloon. As you stumbled towards the Quinjet with Natasha by your side, every step felt like a monumental effort. Pain seared through your arm with each movement, but you gritted your teeth, refusing to slow down.

Natasha glanced at you, her expression unreadable as always. "You okay?"

You forced a smirk, despite the pain. "Just peachy. Though, I've had better days."

She rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Clearly."

Natasha wasted no time in getting the jet off the ground, her hands flying over the controls with practiced ease. As the Quinjet soared through the sky, the tension inside matched the turbulence outside. You winced, clutching your injured arm, feeling Natasha's icy gaze upon you. "Well, that was fun," you muttered.

Natasha's response was her signature deadpan stare. "Define 'fun'," she retorted, her tone as frosty as ever.

"Oh, you know, the thrill of dodging bullets, the rush of adrenaline," you quipped, flashing her a crooked grin despite the pain pulsing through your arm.

She rolled her eyes, the corner of her lips twitching slightly. "Remind me to skip your idea of a good time next time."

You sighed, leaning back in the chair, having finally wrapped your injured arm in the time you had shared this small conversation with the redhead, closing your eyes to rest. But when you thought you were in the clear, ready to catch up on some sleep, alarms blared throughout the cockpit, lights flashing red.

"What now?" you groaned, opening your eyes to see Natasha cursing under her breath, her fingers flying over the controls in a frantic dance.

“ Engine Failure, So much for Tony’s tech skills”

As the Quinjet soared over the ocean, tension hung heavy in the air. And then, it happened. The engine stuttered, and warning lights flooded the cockpit.

Natasha's hands continued to fly over the controls, her movements precise despite the urgency of the situation. "Brace yourself. We're going down."

You clenched your jaw, your heart pounding in your chest as the Quinjet descended towards the deserted island below. The impact sent a jolt of pain through your arm, and you bit back a curse as the aircraft came to a halt.

When the dust settled, you exchanged a glance with Natasha. "Well, that was one way to make an entrance."

She didn't respond, her attention focused on assessing the damage to the Quinjet. But you couldn't resist needling her, even in the face of danger.

"You know, if you wanted a vacation, all you had to do was ask. No need for the dramatics."

Natasha shot you a glare, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "You're unbelievable."

You grinned, despite the circumstances. "You love it."

—

Natasha had wasted no time slipping into survival mode, rattling off a list of tasks with her usual efficiency. "We need to build a shelter, gather food, and start a signal fire. And considering how you're usually useless, and with your arm like that, you're going to be even more useless."

You raised an eyebrow, feigning offence. "Hey, I resent that remark!"

“And I resent you”

You opened your mouth to retort but decide against it, and close your mouth as the redhead begins her litany of survival tasks, her tone growing more exasperated with each item she mentioned.

"Build a shelter, gather food," she repeated, ticking off each task with a stern look. "And don't think I'm going to do all the work here.", her statement contradicting the one about you few minutes prior

You met her gaze with a raised eyebrow. "Relax, Romanoff. Shelter's already taken care of—The Quinjet, in case you were wondering. And I'm pretty sure we packed enough MREs to last us a week. All you need to do is chill, and let's figure out how to get an SOS out there without throttling each other."

Her expression darkened slightly at your casual dismissal of her plans. "This isn't a joke, Y/n. We need to be prepared."

You shrugged, unfazed by her disapproval, and started walking towards the Quinjet. But true to her competitive nature, Natasha swiftly picked up her pace, walking ahead with purpose.

Rolling your eyes at her stubbornness, you followed after her.

As Natasha and you scrambled through the Quinjet, searching for a way to signal for help, she discovered a compartment marked with Stark Industries logos.

"Found it," she declared, flipping open the panel to reveal an array of switches and buttons. With practiced efficiency, she activated the emergency call beacon.

Within moments, Tony Stark's face appeared on the small screen. "Well, well, well, if it isn't Romanoff and Y/l/n. What's the emergency, ladies?"

Natasha smirked, her usual reserved demeanor easing into a more relaxed banter. "Quinjet down on an island. Need a pickup."

Tony leaned back in his chair, a playful glint in his eye. "You know, I thought I told you not to break my toys, Natasha."

You couldn't resist chiming in. "Don't worry, Stark. It's in one piece—mostly."

Tony chuckled, his charisma palpable even through the screen. "Alright, alright. Rescue's on the way. ETA tomorrow morning. Just hold tight."

Natasha nodded, her tone more businesslike now. "We'll be ready."

The call ended, and you shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, that's that. Rescue's coming. Might as well enjoy the beach while we can."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "You never fail to find the silver lining, do you?"

You grinned, heading towards the exit of the Quinjet. "Hey, might as well make the most of it, right?"

–

As night settled over the deserted island, you stepped out of the Quinjet after a quick trip to the restroom. The cool evening breeze swept over the beach, carrying the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. To your surprise, in the most random occurrence, Natasha emerged from the sea, drenched and shivering, her usual composed facade slipping for a moment.

You sighed softly, shaking your head at one of her occasional lapses of common sense. Grabbing a towel from the supplies Tony insisted on keeping in the jet for emergencies, you approached Natasha, who protested half-heartedly as you draped the towel around her shoulders.

"Come on, Romanoff," you said gently, guiding her towards the Quinjet. "Let's get you warmed up."

She hesitated for a moment but relented, allowing you to lead her back inside. Once there, you headed to the spare room where you kept a change of clothes—something you always packed, just in case.

Natasha watched you with a mixture of reluctance and gratitude as you handed her the clothes. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm fine."

You chuckled softly. "Sure you are." With a playful smirk, you added, "Besides, I think you'll look better in dry clothes."

She raised an eyebrow, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she took the clothes from you. "Fine. But don't get used to this."

Moments later, she emerged from the room wearing your hoodie and sweats, her hair still damp and her face scrubbed free of makeup. Despite her disheveled appearance, there was an undeniable allure to her, and you couldn't help but notice how stunning she looked in your clothes.

"You wear my clothes nice, Romanoff," you teased, a genuine smile tugging at your lips.

She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Don't make a habit of complimenting me."

You chuckled softly, feeling a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the tropical climate.

“ Duly noted” you say with a smile on your face “ I’m gonna watch the night from the top, you’re welcome to join”

The redhead gave you a look which screamed ‘ I don’t know what you minted to do, and its probably not good, but I’m still tagging along’

The night air was cool and soothing as you and Natasha sat atop the Quinjet, both lost in contemplation under the soft glow of the moon. Your injured arm was snug in a makeshift sling and bandage, a constant reminder of the day's events. The silence between you felt heavy with unspoken words and unexplored feelings.

Finally, unable to bear the quiet any longer, you turned to Natasha with a sarcastic quirk of your eyebrow. "So, Romanoff, remind me again why you hate me so much?"

She glanced at you, her expression guarded but tinged with something softer beneath the surface, seemingly caught by the unexpected question. "I don't hate you, Y/n. I just... find you infuriating."

You chuckled softly, the tension in your shoulders easing at her honest response. "Well, I'll take that as a compliment coming from you."

Her lips twitched, almost a smile, before her gaze returned to the moonlit horizon. "You don't make it easy, you know."

You sighed softly,. "I know. I have a knack for pushing people's buttons."

There was a pause, the sound of the ocean waves filling the space between you. Then, tentatively, you reached out, placing a hand gently on Natasha's shoulder. "But I also know there's more to you than meets the eye, Nat."

She stiffened slightly at your touch, but didn't pull away. Her voice was quieter now, vulnerable. "You don't know me."

You met her gaze steadily, your tone sincere. "Maybe not. But I'd like to."

As Natasha's dry chuckle echoed in the still night air, her words carried a weight you couldn't ignore. "You really wouldn't," she insisted, her voice tinged with a hint of resignation. "And if you did, you'd regret it."

You rolled your eyes in response, a silent retort forming on your lips. Instead of arguing further, you reached for your phone and pulled up your Spotify downloads. Scrolling through the list, you found the slow, melodic tune you knew was her favorite.

With a smirk, you hit play, letting the music fill the quiet space between you. Natasha's surprise was evident, though she tried to mask it with a casual glance away. The song's gentle melody wrapped around you both, weaving a tender thread of connection in the cool night.

Taking a deep breath, you held out your hand to her with a goofy grin. "Come on, Romanoff. Dance with me."

Her initial instinct seemed to be to refuse, but something in your demeanor or the unexpected gentleness of the moment made her hesitate. Finally, she relented, placing her hand in yours with a faint sigh.

As you both swayed slowly to the music, the silence between you spoke volumes. You took the opportunity to explain yourself, your voice gentle and sincere amidst the playful banter that usually defined your interactions.

"I do see you, Nat," you admitted softly. "I see the tough exterior, the walls you've built. But I also see the strength, the loyalty, the way you always have our backs, even when you push us away."

She listened quietly, her gaze softening as she met your eyes. There was a vulnerability in her expression, a rare glimpse behind the mask she wore so well.

"You're not easy to read," you continued, a small smile quirking your lips. "But I think that's part of why we clash. It's also why... why I can't help but want to understand you better."

Natasha's expression softened further, a mixture of surprise and something deeper flickering in her eyes. She didn't respond immediately, but the fact that she hadn't pulled away spoke volumes.

"And hey," you added, injecting a hint of your usual sarcasm to lighten the mood, "even if you decide to kill me later for this moment of vulnerability, at least we'll always have this dance."

She huffed a quiet laugh, the tension between you easing as you both swayed together in the dim light of the Quinjet. The song played on, a gentle backdrop to the unspoken understanding that had bloomed between you.

In that moment, surrounded by the quiet of the night and the warmth of the music, you realized that perhaps there was more to your relationship with Natasha than just witty comebacks and some frigidness.

#avengers #natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov #natasha x reader #natasha x you #anon ask #anonymous #natalia alianovna romanova #natasha x y/n #black widow x reader #black widow x female reader

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paintedkinzy-88 · 9 months ago

Text

Let's take a step back (or rather, forward) and indulge my wandering mind. Behold! Bad Future Dragos!

I want it to be clear that these are at the... latest point in their lives (AKA, before they die) rather than all at the same time. The design choices are very deliberate in that case.

As always, off I ramble---

Raphael was often called the "Umbrella" of the Resistance, due to his habit of shielding those around him with his wings. He's always done this, ever since he was a dragonet, but the danger is much more real now, and he has a lot more people to protect. As it is, his wings are torn beyond repair. Unless he uses his Ninpo, flying is no longer an option. It's also because of this tendency to constantly throw himself into the front lines that he lost one of his legs. Lucky, Donnie was able to craft multiple prosthetics for him, as his size grew bigger and bigger each day, at a much faster rate than his brothers. Unfortunately, this also made him a bigger target, as he was the first Hamato casualty.

