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nanamiskentos · 5 months ago

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

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

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

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

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

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

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

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

gojo in this fic:

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

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

"gojo satoru?"

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

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

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

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

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"why wouldn't i be?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACT III. between the covers

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

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

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

thud!

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

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

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

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah, now that's a curveball.

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

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

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

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACT IV. blush confidential

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"and the other half?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACT V. stereo love

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

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

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

"you good?"

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

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

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

"you think too little of me."

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

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

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

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

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

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

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

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

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

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

"excuse me?"

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

"did you pick up a self help book?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

let's rewind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

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

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

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

your brow furrows, "what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"with your future oscar nomination?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"s-satoru!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru 🪐

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

"ugh, gross."

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

"get a life, holy fuck."

5K notes · View notes

lady-luckk · 12 days ago

Note

how about a cowboy or a farmer with a bimbo city girl reader??

itd b so funny if she was just like “do brown cows make chocolate milk??”

or maybe she almost kills the guy by accident trying to rake some hay

i love the trope “she’s an idiot but she’s my idiot”

so like, what’s the wifi password?

# pairings: yandere farmer cowboy x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: while making your way to a fun hangout with your friends your car suddenly breaks down. a kind farmer allows you to stay with him until someone can pick you up. but why are the roads weirdly empty?

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

you’re not entirely sure what led to this. one second you were on your way to hangout with your girlfriends, the next, your pink convertible broke down next to the most farm-ass farm you’ve ever seen. and now? you're standing in front of a barn that smells like hay and something suspiciously meaty, trying to get a signal with your rhinestone-covered phone held toward the sky.

"phone ain't gonna save you out here, princess."

you nearly jump out of your glittery crop top. standing behind you is a tall, broad, sun-scorched wall of man with stubble, a permanent scowl, and arms like they personally fought god for dominance. he's wearing a stained flannel shirt, worn jeans, and a scuffed cowboy hat pulled low like he’s hiding from the law—or just the concept of smiling.

you blink up at him. "omg, hi! are you like, the farmer or cowboy guy?"

he snorts. "i’m the farmer. ain’t another soul within miles, and i sure as hell didn’t call for no... barbie doll on a breakdown."

you gasp, offended. "excuse you, this is Y2K chic. and my name isn’t barbie—it’s..."

"...of course it is."

“you’re not from around here, are you?"

"nnooope. GPS brought me out here for, like, reasons. and then my engine started making this very dramatic sound. sooo now i'm, like, a damsel."