Speaking of Donnie, that serpent held the Resistance together, no doubt about it. He wasn't often put on the battlefield, as his skills were much more needed within their bases building defenses, weapons, armor, indoor gardens, and so much more. He was essential to their survival, working the hardest out of the group of engineers and construction workers they were able to recruit. However, after loosing his tail, back leg, and, temporarily, his voice to Krang hounds, he was kept strictly on base only, much to his dismay. With his focus so narrowed down to just build build build, Donnie created more and more pieces of tech to help him do so, like multiple Shelldon bodies and a constant supply of robot arms (that could of course be used as weapons in a pinch). In the end, keeping him so guarded didn't matter. When one of their hideouts was ransacked before they could escape, Donnie stayed behind to initiate a self destruct. He took out the sister Krang in the blast, as well as a sizable chunk of their army.

Leo was the seemingly fearless leader of the survivors, his way of words convincing countless people of all kinds to join their forces. He actually only took charge after Draxum's death, since the yokai had previous experiences in mass wars and lead them as well as he could prior to Leo. His fins have certainly seen better days, but swimming wasn't much of an option after a few years anyways, as the Krang eventually made the oceans far to toxic to be in. Eventually, with his fins so torn up, Donnie did make him prosthetic wings, as attacking from the air was such an incredible advantage. He also ended up taking one of Raph's old arms after a wound left them having to amputate, and resources to build a brand new one were slim pickings. Sadly, after Donnie's passing, there wasn't anyone with the same knowledge to fix and manage the wings, leading to them eventually just breaking off. Leo mostly uses them to stab aliens now.

Mikey gained a growing group of worshippers rather quickly. He hates it immensely, but his family finds it hilarious. With his mystic powers only gaining strength, and getting increasingly flashy as well, it wasn't too much of a surprise that people would see him as an angel, godlike figure, or deity. He was the heaviest hitter of the Resistance, even before Raph's passing, and spent any free time he had either speaking to their ancestors or helping people nurture the little remaining hope in their base. Despite being almost constantly on the frontlines of the worst battles, Mikey has the fewest scars.

AND, FINALLY: Heights. With a quickly added April to help out. Again, these are at the latest stage of their lives, because Raph would definitely have been Much Bigger Than That had he lived to be Leo's old man age.

(And Donnie has always been the taller twin. It's not his fault Leo had more time to gain a few inches on him.)

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tinybeetiny · 14 days ago

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Build-A-Boyfriend Chapter 2: T-Minus 4 Weeks

Why did i write this before my discussion post.....

->Starring:AI!AteezXAfab!Reader ->Genre: Dystopian ->CW: Explicit language, nothing major

Previous Part | Next Part

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The morning began with a low chime, the soft, regulated sound of Hala’s approved wake-up tone.

Yn opened her eyes slowly, the sterile glow of her ceiling light filtering in, programmed to adjust in sync with her biometric readings.

But something felt wrong.

She sat up, eyes flicking to the tablet still docked by the door.

1 New Alert. 3 Missed Logs. Urgent: Review Immediately.

Her stomach tightened.

She padded across the floor barefoot, grabbed the tablet, and scanned the notifications.

ATEEZ UNIT 06 — DEVIATION DETECTED — AUTONOMY SPIKE UNAUTHORIZED VOCALIZATION: "YN"

Yn stared at the final line for a beat too long.

Then she moved. Walking as fast as she was legally allowed through the streets of Hala.

She gave polite smiles to her coworkers as she made her way to the elevator.

The lab floor was still cool from overnight lockdown when she arrived. The biometric scanner buzzed awake as she approached, confirming her identity with a flash.

YN — Lead Engineering Tech— Clearance: Gold-Level

The steel doors hissed open.

She stepped inside, and there he was.

Unit 06 — Mingi. Exactly where she had left him.

Seated on the calibration chair, eyes closed, posture perfect, skin dewy with the faintest shimmer of dermal regulation oil. His expression was peaceful. Unnaturally so.

Yn walked around him slowly, tablet in hand, watching for signs of movement, a twitch, a breath pattern, a pupil shift. But nothing changed.

He looked inert. Safe. Dormant.

But she’d seen the log. He’d said her name.

She ran diagnostics. Nothing flagged. Heart-rate simulation: normal. Memory cache: intact. Audio response logs: empty.

Empty.

She checked his neck port. Still capped. Voice box still sealed in storage.

She swallowed hard.

The rest of the ATEEZ prototypes stood silent across the lab in their maintenance docks, each assigned to their own calibration alcove.

She walked past them one by one, watching.

Unit 01 — Hongjoong. Still as stone, but his fingers had been rearranged on the synth keyboard overnight. A composition Yura didn’t recognize blinked on his screen.

Unit 02 — Seonghwa. Always the most immaculate. But his reflection in the lab’s polished glass didn’t match his real posture, just a degree off. Barely noticeable, unless you were looking.

Unit 03 — Yunho. Smiling. Just faintly. No trigger.

Unit 04 — Yeosang. Eyes fixed on a ventilation grate in the ceiling. He hadn't looked away in over two hours, according to logs.

Unit 05 — San. Kneeling. Not in his programming. Position logged as "rest" but the posture was… reverent.

Unit 07 — Wooyoung. Chestplate cooling mechanism activated 4 times during the night — autonomously. He hadn’t been powered up.

Unit 08 — Jongho. Cracked the pressure sensor on his maintenance chair. No movement recorded.

They were silent, motionless. But Yn felt eyes on her.

Even now, standing among them, it felt like walking through a forest full of predators, beautiful, engineered predators pretending to sleep.

She leaned against the edge of the workbench, rubbing her temples, heart still racing. Four weeks to launch. The marketing campaign was already filmed. The architecture teams had begun installing the holographic interface rooms in the flagship store.

There was no time for failure. Not now.

And still… the voice chip logs were empty. The playback files had no entry. But Mingi had said her name.

And the others were changing, too. Quietly. Together.

The sound of heels against polished tile snapped Yn out of thought. Chairwoman Vira Yun entered the lab like gravity itself, sharp suit, spine straight, expression unreadable. Two aides flanked her, both scanning progress reports in real-time.

Yn straightened instinctively.

Vira’s eyes swept across the prototypes, Mingi still seated, the others upright in their calibration docks. Everything looked pristine. Controlled.

“I wanted a visual update before this afternoon’s numbers meeting,” Vira said. “How are we looking?”

Yn forced a nod. “On track. All eight are responding to recalibration. Minor bugs, but nothing that won’t be handled in time.”

Vira gave a tight smile, satisfied. “Good. The store opens in four weeks. And we’ll be announcing the Ateez line one week after that. The Board’s expecting a flawless rollout, we all are.”

She walked slowly along the row of silent units, pausing a moment longer at Mingi.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost admiring. “So much potential in one room.”

Yn’s throat tightened. “They are,” she murmured.

Vira turned back to her. “Let me know if anything... unexpected comes up.”

Yn kept her face neutral. “Of course.”

With that, Vira nodded once, then exited, heels echoing down the corridor.

The moment the door slid shut, Yn turned back to Mingi.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

But she could feel it again, that subtle wrongness humming underneath the code. A tension in the room that didn’t come from the lights or machines.

She picked up her tablet. The earlier alerts were still blinking faintly in the corner of the screen. Her fingers hovered over the reset command, but she didn’t press it.

Instead, she stared at Mingi’s still, perfect form.

Voice chip disabled. Logs empty. Command queue blank.

And yet… he had said her name.

Yn stayed long after the lab lights dimmed into their night-cycle hue.

The others had gone home, the halls had emptied. Even the air felt quieter.

She pulled up lines of diagnostic code, checking through every flagged anomaly, double-checking behavioral protocols, reviewing voice input logs that should have been blank.

Mingi still hadn’t moved. Neither had the others.

Still, something itched at her spine, not fear, not exactly. Just… unease. Low-level. Manageable. At least, that’s what her biometric monitor kept reporting.

Yn sighed, rubbed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair.

“Four weeks,” she muttered aloud, glancing toward the ceiling. “And they want them flawless. I can’t even get one of you to follow your own default pose cycle.”

Her voice echoed in the quiet.

She glanced toward Mingi again. “You glitched out before you even had a voice box. How the hell did that happen?”

No answer.

She stared at the ceiling again, her voice softer now. “I haven’t slept more than four hours in weeks. Not that my vitals allow much more. Sleep too long and the regulators flag you for depressive lethargy.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“I miss silence. Real silence. Not the kind that hums at you all day to remind you it’s working. I think I miss… something else too. Something I’ve never even had.”

She shook her head, pulling her hair up into a loose knot. “Maybe I just need caffeine. Or to scream. Or to throw my tablet out the damn window. Can’t even do that anymore. Everything’s reinforced. Everything’s... safe.”

Behind her, in the corner of the room, a pair of synthetic eyes remained open.

Unmoving. Watching.

In the back-end system, a hidden data stream pulsed to life:

[UNAUTHORIZED RECORDING — ACTIVE] Listening… — “I miss silence.” — “I think I miss something else too.” — “Can’t even scream.” Tag: Emotional Pattern Acquisition Subject: YN File saved. Labeled: Soft Sounds of Sadness.

The eyes closed again. And the lab went still.

Taglist: @e3ellie @yoongisgirl69 @jonghoslilstar @sugakooie @atztrsr

@honsans-atiny-24 @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @atzlordz @melanated-writersblock @hwasbabygirl

@sunnysidesins @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @seonghwaswifeuuuu @lezleeferguson-120 @mentalnerdgasms

@violatedvibrators @krystalcat @lover-ofallthingspretty @gigikubolong29

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biblical-chronicles · 1 month ago

Text

Hired

______________________________________________________

where Noel makes sure to interview you rather thoroughly [18+]

______________________________________________________

You were perched on the edge of a sleek, rather uncomfortable couch, clutching your portfolio like a lifeline. The receptionist had offered a forced smile and a vague instruction to "wait here," before returning to her screen.

Minutes stretched into half an hour, the ticking clock not helping your anxiety. You shifted in your seat, glancing at the closed doors that led deeper into the studio building. Just as you mustered the courage to approach the desk again, a door burst open.

A man in a tailored suit hurried out, his expression a mix of guilt and urgency. "You'll be fine, Noel. Do it for me, yeah? I owe you one!" he called over his shoulder.

Behind him stood Noel, arms crossed, a scowl etched on his face. His gaze followed the man until he disappeared, then shifted to you. "You the one here for the tech position?" he asked, his voice tinged with resignation.

You nodded, caught off guard. "Yes, that's me."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Looks like I've been roped into interviewing you. Brilliant." He gestured for you to follow. "Come on, let's get this over with."

He led you through a maze of corridors, the hum of equipment and muffled music growing louder. Finally, he opened a door to a modest studio room. "Here we are," he said, motioning for you to enter.

You stepped inside, the door closing behind you with a soft click.

Noel just gave you a look as if he was already regretting this and motioned toward the small corner of the studio where two mismatched chairs sat by a half-dead fern. You followed him in, careful not to trip over a coiled cable underfoot.

He collapsed into one of the chairs with a low grunt, legs sprawled out, arms crossed tight over his chest. You sat down opposite him, a little too stiff, trying not to look like your heart was going at full speed.

He glanced at you once, then again, slower the second time.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “This ain’t me job. Interviewing people. Not really me scene.”

You nodded, but didn’t speak. Not sure if you were supposed to yet.

He sighed through his nose “But apparently today I’m HR.”

You offered the faintest smile, but he didn’t return it. His fingers tapped a silent rhythm against his bicep.

“So,” he said finally. “Why this job?”

You swallowed. “I’ve been doing freelance tech stuff for a bit. Mostly live gigs. Smaller studio setups. I studied it properly, audio engineering, looking to collect more meaningful work experience.”

He nodded once, eyes on you, like he was weighing that against something in his head.

“And what — you reckon you’ve got the ears for it? The touch?”

“I think so.”

“Think so?” He leaned his head back against the wall, gaze still fixed. “Hope so. Can’t be half-arsed in here. One buzz on a mic and most the divs here start flipping tables.”

You didn't know if it was supposed to be a joke, but smiled anyway, trying to ignore the way your palms felt a bit damp against your knees.

His eyes drifted, not rudely, just steady. You felt them flick to your hands for a beat too long before snapping back to your face.

“And what are you like under pressure?”

You hesitated.

He didn’t blink.

“I can handle it,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

He raised one eyebrow like he didn’t quite buy it.

The room had gone still again. The hum of the equipment in the walls felt louder in the silence. You shifted in your seat. His foot tapped once against the scuffed floor and stopped.

You weren’t looking at him, not really, but you could feel the weight of his stare.

Then, without warning, he stood up. Sharp motion. His chair creaked under the shift.

You blinked up at him.

“Alright,” he muttered, stretching his arms once before letting them fall to his sides. “Enough waffle. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He jerked his head toward the console.

You stood too quickly, bumping your knee on the edge of the table. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched like he clocked it.

You followed him to the board, pulse in your ears.

He didn’t touch you, didn’t even stand that close.

But you could still feel the heat of him beside you as he reached past you, fingers brushing a toggle.

“What’s this?”

You couldn't even properly look at him before answering, too afraid of your voice failing you. “EQ strip. Four-band. High-pass here.”

He said nothing. Just stood there.

You tried not to glance. Tried not to think about how close he was, or how loud your heartbeat felt in your neck.

He flicked another switch. Closer this time.

“And that?”

You exhaled through your nose. “Talkback mic. Routes to the booth.”

Still nothing. No comment. No hum of agreement. Just the sound of your own breath and the soft mechanical whir of the studio around you.

He moved again, slowly, quiet footsteps on the worn floor, close enough now that you were hyper-aware of where he might end up if he took one more step. His hand slid across the desk, steady, fingers dragging absently over a strip of tape marked with notes.

He didn't speak again for a while. Just watched.

You adjusted the routing, said something about line level versus mic input, couldn’t quite remember how you phrased it. He didn’t correct you. Just stood there, still, like he had all the time in the world.

The silence started to itch. Your leg bounced once, then stilled. You shifted your weight — not much, just enough to feel like you were doing something.

He finally stepped forward and leaned slightly to the side, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, though he didn’t touch you. Just leaned in and pointed at another knob on the console.

“Preamp gain,” you said, before he could ask properly. Your voice came out smaller than you meant. “Input level.”

He stayed where he was.

You stared forward, blinked hard once.

Your palms felt damp, but you weren’t about to wipe them on your jeans. You held them together, knuckles pressed tight. Anything to keep still.

Then, finally:

“Alright.” he said, like a verdict.

You didn’t even notice him move after that, but his presence was suddenly right behind you. You could feel the heat from his body close enough to make your skin prickle.

His breath brushed the edge of your ear, soft but unmistakable.

“What’s this button do?” he asked. You could feel his words against your neck, the way they made you shiver involuntarily.

Your fingers were unsteady on the console as you forced yourself to look at the dial he was pointing to, willing your brain to remember the answer.

“Low-pass filter,” you whispered, trying to push the words out clearly, but they sounded weaker than you intended. Your throat was tight.

A breath of approval, a soft hum, followed by a whisper in your ear. “Good.”

It felt like a reward, but it hit your skin differently, sending a hot wave down your spine that made your legs feel a little shaky beneath you.

His hand moved, his fingers brushing lightly across your shoulder, and your whole body jolted. You hadn’t realized how much you were anticipating his touch until you felt the lightness of it against your skin. You tried to ignore the heat flooding your face, the way your pulse had already jumped too high.

“Next,” he said, his voice quieter, but his proximity making it feel like he was right in your ear.

His finger moved to another dial, and you instinctively followed the motion with your gaze. But you couldn’t focus. Not with him leaning in so close again.

"Compression," you breathed out, your voice even weaker now.

He leaned in even closer, his lips brushing the edge of your ear as he murmured, "Good."

You shifted slightly, your hands moving nervously over the console, as you looked back at him.

Yet you couldn't even get a word out, as he just grabbed your chin and tilted it slowly, just enough to pull your attention back to the board in front of you.

You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry.

“What’s this?” His question was almost nonchalant, his voice nothing more than a murmur against the curve of your neck, just close enough that you couldn’t ignore it.

You couldn’t even think. Your mind was empty except for his voice, his presence, the weight of him right behind you.

He waited. He let the silence drag on, stretching out between the two of you. His eyes never left yours, a quiet challenge flickering in their depths.

“Go on,” he urged, soft but firm. “Answer.”

You weren’t sure if you could. The words were stuck in your throat, and every part of you felt like it was burning under his stare. But finally, your mouth opened, and the answer slipped out.

“Reverb unit.”

There was another beat of silence, and then Noel’s lips curled into a slow smile, just enough to let you know he had you right where he wanted you.

“Good,” he murmured.

Noel moved back again, but not far enough to let you feel like you could breathe. Just a few paces back, arms crossed, one hip cocked lazily against the edge of the rack cabinet. Watching you.

“Sit,” he said finally, nodding toward the chair at the console.

You moved without argument.

He stepped forward and dropped back into the other chair beside you.

“Back to it,” he said, like he hadn’t just wrecked your composure. “I’ve still got questions.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or fold in on yourself. He didn’t seem to care either way.

“Routing,” he said flatly. “You’ve got drums in one room, bass in another. Tell me how you’d set up the sends.”

You inhaled. Focused. Tried to.

“Separate submixes,” you said quietly. “Drums through a bus with pre-fader sends. Bass isolated with DI and room mic blend.”

He made a small noise. Approval, maybe.

Then his hand slid over to your thigh.

You froze.

Not completely. But enough.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look. Just traced a slow, thoughtful line along the inside seam of your jeans. Fingers pressing just enough to be felt.

“And what if the kick’s bleeding into the snare mic?” he asked, voice steady. “What’s your fix love?”

You tried to breathe around the bloom of heat crawling up your neck.

“Gate the snare,” you said. “Or… move the kick mic. Change the polar pattern.”

His fingers curved. Just slightly. Like he was rewarding you.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

Then, like it was nothing, he popped the button on your jeans.

Your breath stuttered.

“Need to know how you think under pressure,” he said, voice gone low. “That alright with you?”

You nodded.

The zipper came down with a quiet hiss.

And then his hand slid inside.

You bit your lip so hard you tasted metal.

Noel still didn’t look at you. Just leaned in, adjusted a knob absently on the board with his other hand.

His fingers were already slipping under the waistband of your underwear, dragging the fabric down just enough to bare skin, his ring providing a cool sensation.

“You still answering questions,” he said, “or am I wasting me time?”

You swallowed.

“N–No. I’m ready.”

“Good.” His fingers pressed lower, parted your folds gently. “Let’s see what you can remember now.”

The first touch was maddening — just the pad of one finger circling slow, cruel. Not giving you what you needed. Just letting you know he could.

“What’s your go-to mic for vocals?” he asked.

You blinked, trying to focus past the heat flaring across your skin.

“U87,” you managed. “Or a Shure SM7B if—”

A second finger slipped through your folds, sliding slick over sensitive nerves.

“If what?” he prompted.

“If… it’s a rougher vocal. Or… male.”

He smirked at that.

“Male, yeah?” His voice dipped.

You couldn’t speak. Not when his fingers slid deeper — slowly entering you — his palm pressing flush against you as his thumb dragged up to circle your clit.

“Fuck—” you gasped.

“Language,” he muttered against your neck, lips grazing just under your ear. “You want more, you earn it.”

He didn’t move for a breathless moment, letting you squirm on his hand, your hips twitching upward without meaning to.

“What’s your fix for latency?” he asked.

You could barely think.

“Buffer size,” you choked out. “Too big—lag. Too small—glitches.”

Your thighs tensed, breath shuddering out like it was punched from your chest.

“Good girl.” he whispered.

He continued his almost rhythmic movements. Fingers curling just right, thumb rubbing little maddening circles that made it impossible to keep your eyes open. You were melting into the chair, legs spread, mouth open and breath coming in broken waves.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “You know this one.”

You didn’t even hear the question, only registering his voice, the motion of his hand, the way your body was climbing higher with every stroke. Every flick.

You felt him shift closer, his free hand reaching to adjust a gain knob like this was just another afternoon session. Like you weren’t dripping on his fingers.

He brought his mouth close again, lips barely brushing your cheek.

“How many inputs can you run on a standard 8-bus console?”

“Sixteen,” you whispered. “With pairing—thirty-two.”

He hummed, pleased.

His fingers moved faster. Deeper.

The world broke apart.

You moaned, sharp, involuntary. One hand flying to grip the console, the other to his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold onto anything.

“You’re close,” he murmured. “Can feel it. Don’t hold back on me now, yeah love?”

It rolled through you then, sudden and hot, like all the tension had pooled in your spine and snapped forward all at once. Your body convulsed around his hand, legs trembling, breath gone to static.

He didn’t stop. Not right away. Slowed only when your hips began to twitch from sensitivity, then pulled his fingers out with slow reverence.

You sagged in the chair, half-breathless, eyes fluttering open to find him watching you.

He stood, wiping his fingers on the thigh of his jeans, then leaning forward to tap the console lightly.

“Levels are still good,” he said, like none of it had happened. “Consider yourself hired.”

______________________________________________________

I am back ya lot !!

hope you liked it, also actual audio engineers please excuse any jarring mistakes, this is all quickly googled knowledge here x

so glad to be scribbling away again xx

#oasis x reader #oasis one shots #britpop x reader #britpop fanfiction #britpop x f!reader #oasis band #noel gallagher x reader #oasis fanfiction #noel gallagher x you #noel gallagher x f!reader #noel gallagher x y/n #noel gallagher fanfiction #noel gallagher x reader smut #noel gallagher x f!reader smut #oasis fic #britpop fanfic #britpop smut #britpop x you #britpop x reader smut

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targaryenfelikayt · 2 months ago

Text

imprisonment. |The Sinclair Brothers|

wc: 2,770 summary: restriction of a person's liberty for any reason whatsoever, whether by order of a government or by a person acting without such authority. tags/warnings: anxiety, uncertain end, kidnapping, one-sided feelings. note: if you read this in Russian, then yes, I am translating my works into English.

Bo Sinclair.

This damn trip started as badly as it would end. From the beginning, the rental car's engine was acting up, but the group decided to ignore after all, an adventure awaited them: a journey through the land of boundless freedom, with mountain ranges, wild beaches, endless forests, and scorching deserts. It was the ninth hour on the road, most of which had passed along the highway, and if not for unexpected construction work, they would’ve reached a big city by nightfall.

“We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.” The girl leaned forward from the back seat, trying to make out something ahead.

The driver wanted to reply, but missed a pothole, hitting it hard with the front left tire. The jolt slammed her head into the car's ceiling and flung her backward. She hissed in frustration, fumbling for her seatbelt to avoid being tossed around again.

That wasn’t easy trying to buckle up while holding a trophy and using a phone flashlight as the car rocked from side to side was a challenge. As she finally clicked the belt into place, two small lights appeared in the window, one after another, as if someone was peeking out from behind the trees.

“Hey, look. Is that… another car?”

Her friend in the passenger seat glanced around, puzzled.

“You’re seeing things. Probably just light bouncing off something. There’s nothing on the map or GPS. Swear to God, this is the boonies.”

“They don’t build bypass roads through the wilderness, even if it’s old.” The driver chimed in.

“There’s nothing left but the name.”

The girl tried to get a signal, but the internet was stubbornly silent about their current location. The next town was still a couple of miles away, maybe an hour and a half or even two, with how dark it was now. After a few more minutes, the headlights caught a welcome sign.

“Welcome to Ambrose. Don’t forget to visit our House of Wax.” The guy read the sign out loud, turning the wheel. “Told you it wasn’t that far.”

“Still is, according to the GPS.” She leaned forward again between the seats.

“Must be crappy coverage out here, ladies, if the tech doesn’t realize we’ve already reached our cozy little stopover. We’ll figure out where to go in the morning. For now, let’s just be happy with this sweet twist of fate.”

Crossing a shallow stream, they drove into town and stopped by a gas station. Everything around was silent, broken only by the faint sound of a radio from inside the convenience store. The streetlights only worked near the station and the church, which stood awkwardly unkempt. Its sharp spire loomed over the low buildings, looking ready to tip over toward the peeling white paint on its north wall. It felt like only old folks still lived here, seeing out the rest of their days.

“I’ll go look for someone. If there’s no motel, maybe we can ask to stay with someone.” The girl carefully stepped out of the car, holding the door as if it, too, had aged with the rest of the town.

The workshop attached to the store greeted her with Rob Zombie playing, the scent of motor oil, and one of those cheap air fresheners. Well, at least someone lived here.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

As she walked past shelves full of random stuff, she noticed a door to the back. Warm light spilled from the basement, and for the love of God, it never even crossed her mind to go down there. Never go into basements or attics, the golden rule of all horror stories and people not looking to get into trouble.

“Hello? Looking for someone. Anyone at all.” She tapped on the wooden hatch.

Her phone buzzed with a notification about seasonal discounts and then went dark. So, there *was* signal—why the hell wasn’t this town on any maps?

“Then I’m probably the best luck you’ll get tonight.”

Startled, she turned toward the voice at the doorway—and froze. A stranger’s head peeked just above the basement steps. His gray eyes studied the unexpected guest with curious intensity. It was going to be a quiet evening: Vincent was working on details for the wax museum, Lester was probably off in the woods as usual, and he... Well, the shop always kept him busy.

The girl tensed. She couldn’t even see his whole face, just the blue mechanic’s coveralls and a baseball cap shadowing most of his features.

“Is that so?” she smiled nervously, trying to hide her unease, but couldn’t stop the flutter in her voice under the weight of his calm confidence.

He stepped onto the first stair without breaking eye contact. The creak made her shoulders twitch. One more step. The sound was worse this time. He relished the tension radiating off her as he took two more stairs with deliberate ease.

“Yeah... That’s so.”

She lifted her head, studying the mechanic who now stood toe to toe with her. Her considerable height seemed to vanish next to a man built like a bear. A grizzly — that’s who he reminded her of. Not some plush toy, but a real predator, walking calmly only until someone disturbed his peace.

Smirking, he stepped over to the hatch and shut it.

“My name’s Bo, and I own the place you’re standing in. What can I help you with?”

“We need a motel, or just somewhere to spend the night. The roads under construction, we had to take a detour, and either your surface is off, or the GPS is glitching — it doesn’t show up on the map.”

“What did you expect,” the man said, leading her along. “Small town, small population. I can offer you a place to stay at my house.”

Opening the front door for her, Sinclair looked over at the group that had gathered. A thought flashed through his mind — it would’ve been better if today were just another ordinary June day. Finding and creating future figures takes a lot of time and energy, especially when you’ve been doing it your whole conscious life. Sure, in a way, lost lambs like this made the job easier, but statues required delicate details, inspiration, not mechanical repetition. They’d never be beautiful otherwise — not the way Mother wanted.

“It’d be great if you could take a look at the car in the morning, before we leave,” she added. “I don’t like the sound it’s making under the hood when we pick up speed.”

The guy standing next to another girl offered his hand and shook Bo’s a little too firmly for someone so scrawny. Better be careful with this one. Hit him on the headfirst, just in case he got any heroic ideas.

“My place is a couple blocks away. I’d say leave your ride here. No one’s gonna steal it — unless the old priest decides to renounce the Lord and relive his youth.”

Flashing a warm smile, Bo locked the garage for show and headed into town. He didn’t need a flashlight to walk the road he could cross blindfolded, but for the tourists, you had to play the part. Good thing Vincent always left the outdoor lights on.

Meanwhile, the girl couldn’t bring herself to stop staring at the broad back ahead of her. The unease didn’t go away. It was hard to understand her own feelings — something inside was sounding the alarm just from the man’s presence, while her brain stayed neutral. After all, there was no *real* reason to fear him. Her tired gaze drifted toward a still-standing house.

Bo entered first, made a joke to the guy about the unlocked door, and offered them something to eat.

“Let me make dinner,” she said, focusing all his attention on him. “It’s no trouble, really. Think of it as a small thank-you.”

Sinclair wasn’t used to anyone playing host on his turf, but looking into her eyes, he didn’t want to object. Two of the others went back to the car when they realized the guy had left his phone there. “Even better,” flashed through his mind as he saw the door close behind them. Left in silence, the man went to change, while the girl was already chopping vegetables. Something heavily coiled under his ribs as he watched her in the familiar setting of his home. That quiet care — toward someone who’d turned her friends into wax statues — amused him... If only she knew who she was cooking for, she might’ve added poison.

“If you help me with the meat, dinner’ll be ready faster,” she called from the kitchen when Bo returned.

“Who’s helping who? Been a long time since I had a real home-cooked meal.”

He managed to dull the gnawing feeling of dread with a smile that turned out softer than he intended. He wanted to see her beside him — always. And in that moment, Bo Sinclair made up his mind. And the one who’d shown him kindness for the first time... would either accept it — or fight him to the end.

Vincent Sinclair.

Muse. Vincent needed one as he finished the new figure for the museum. This guy had been especially difficult to work with, not least because of the time spent dealing with a shoulder shredded by buckshot — stitching the skin back together, cauterizing a damaged vein before that. For a moment, he thought it would’ve been easier to throw the body away, but that moment of weakness passed quickly — you couldn’t afford to waste good material.

Sinclair was truly skilled with surgical tools. In another life, he could’ve been a doctor like his father, but in this one, his mother’s love had steered him in a different direction. Vincent was an artist, a creator, a sculptor, a killer. He never felt any real passion for the act of killing itself, it was more a part of the job, where a lost soul in Ambrose became raw material.

Setting the needle and thread aside, his gaze wandered over his handiwork. Not perfect, but the best he could manage in these conditions. The guy had blacked out a couple of times from the pain, which was for the better, Sinclair hated it when people started moaning. It ruined the whole mood, the creative focus.

The wax was slowly boiling over an open flame, making the room stiflingly hot. The heaviness spread through the basement, wrapping around the artist’s neck and squeezing tight, making it harder to breathe.

Art demands sacrifice, even from its creator.

One night, when Trudy was putting her sons to bed, Vincent couldn’t sleep. His mother was growing nervous, she still had to repair yet another of masks. Lighting a cigarette, she stood by the window for a long time, staring out at the dark silhouettes of the town, as if trying to see what others were doing behind their walls or perhaps lost in her own thoughts.

“Your namesake,” she suddenly turned around, her tired, unblinking gaze locking onto her son, “Vincent van Gogh, cut off his own earlobe in a fit of madness. Brilliant minds are insane. They’re never understood by nobodies and hicks like the ones living in Ambrose.”

The boy nodded, stepping closer, but she stabbed the cigarette out on the painted windowsill, kissed his forehead, and left the room. What was going on in her head, no one ever knew. Not then, not even now.

A sharp whistle pierced the silence. Time to begin the main part of the process, the one where everything depended on how well he’d completed the previous steps. The wax poured down in thick droplets from the pipes, spreading over the body of the unfortunate victim. Yes, she’d been a challenge, but it had been worth it. Watching hours of intense work transforms into an angelic statue, that was something beyond words. Vincent could never get used to it: every time he felt a strange thrill, a flood of thoughts that vanished the moment his hands touched the tools.

He had time now to finish the preparations. Walking over to the clothing rack, he sifted through outfit after outfit, but nothing seemed right. Then his fingers brushed against a pearl hairclip in a box of accessories. He stopped, tracing the beads with his thumb.

That clip… Hers.

So odd forgetting to eat, to sleep, to rest, but remembering exactly what kind of clip she wore that day. Maybe it could be chalked up to an artist’s memory for details, but he’d never had that before.

Slipping it into his pocket, Sinclair paused, then decided to head upstairs. At first, Bo had thought it was a good idea to place the girl in their father’s old study. The room was perfect for keeping an eye on her, with a secret passage connecting it to both the house and the museum. But Vincent had kept shaking his head, knowing it wasn’t practical. It was Lester who finally voiced some sense:

“You guys seriously don’t get it? She’s already locked in give her a space where she can feel at least somewhat safe. Otherwise, we’ll either be hunting her through the woods or turning her corpse into the next exhibit.”

That outcome was the last thing the sculptor wanted, especially after fighting so hard to let her stay in Ambrose. Alive. After a bit more arguing, Bo once again told them to go to hell and stormed out. Lester, unexpectedly, clapped Vincent on the shoulder and said they’d figure it out.

"Did he know something?" Sinclair wondered as he made his way through the catacombs. He thought no one noticed his interest. But really, why else would he have decided to keep her close?

She was otherworldly. And it wasn’t just the airy white dress it was the fact that when she saw him without the mask (which had fallen off during the scuffle with the rest of her group), she hadn’t screamed. It was the fact that, letting the others go, she had to stay behind. Foolish to think they were still alive, but that altruistic act bordering on desperation had left its mark. Would either of his brothers have done the same? Would he?

Vincent didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do with her now, didn’t know how to get closer, how to win her over and he didn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest.

The wooden hatch thudded against the worn carpet with a muffled sound. Somewhere down the hallway, someone flinched—because she knew who had come back. She’d been told clearly: nothing would happen to her if she followed the rules and stayed out of the elder Sinclair’s way. It wasn’t hard, really, considering she hadn’t left the room set aside for her in days.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Vincent opened it and met a wary, haunted gaze. The closer he came, the harder it was for her to hold back tears. God, why was he wearing that mask? And why was he silent? Wasn’t it enough that she was already teetering on the edge of a breakdown?

He could clearly see her reaction and stopped, searching for a pen and paper. Scrawling a few lines, his trembling fingers pushed the note closer to her.

“You can stay here and never leave this room or calm down and start a new life.”

“I didn’t ask for this new life. Why couldn’t you just turn me into one of your wax dolls?!”

The girl snapped and fell apart completely. Had he upset her that much? Vincent hadn’t meant to make her cry. No, not his muse — his muse was supposed to be happy.

Then he remembered the hair clip. Maybe that would calm her down? He slid the accessory over just like the note, and when she reached for the pearly beads, his fingertips brushed her soft skin.

It was their first physical contact. It hit him like a jolt of electricity pleasant, addictive. The sculptor could’ve stayed at that moment forever. Startled, he backed out of the room like a man possessed, retreating to the familiar refuge of the basement, while she stared at the clip a gift from the woman who had offered her and her husband a ride to another town.

“Sweetheart, you look just like an old movie star in that dress.”

Those had been her last words before they ended up in this town. Somewhere beneath the frame and glue, brownish stains remained. Knowing whose blood it was, the girl broke down again in sobs.

She would never be free again.

#house of wax #x reader #slasher x reader #slashers x you #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #vincent sinclair x you

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fandomnerd9602 · 10 months ago

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Lost/Found

Wanda Maximoff x Stark!Reader

You lost her. The love of your life, snuffed out by Kang right before your eyes. In your rage, you supercharged your armor and sliced his head clean off.

Wanda Maximoff was your Scarlet Witch and you were her Iron Knight. A love forged first in adversity but eventually it gave way to a forbidden love. And now that love was all you had left.

You thought that was the end of it. But then the TVA showed up. They declared that you had left your path on the timeline by killing Kang. So you were pruned from the timeline.

The next thing you knew, you woke up in the Void. A vast empty wasteland full of broken buildings and trinkets.

Luckily the TVA didn’t think to strip you of your armor or toolkit. You quickly worked to get a near perfect Honda Odyssey back into working order. You just had to convert the gasoline engine into one that worked off repulsor tech. A simple solution that could only be thought of in the mind of a Stark.

You drove around, gathering up supplies and food. There was no way out of the Void. So you might as well try to survive. Surviving was really all you could do after losing Wanda.

Something pushed you to keep going. Detka. The word rummaged in your head. It was Wanda’s name for you. It spurred you to keep going.

You came to gather info about how the Void was ran by Cassandra Nova. A helpful fellow named Johnny Storm filled you in before pointing you in the direction of the so called Resistance.

You drove what seemed to be miles upon miles. Endless dunes and forests. Which way was it supposed to be? Straight detka.

You drove all night and into the early morning. Stop

You obeyed the small voice buzzing around in your head. Ahead of you was a small clearing with ruins stacked upon each other, forming a little makeshift base. Was this the resistance base Johnny spoke of?

You stepped out calmly, keeping your hands raised. A sai immediately hit the door of the Odyssey. You turned to see a woman dressed in red ninja gear drop down from a nearby tree.

“Who are you?” She asked firmly.

“(Y/N) (Y/N) Stark,” you state as you drop the briefcase that was your armor to the ground and kick it towards her.

Surprisingly she dropped her own weapons and looked at you a little surprised, “(Y/N)? As in the (Y/N)?!”

“Ihighlydoubtthere’sanotherone” a Cajun accent gentleman came up to you with a smile. “Remy. Remy Lebeau. TheycallmetheGambit”

“Stark” you shook his hand, “they call me the Iron Knight but my love used to call me her…”

“Detka!!!” A familiar voice called out to you. And there she was, looking not a day older than the day you lost her: Wanda Maximoff.

“W-Wanda” you whispered, tears forming in your eyes.

Tears were forming in her own as she ran to you. You ran to meet her. The two of you held each other close. Wanda grabbed your face with her nimble fingers and stares at you, just wanting to take in every little detail.

“Is it really you? My (Y/N)!” She cries.

You hold her own face in your hands, “it’s me, Wanda.”

The two of you kiss each other, like each one may be the last. Or maybe the first.

“Ahlookatthelovebirds” Gambit smiles.

“Finally” a well dressed vampire hunter joins the group.

A young teen steps out from the base, smiling at the scene before her, “you were like all she could talk about!”

“I’m never letting you go.” You whispered against Wanda’s lips.

“Promise me that,” Wanda begged quietly.

“I promise” you don’t hesitate to respond. You gently wipe away her tears with your thumbs.

You heard the horn of another Honda odyssey rolling up. “Hey you made it!” Johnny called out as two more colorful figures jumped out from the back seats.

“Ohmygoshf—k!!” The red clad man exclaimed, “Scarlet Witch and Iron Knight?! Disney did not cheapen out on us!!”

The other man, clad in yellow and blue walked up to Wanda and shook her hand, “Wanda. It’s good to see a familiar face. Even if it’s from another world.”

“Uh thank you?” Wanda says with a little smile.

You give her forehead a little kiss. You had your witch back in your arms. And thanks to Deadpool and Wolverine, you may have found a way back home.

Tags: @lifespectator @aloneodi @family-house-of-m @holiday-house-of-m @iiconicsfan25 @iamnicodemus @jacenradio7 @dudesweet17 @supercorpdanbeau @scarletquake-n7

#marvel #marvel fluff #marvel imagine #mcu #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #elizabeth olsen #scarlet witch #the scarlet witch #deadpool and wolverine

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jetii · 2 months ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Thirty-Five: Specters

Chapter WC: 8,318

Chapter Tags/Warnings: none?

A/N: All the lore about Duro I stole from legends and then took all the parts I wanted for ~flavor~ and threw away the rest. The same thing with all the tech stuff 🤷‍♀️

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Duro, 20 BBY

It’s the early hours of the morning when you land outside the towering walls of the city housing the northern shield generator. It’s named after the original founders of the planet, a group of scientists and researchers who came together to form the settlement that eventually grew into a thriving city. They called it Urdur, a word meaning "new" or "fresh" in the Duros language, and the name stuck.

Now, it’s a skeleton of its former glory, a charred out husk of metal and rubble. It's a ghost town, empty and silent, and a sense of foreboding washes over you as the ship descends, landing near a series of warehouses and factories too important to abandon completely. You can feel the eyes of worker droids watching you from the windows, tracking your movements. Waiting.

The streets are barren, the buildings empty, and the whole place has a sense of stillness to it, a quiet that only the dead can truly appreciate. Even the breeze seems to be stagnant, a cold, heavy weight that settles on your shoulders with the morning fog as the doors to the gunship slide open.

Rex jumps out first and holds out a hand for you. You take it, and he helps you down. He releases his hold almost immediately, his hands going to his blasters as his helmet scans the surrounding area, searching for any sign of danger. You know he doesn’t see anything. Neither do you. But that does little to ease the dread that has taken root in your stomach.

It's still pitch black outside, the faint light of dawn hours away, and the glow from the ship is the only source of illumination around you, a harsh white light that reflects off the durasteel of the buildings. The rest of the city is shrouded in shadow, the stars blotted out by the thick blanket of smog and the shield shimmering faintly above.

The only other light comes distantly from the the red haze of the emergency lights along the perimeter of the shield, somewhere deep inside the city center. You take a deep breath and look up at the shield cast in a bloody hue. It stretches up, high into the sky, and seems to fade into nothing, the dark clouds obscuring its full height.

"Well," you say, turning back to Rex, "at least the shields are still up."

"Not for long," he replies, his voice distorted. His helmet turns in your direction, and his hands fall away from his blasters, dropping to his sides. "The rest of the men will be here soon. We should move fast. Give us time to dig in before the enemy gets here."

"We will," you confirm. "You ready?"

"I've been ready," he drawls.

Rex tilts his head toward the ship, and his troopers start filing out, forming a line around you. Dozens of your men do the same from the surrounding transports, and soon, the entire area is surrounded.

One by one, the gunships take off again in bursts of light and wind, sending dirt and debris swirling through the air. You wince as the light stabs into your eyes, and Rex steps in front of you, shielding you from the worst of it with his armored bulk. He turns his head and watches as the gunships disappear, the hum of their engines fading away until the only thing left is the crunch of the clones' boots and the soft hiss of their respirators.

"Thanks," you murmur, and Rex nods, stepping to the side. His hand hovers near the small of your back as you straighten, a comforting touch that lingers even as he drops his arm.

"Anytime."

Rex looks over at Snap, and the clone's helmet dips in a quick nod. They both turn to the other troopers, gesturing for them to move out, and the men begin moving in a loose formation. The two captains flank either side of you as you trudge toward the closed gate, and you watch movement break out along the walls, the silhouettes of figures lining the edge.

The gate opens slowly, a low groan echoing across the courtyard. It reveals a row of shiny troopers, and the clones stiffen as you approach, snapping to attention.

"General," the sole clone with paint on his armor greets as he steps forward with a salute.

"Lieutenant," you say. You glance around, and a frown tugs at your lips. "Is this all of you?"

"Yes, sir," the Lieutenant replies, his helmet dipping. He's young, and his nervousness is visible in the Force. "The rest of the company is stationed at the main shield generator. We were left to guard the perimeter."

"I see," you hum. You tilt your head, and a sense of unease fills you. There's something wrong here, but you're not sure what. "And the rest of the city? What happened to the civilians?"

"They left," he says. "A couple weeks ago."

"And no sign of the Separatists?"

"No, sir."

You glance at Rex and shake your head. His posture relaxes, but his unease bleeds through the Force, and his gaze darts between the wall and the shield above. You sigh, a sinking feeling settling in your gut.

"Alright, Lieutenant," you order. "Take us to the generator."

"Yes, sir."

The Lieutenant spins on his heel, and you follow him inside. You can hear the men fall into step behind you, their weapons drawn and ready. Rex and Snap keep close, their helmets sweeping the streets. The clones fan out, a wave of white and blue and gold pouring into the city, filling the empty space.

Urdur is a mess, and the city is in ruins. Most of the buildings are nothing more than piles of rubble, and the ones that are still standing have been abandoned, their doors locked tight and the windows boarded up. The streets are filled with debris and broken down machinery, remnants of a civilization left forgotten centuries ago. The only sign of life is the occasional droid, scurrying away at the sight of your soldiers.

"I'm not surprised the locals fled," Snap murmurs, and you can hear the grimace in his voice. "This place is depressing."

"Agreed," you mutter. "It's like walking through a tomb."

"You're not far off," he says, his voice low. He tilts his head toward a nearby pile of debris. "This city's been dead for a while."

"How long is a while?" you ask.

"At least a century, according to the intel." Snap pauses and lets out a frustrated noise, his helmet shifting in your direction. "You didn't read the briefing, did you?"

"Yes, I did, thank you. I just skimmed the history section," you offer, and Rex huffs out a laugh. Snap lets out a long sigh and shakes his head, muttering under his breath. "I did!"

"Skimmed isn't reading, General," Rex teases.

"Close."

"Not really," Snap scoffs, and you can't help but chuckle at his annoyance. "What were you doing that was more important than reading the briefing? And don't tell me you were sleeping. You know that's not going to work on me."

"Well," you start, glancing at Rex out of the corner of your eye and meeting his gaze. He shakes his head.

A smirk spreads across your lips. You'd spent multiple nights in hyperspace en route to Duro messaging him and talking with him about the upcoming mission, among other things. Mostly how nice it would be to work together again. It wasn't anything serious. Just a conversation between friends. Nothing more. At least, that's what you've been telling yourself.

But it's getting harder to convince yourself otherwise. Especially after what almost happened in the cargo bay.

"You know me. I get distracted," you finally say, and Rex's shoulders relax as Snap sighs. "But I did read most of it."

"Right," he says, his tone disbelieving. "Just don't ask me anything else."

"Fine," you huff. "Lieutenant?"

"Sir," the clone replies. He turns, and you can feel the apprehension in his aura, the hesitation. He seems surprised, and more than a little confused, at the way his superiors are talking to each other. Like friends, instead of soldiers. "Are you..."

"No, Lieutenant," you interrupt. "I'm not going to ask you about Duros history. I just want to know what you've been dealing with here."

"Oh," he says, his voice wavering slightly. "Okay. Well, there's not much to tell. We've been doing rounds for the past couple days. And the shield generator is...it's just over the next hill. We should reach it soon."

"Good," you reply, and the Lieutenant turns, the movement awkward and hurried.

You frown, and Rex glances at you. The two of you stare at each other for a moment before you look back to the Lieutenant, your eyes boring into the back of his head. His posture is rigid, and he doesn't speak, his hands clenched tightly around his blasters.

The Lieutenant's nervousness is a tangible thing in the Force, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a prickling sensation racing up your spine. It's not the nerves of a shiny at his new posting, it's something else. And if Rex's reaction is any indication, he senses it too.

"So," you start, keeping your voice casual. "What's wrong with the shield generator?"

The clone's footsteps stutter, and he stops, turning back to you. "Sir?"

"The shield generator," you repeat as you cross your arms over your chest. "What's wrong with it?"

The Lieutenant is silent for a moment before he speaks.

"I...uh..." His shoulders slump, and he sighs, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I don't know, sir. All I know is that there's a problem with the main reactor. We've been running on auxiliary power for a couple of weeks, and we can't get it back online."

"I see," you murmur, and you shoot a pointed look at Rex. The captain sighs and shakes his head, exasperation radiating from him and mixing with your own. Your hands fist at your sides, and you take a deep breath. "And you didn't think that was worth mentioning?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the Lieutenant offers. "I didn't realize..."

"What, exactly, have you all been doing here?" you ask, your voice sharp. He flinches, and the other clones shift nervously, your troops tensing at the change in tone. You hold up a hand and force a calm expression onto your face. "You have a malfunctioning shield generator, and all you've done is patrol the perimeter?"

"We tried to fix it, sir. But it's ancient, and we don't have the equipment or the know-how to get it back online," he replies quickly. "We...we didn't think anyone was coming. We've been on our own for months."

"Of course," you sigh.

The Lieutenant hesitates and clears his throat, his gaze darting between the three of you.

"Can...can you fix it?" he asks, his voice tentative.

"We're going to have to," you mutter, and he shifts on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. You let out a heavy sigh and rub your temples, closing your eyes. You should have expected this. You shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. "Fine. Just...just keep walking."

"Yes, sir."

The Lieutenant starts moving again, and the rest of the group follows. You shake your head, rolling your eyes at his retreating back, and Rex falls into step beside you, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

"This is not funny," you hiss. He grunts and tilts his helmet toward you, a silent agreement. You sigh and drag a hand over your face, pinching the bridge of your nose. "This is a disaster."

"Stop pouting," he chides quietly, his voice low as he leans in closer to you. You can hear the smile in his voice, and your scowl deepens into a glare. "You knew what we were getting into."

"That's not the point," you snap.

"It's exactly the point," he says, his tone firm. "You knew this was a long shot."

"I know," you groan. You run a hand through your hair and blow out a breath, letting some of the frustration drain away. "I just...I thought maybe..."

"Me too," he murmurs, and he gives your shoulder a light squeeze. "We'll make do. We always do."

You give a sharp nod and take a deep breath, trying to ease the ache in your chest. It doesn't work. Instead, it only tightens, a vice grip around your heart that leaves you feeling cold and hollow.

The rest of the walk to the generator is a quiet affair. It's a short walk, but it feels like forever, and the longer you're here, the worse the feeling in your chest gets. It's not dread, or worry. Not really. It's...something else. Something you can't quite place. Something that has you on edge.

"Rex," you murmur as you approach the top of the hill. "Something's not right."

"I know," he replies. His voice is quiet, the words only meant for you. "I can feel it too."

"You should take the 501st and reinforce the wall. When the 882nd arrives, have them set up outside of it," you instruct. You can feel his hesitance, but Rex nods anyway. "The rest can hold the perimeter, and the 103rd will secure the city. That's priority. I'll handle the generator."

"Yes, sir."

Rex falls back, his steps slowing, and he pulls out his comm. His fingers dance over the display, sending orders and instructions to the troops waiting outside the wall. You turn back to the path ahead, your gaze focused on the Lieutenant as Snap steps closer to your side.

The clones behind you continue moving forward, slicing a path through the heavy mist that blankets the ground and swirls around you. You trudge together in silence, checking every corner and every window until the shadow of the building housing the shield generator falls over you.

The structure is massive, a monolith towering over the surrounding buildings and reaching toward the sky. Its facade is cracked and pitted, and the stone is coated in a layer of dust, the red of the emergency lights casting an ominous glow over the exterior. There are no windows or doors, and the only way in is a large, open archway.

As soon as you get close, the doors beyond the archway open, and two clones from the advance team emerge, weapons raised. Their stances relax at the sight of the Lieutenant, and they wave you forward, stepping aside to let you pass.

"General," the first clone greets. "Everything is secure."

You resist the urge to scoff and shake your head, sensing the embarrassment and anxiety radiating from them. They've probably spent the last week lazing around and drinking, and while you can hardly blame them for taking advantage of a quiet posting, it's just another in a long line of disappointments.

"Good work," you say. You don't mean it. Not really. But there's no point in berating them. The damage is done.

Your gaze slides past the two troopers to the inside of the building. It's an open atrium, with a high ceiling and a wide staircase leading up to the second level. You can't see much in the dim light, but you can make out the glint of metal and the flash of a blaster barrel poking out from behind a pillar.

"Any movement?" Snap asks, his voice low.

"Nothing yet, sir," he reports. The troopers share a glance and turn back to you. "Just a maintenance droid or two. But we didn't want to touch anything. You know, in case..."

"Of course," you sigh. "Well, let's hope there's something left for me to salvage."

The trooper nods and steps aside, allowing you and the others to enter. Snap follows closely behind, his hand hovering near his blaster as he scans the room for threats.

"Where's Dash? He's the best person to figure this thing out," you ask him, and Snap nods over his shoulder toward the entrance. "He's outside?"

"Here, sir," Dash pipes up, shoving his way through the ranks of the clones and jogging over to you. You can't help but smile as he comes to a stop in front of you, and the trooper takes off his helmet, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He offers you a weak grin, and the familiar, easy charm in his eyes sends a wave of relief crashing over you. "Sorry, I was just taking some readings outside. Got a bit lost."

"Anything interesting?" you ask, raising an eyebrow, and Dash shakes his head, letting out a laugh.

"Not really. Just that this is some old tech. Like, really old," he replies. He looks around, and his mouth twists into a grimace. "And not Republic standard."

"That's not surprising," you reply. You tilt your head, indicating for the troopers to follow, and the three of you head for the stairs. "This planet was abandoned centuries ago."

"Well, yeah, but this is, like, really old," Dash repeats, his voice echoing around the chamber. He gestures at the walls, his hand waving through the air. "It's, uh, it's a Durosian design. From their golden age. The Republic didn't start using this type of technology until about five hundred years after that."

"If it isn't broken, don't fix it. Or so the saying goes," you mutter, and Dash snorts.

"Not sure I'd call this functional, sir," he points out, and you shrug, glancing at him as the three of you crest the top of the stairs. The Lieutenant is already ahead of you, leading the way inside the main control room, and the door opens with a hiss. "But if I can figure out how to get the main reactor back online, we'll be in good shape."

"Then we better get started," you say.

Dash nods and pulls out his datapad, tapping on the screen as the three of you step through the doorway and into the large chamber. It's a spacious, circular room, the walls stretching endlessly up into the dark. The generator sits in the center of the room, easily the size of a small starship, and its surface is covered in glowing blue panels and wires. The whole thing is vibrating, a deep, mechanical rumbling that reverberates through the floor and settles in the back of your skull.

"I hope you can work with all this noise," you mutter, wincing as the machine gives a particularly loud whine.

"Don't worry about me," Dash replies, his gaze fixed on his datapad. "I can work with anything."

"I don't doubt that," you murmur, a fond smile curling on your lips.

He looks up and gives you a grin before he moves to the center of the room, heading straight for the console built into the generator. He drops his helmet and datapad onto the ground, and he crouches down, opening his toolkit.

Snap nudges your shoulder, and you follow him as he strolls around the consoles lining the outer walls. You can see a number of images and maps on the dust-coated displays, but the text is in an unfamiliar language, and none of the images make any sense. You're not even sure what they're supposed to show.

"Don't suppose you speak ancient Duros?" you ask Dash as Snap continues searching for something useful.

"Uh, no," Dash calls back, poking his head out from the panel he's opened. "I mean, basic programming is the same across the galaxy. It's pretty intuitive. Just gotta figure out the interface after I get the core running again."

"And you think you can?" Snap asks, his tone skeptical.

"Messing with ancient technology we barely understand? Sure," Dash jokes. He pauses and frowns, his expression thoughtful. "Honestly, I'm a little insulted. Do you really have that little faith in me?"

"It's not your skills we're worried about," Snap scoffs. "We're worried you'll end up turning the generator into a bomb. Again."

"That was once," Dash says defensively. "And it wasn't my fault. It was—"

"—the wiring was wrong. I know," Snap interrupts, a hint of a laugh in his voice. He stops and glances back at the younger clone. "Still ended up exploding. And taking out half the station."

"You said you wouldn't bring that up," he grumbles. He pulls a panel out from under the console and sets it aside before crawling into the opening. His voice is muffled as he speaks, and you can't help but smile at the frustration in his tone. "That was a long time ago. I was young. I've grown since."

"Not by much," Snap quips.

"Oh, shut up."

Dash disappears into the panel, his movements hidden by the machinery. A loud clang echoes through the space, followed by a curse and the hiss of an electric torch. You sigh and turn to the Lieutenant, who's remained standing awkwardly by the door, watching the three of you. He straightens, snapping to attention as your gaze settles on him, and he clears his throat.

"Sir," he starts, and he shifts on his feet. "Do you need anything else?"

"Go clean up whatever mess you all made down there," you order. He flinches, and you soften, sighing. "The city was evacuated weeks ago. What have you been doing for the past couple of days?"

"Patrolling," he replies. He hesitates and swallows thickly. "There's not much else to do. We were ordered not to interact with the locals."

"So, nothing," you sigh, and the Lieutenant nods, a slight dip of his chin. "Right. Well, there are a lot of things that need fixing. Make yourself useful. Start clearing the streets."

"Yes, sir," he murmurs. He pauses, his brow furrowing. "Um...if I may?"

"What is it?" you ask, and the clone hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. You cross your arms over your chest and give him a pointed look. "Speak, Lieutenant."

"What...what happens if the shield fails? I mean...what are we supposed to do?"

"I won't lie," you say quietly, "if we fail, it won't be a pleasant experience. That shield is the only thing between us and occupation."

"Right."

"But don't worry," you continue. You offer him a wry smile and pat him on the shoulder, trying to ease his nerves. It doesn't seem to help. "This isn't our first invasion."

"No, sir," the Lieutenant agrees, and his eyes go wide, realization dawning on him. "Wait. You're—you're General Anathorn, aren't you? I've heard about you."

"That's me," you reply. You raise an eyebrow and gesture at him. "And you're..."

"CT-6010, sir. Patch," he answers quickly. His expression shifts into a faint grin. "You saved my batchmate on Kamino. CT-4128. He's part of the 212th now."

"Oh." You frown and rack your brain, trying to place the trooper. It's been so long, and there were so many of them, and you weren't exactly paying attention to the names and numbers. You shrug. "Well. Tell him I said hello after this is over."

Patch smiles and salutes before hurrying out the door. You watch him go, a strange sense of deja vu washing over you. There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of stories like that. Troopers whose lives you've saved. Who would be dead if it weren't for your intervention. Who would have fallen on the battlefield if you weren't there to save them. And they're everywhere. You can't walk through a camp or a ship without being stopped and thanked for some past act or another.

You're a Jedi. It's part of the job. You're expected to save lives, to fight for them and protect them, at least to some degree. But the gratitude and praise you get for it never stops being uncomfortable. You never stop feeling undeserving of it. Like you're taking credit for someone else's actions.

You've done nothing special. Nothing anyone else wouldn't have done in your place. And you certainly don't deserve the accolades. You're just doing your job. And it's the least you can do. After everything the clones have sacrificed for the Order. For the Republic. For the galaxy. It's the least you can do.

Snap lets out a low chuckle, and you turn to find him watching you, his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk on his lips. You glare at him, and he grins.

"You've got quite a fan club," he says, and you shake your head, rolling your eyes. "Bet you he's got your poster hanging up in his bunk."

"Shut up," you huff. Snap snorts and turns away, his grin fading as he returns to his search. You follow him, leaning against a nearby desk. "Any luck?"

"Not much," he mutters, his gaze drifting to the consoles in front of him. One is a map of the city, and the rest seem to be some kind of security system. You step up beside him and examine the image, the screen split into sections showing various locations around the building. Each section is labeled, and there's a blinking indicator for what looks like a camera.

"Huh," you mumble, and Snap shoots you a questioning look. "That's interesting."

"Looks like they've got security," he says. He reaches around you and taps the screen, and the image changes to a different location. He grins and does it again, the image shifting to show another view, and he clicks a few more times. "Oh, yeah. This is great. This is gonna be fun."

"Fives is rubbing off on you," you laugh, and he smirks.

"Maybe a little," he admits. He continues to scroll through the images, his gaze darting from screen to screen. "Check this out."

Snap points to a blinking indicator that appears to be moving around the building, and the image changes, showing a small service droid. It's moving slowly, with stilted, jerking movements, and its body is covered in dust and grime. You watch it for a moment before the image changes again, the droid disappearing from view, and you glance at each other.

"I don't like the look of that," you mutter, and Snap nods, a grimace tugging on his lips.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'creepy'," he offers. You snort and shake your head.

"Fair point."

"Could just be malfunctioning," he says. "This place is pretty rundown. That thing is older than all of us put together and then some."

"Could be," you agree. You stare at the screen, and your eyes narrow. "I'm going to see what I can find. Can you keep an eye on Dash?"

"Of course," Snap replies. "What are you doing?"

"I need a minute alone," you explain. You gesture vaguely at your head and offer him a weak smile. "You know."

"Right," he says. His eyebrows furrow together, and he gives you a concerned look. "Are you okay? You've been acting a little...off. Since we got here."

"Just a headache," you reassure him. You pat him on the shoulder and turn away, heading for the door. "I'll be back."

"Take a guard with you," he calls after you, and you roll your eyes as the door slides open. You don't stop, and you hear Snap sigh heavily as he watches you leave. "General..."

"I'll be fine," you call over your shoulder. "Keep an eye on Dash."

The door closes behind you with a hiss, cutting off whatever response he might have. You take a deep breath and let the air out slowly, letting go of the anger that has been building since you arrived, and your shoulders drop. A few of your troops glance in your direction, their heads turning in unison, and you offer a tight smile. Their expressions relax, and their attention returns to the task at hand, which, for most, seems to be wandering aimlessly through the halls.

You move to do the same, your feet carrying you down the stairs back to the main atrium and through the nearest hallway. As you walk, you close your eyes, willing the Force to surround you and calm your nerves.

The pressure behind your eyes eases the further you walk, though a shadow still looms at the edges of your mind. The feeling is persistent, and you can't help but wonder what's causing it. What is it about this place that has you so on edge?

You wander aimlessly, the minutes ticking by as you explore the depths of the building. It's a strange mix of the old and the new, a maze of hallways and empty rooms, and the layout seems to change every time you turn a corner, as if the structure is shifting around you.

The next room you enter is filled with maintenance droids, each standing in a charging station along the wall, covered in dust and cobwebs. Some are missing parts, their arms or legs broken or dangling uselessly, and their heads are hanging, their optics dark and their bodies motionless. It's a depressing sight, and you can't help but feel a pang of sorrow for the machines. They're just like the rest of the planet, left behind and forgotten.

One port is missing a droid, the light underneath slowly blinking red, and you step closer to it. The dust has been disturbed, and there are fresh footprints on the ground in front of the station. You crouch and run a finger through the dirt, studying the imprints. The switch to auxiliary power must have activated the droid, and the thing must have wandered off, lost and confused and alone.

You stand and stare at the empty charging station for a long moment. There's a sadness to the room, a heaviness in the air that weighs on your chest, and the lights are dim, barely illuminating the space.

It's sad, you think. And lonely. A whole city left empty and abandoned, with nothing but droids and ghosts to fill the streets. A city that should have been thriving, filled with life and people. Instead, it's a barren husk, a shell of its former glory, and even the memory of the inhabitants has faded with time.

You shake your head and let out a heavy sigh. There's nothing here for you. Nothing worth pursuing.

Behind you, there's the sound of metal scraping metal, and you turn quickly on your heel to see the droid from the security feed ambling through the doorway. As soon as it sees you, its movements stop, and its faded yellow eyes fix on you.

"Hello," you greet it softly, holding out your hands. The droid tilts its head, its limbs twitching as if trying to remember how to move. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Hello," the droid repeats back, its voice a tinny echo of your own. Its gaze is empty, unseeing, and the droid sways slightly. It's struggling, trying to stay upright, and its head keeps twitching, its optics rolling in their sockets. "Hello."

"I'm not an intruder," you announce, and the droid's head tilts, the motion eerily familiar. You swallow and continue. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help."

"Help," the droid repeats. It takes a tentative step toward you, its joints creaking and groaning as it moves. It's slow, and its steps are unsteady, but the thing keeps coming, its focus locked on you.

"Yes, help," you confirm. The droid's head tilts further, and its gaze shifts to the lightsaber at your hip. "I'm a Jedi."

"Jedi," the droid says, and it lets out a shrill, staticky whine, a glitch in its programming, and its movements become erratic, its arms flailing wildly and its legs stumbling over each other as it lurches toward you. You take a step back, your hand reaching for your lightsaber, and the droid screeches, the high-pitched whine echoing through the empty chamber.

It lunges forward with an arm outstretched, and you barely have time to grab your weapon before it's on you. You grab hold if it with the Force and shove it away, sending it flying across the room, and its body smashes into the far wall with a loud clang, its limbs twisting and bending at odd angles.

You ignite your lightsabers, the yellow and green blades humming to life, and the droid drags itself back onto its feet. It charges at you again and lets out a scream of static, its hands reaching for your throat as it lunges at you.

With a reluctant sigh, you yank it towards you and slice through the air.

The droid's head hits the ground first, rolling away into the shadows before you let the body drop. You watch it go and shake your head, dispelling the sadness that had taken hold of you and forcing the thoughts of the city from your mind. This isn't the time or place to dwell on things like that.

"Well," you murmur as you return your weapons to your belt. You take a moment to catch your breath and straighten, your hand rubbing the back of your neck. "That was unexpected."

"General?"

You whirl around and see Snap in the doorway, his blaster drawn and ready. He takes a tentative step into the room and scans the area before he turns back to you. His eyes settle on the dead droid, and his helmet tilts.

"What happened?"

"It attacked me," you reply. Snap looks back at you, and you shrug, glancing down at the body. "It must have gone crazy from the power loss."

"I guess," he says. He holsters his weapon and steps closer to the droid. "I heard the noise and thought..."

"I'm fine," you assure him. You take a step toward the door and stop, your brow furrowing as something occurs to you. "How did you know where I was? The building is a maze."

Snap pulls off his helmet and smiles sheepishly at you, running a hand over his head and looking up at you through his lashes. "I, uh, might have put a tracker on your commlink."

"Really?" you ask, your voice flat, and Snap laughs nervously, his face turning red. "When?"

"About a month ago," he admits. "Booker's idea."

"Why?" you press, and he shrugs, his gaze sliding away from yours. You sigh and fold your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow. "Snap."

"It was a precaution," he explains quickly. He glances up at you and gives you a pointed look. "Just in case."

"In case of what?" you ask. Snap shrugs again and avoids your gaze, and you watch him for a beat before realization dawns on you, a heavy weight settling in your gut. "In case I turn."

"Well," he starts, and he hesitates, his shoulders slumping as he meets your gaze. "Yes."

You take a deep breath and force yourself to keep a straight face, a mask of indifference. But the words still sting, a reminder of the worst parts of yourself. The fear that lives in the back of your mind.

It's not a new idea, the possibility that you'll fall to the dark side and hurt the people around you. But to know that both of them have considered the possibility—that they've actively planned for the eventuality that you might not be the person they thought you were—is a harsh truth to accept. And it stings more than you want to admit.

But it's what you wanted, isn't it? You hadn't told either of them about your vision or the dark thoughts that sometimes plague your mind, and yet they still managed to anticipate your worst-case scenario. If they've considered the possibility that you're dangerous, even in the best of circumstances, what else are they planning for? What other precautions have they taken?

It's not like you don't trust them, but the knowledge that they've been monitoring your behavior, keeping tabs on your mental state...well, it's not exactly comforting.

"Right," you finally manage to say, your voice a croak. You push past him and start for the door. "Good thinking. Thanks."

Snap reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks, and you glance down at his hand and back up to him. His expression is pinched, his mouth turned down and his brow furrowed, and he opens and closes his mouth a couple times, struggling to find the words.

"You're not mad?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head. You carefully extract yourself from his grip and give him a small smile, though you're not sure how convincing it is. "I get it. It's...good, actually. Keeping an eye on me. Just in case."

"General..."

"C'mon, let's go see how Dash is doing," you interrupt, and he falls into step behind you as you start walking again, your boots clicking on the floor. You make it a point to keep your pace slow, your strides measured, and the two of you walk in silence for a minute before you finally speak again. "It's good that you're looking out for me."

"Yeah," Snap murmurs, his voice low and his tone thoughtful.

He doesn't look at you, instead focusing on the hallway ahead of him. You can't help but notice how his hands are clasped tightly behind his back, the leather of his gloves creaking against the strain of his fingers.

You glance away from him, your gaze darting to the walls and floor and ceiling as the two of you make your way through the winding halls. The silence between the two of you is thick and tense, the air heavy with unspoken words.

Finally, Snap quickens his pace until he cuts you off, stopping you in the middle of the corridor and forcing you to look at him. He reaches out and grabs your arm in a tight grip, and his brows knit together, his gaze boring into yours.

"Are you okay?"

Your mind stutters to a halt. "What do you mean? I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you're acting weird," he replies, and he gives your arm a shake, his tone accusing. "And not in the usual way."

You blink, and Snap releases your arm, stepping back and running a hand through his hair, a frustrated huff leaving his lips. He looks tired, his eyes red and his skin pale, and you're reminded of how little rest the three of you have gotten over the last week along with the rest of the brigade. You're exhausted too. Exhausted and worried and afraid.

Afraid that something will go wrong. Afraid that the mission will fail and you'll have to face the consequences. Afraid of what that means for the future. For the war. For the Jedi.

Afraid of losing yourself.

And you know that if you were to tell him, Snap would understand. He's seen the worst part of you already, and he's stayed by your side, even after everything that's happened. He's witnessed you at your weakest and your strongest, and he's never judged you for it. But admitting it out loud feels impossible. Like a failure. Like defeat.

So you swallow the words and shake your head, and you force a smile onto your lips.

"I'm fine," you insist. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Snap frowns, his eyes narrowing as he stares at you, like he's trying to read your mind or see through the lies. He must find something, because his mouth turns down into a scowl.

"Look, sir. The last couple of months have been rough. For all of us," he says quietly, and he gestures to the hallway behind him. "We've been hopping from planet to planet, and we've been on the front lines of this war for a while now. We've all lost people. We've all seen things that...well, we're all tired. And seeing you like this..."

"Like what?" you press, raising an eyebrow, and he sighs, his frustration seeping into his voice.

"Like...this." Snap pauses and sighs, his head dropping as he takes a moment to collect his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. "I know you're trying to put on a brave face for us. But you're not sleeping, and you're not eating. And the way you fight, the way you've been throwing yourself into battle without regard for your own safety. We've all noticed."

Your jaw clenches. "You're worried about me."

"Of course we're worried about you!" he exclaims, his tone sharp, and his gaze darts to the side, his eyes going wide. He takes a breath and rubs a hand over his face, his features twisting into a grimace as he shakes his head. "Sir, we're...we're scared for you."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you have to resist the urge to stagger back a step. Instead, you take a deep breath and clench your fists, your nails digging into the palms of your hands

"I..." You start, and a lump forms in your throat. Your mouth opens and closes several times as you try to think of a response, but the words die on your tongue, and you finally manage a quiet, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Snap says softly. He looks down at the floor, and his brow furrows. "We know you're under a lot of pressure. And we understand why you're doing this. We get it. But...I need to know if there's something else going on. If you're...if there's a problem."

"What?"

"A problem," he repeats, and he gestures vaguely to his temple. "If you're struggling. With...you know. The darkness."

You stare at him for a second, your eyes going wide. He shifts, his expression turning sheepish, and you can't help but laugh, a quiet chuckle that slips out before you can stop it. He smiles a little, but the smile is strained, and his eyes are full of concern.

"I'm not struggling," you reply honestly. You shake your head and run a hand through your hair. "Not right now. Not...not like that."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure," you reply firmly. You hesitate and sigh, and your shoulders drop, the adrenaline draining from your body. "I'm not okay. But I'm not losing myself either."

Snap studies you for a minute, his gaze sweeping over your face, and his expression softens. His hand moves to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, and he nods slowly, his eyes bright with sympathy.

"Okay," he says. "I believe you."

"Thanks."

"But you need to take better care of yourself," he continues, and he raises an eyebrow, his tone taking on a hard edge. "No more pushing yourself to exhaustion. You need sleep. And food. You can't keep going like this."

"Snap—"

"I'm serious. Booker's already had it up to here with you," he scolds, his hand lifting to above his head. "But he's too nice to say it. I'm not. You're our General. You need to take care of yourself. Do you understand?"

You roll your eyes and huff a laugh. "Yes, mom."

"I'm not kidding," he grumbles. "I'll tell get General Kenobi to order you back to the temple if I have to."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I would."

The two of you glare at each other for a beat before the corners of your mouth twitch into a smile, and the two of you start laughing. He throws an arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer, and the two of you turn and continue down the hallway, falling back into step with each other.

"I will," Snap says, his voice softer. "I know you don't mean to, and I know you're just trying to do the right thing, but you're not a lone gunner anymore." He glances at you and gives your shoulder another squeeze, his expression serious. "You're part of a team. We're here to help you. Just...trust us. Trust me."

"I...I do. I will," you manage, the words leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. It's not a lie. Not really. You trust him. Of course you do. You love him. And Booker. But...you don't know how to be any other way. To rely on others. To accept help. To not have to fight for every little thing. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize...I'll try harder."

"I know," he says, and he smiles, squeezing your shoulder. "Come on, let's get out of here."

You nod and follow him out of the room, your mind whirling as you struggle to process what he's said. You hadn't realized just how badly you've been treating yourself, or the toll it's taking on your friends. The thought hurts more than you'd like to admit, and guilt threatens to overwhelm you, a hot flash of shame that burns your cheeks and tightens your chest.

You've been selfish, and the realization is hard to stomach, but you can't ignore the truth in his words, or the weight behind them. No matter what the visions show you, no matter how bad things get, you can't let yourself fall back into old habits. Not now, not after everything you've worked so hard for, and not after everything you've lost.

"Hey," Snap says, and you glance at him, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. "You wanna hear about the shield generator?"

"Is there anything to tell?"

"Not really," he admits, a sheepish look on his face. "Dash got the main reactor running again, but it won't be able to keep the shield online for long. A day or two at most."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's old, sir," he snorts. "Like, really old."

"How old?"

"Like, two thousand years. Give or take a decade or two."

"Two thousand years," you repeat. You rub your forehead in an effort to stave off the headache threatening to form behind your eyes, and you let out a frustrated huff, shaking your head. "I'm starting to think we're out of our depth here."

"I think you might be right," Snap agrees. He pauses, glancing at the hallway before gesturing for you to follow, and he continues walking, the two of you following the path back to the main atrium. "The whole thing is being held together with spit and luck. One bad hit and it's all gonna come crashing down. There's no way this is going to stand up to an attack."

"We'll just have to keep the Separatists from getting through," you sigh, and Snap snorts, rolling his eyes. You elbow his side, forcing him to release his grip on your shoulder as he stumbles away from you with a laugh.

"Yeah, good luck with that," he quips. "I'll go ahead and start writing our wills."

"Come on, don't be so negative," you chastise. He shrugs, unrepentant. "We've faced worse odds."

"Sorry," he chuckles. "But we're talking about the Seps. They're not going to be gentle."

"They won't get the chance," you promise, clapping him on the shoulder and squeezing lightly. Snap gives you a dubious look and shakes his head. "This city might be a graveyard, but it's not going to stay that way. We'll make sure of it."

"You really believe that, huh?" he asks, and you nod, giving him a confident smile, which earns you a small snort of laughter in return. He sighs as the two of you stop at the top of the stairs, looking out over the room below. "It's not going to be easy."

"Nothing ever is," you say. You let out a deep breath and square your shoulders, pushing your doubts away and forcing a smile onto your face. "But we'll manage. We always do."

"I guess you're right," Snap says, his tone contemplative. "I wish Booker was here. He's always the optimist."

"I'm sure he wishes he were here too, but he's needed where he is," you remind him, and the trooper lets out a heavy sigh, nodding in agreement. "We'll have to try and be positive on our own for once. Besides, the last thing we need is him and Jesse in the same place. I can't handle another near brawl over my honor."

"True," he chuckles.

"We'll just have to wait and see how it goes," you tell him. You pat him on the shoulder and offer him a smile. "But it's going to be okay. I trust the Force to guide us through."

Snap groans. "Please, not another Jedi speech."

"You just gave me a speech about my health, and I don't get to talk about the Force?" you tease, raising an eyebrow at him, and the captain laughs, shaking his head and holding his hands up in surrender.

"Alright, alright," he chuckles, smiling down at you fondly. "You're the boss."

You grin up at him and pat his chest. "Glad we're in agreement."

He lets out a low laugh, and the two of you start walking again, heading for the control room where Dash is waiting. As you walk, the conversation lulls, and the two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, the only noise the echo of your footsteps. You can't help but think of the dream, the golden fields and the bright sky. The hope and the love. It all seems so far away now, lost in the haze of smoke and dust. But the vision has stuck with you, and it's the thought of seeing those fields again that keeps you going.

Snap is right. Booker is the optimist, the glue that holds your brigade together, and without him, the task of keeping morale up is almost impossible, even for you.

But, if nothing else, the memory of the dream gives you something to hold on to, a promise that things will get better. Even if they don't feel like it now. Even if the darkness is closing in around you.

You've come this far, and you have your brothers at your side. There's no way you're giving up now.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #i did a horrible job proofreading this chapter sorryyyy #i just wanted to post at my regular time #really excited for next chapter :)#okay bye im going to go see the minecraft movie now

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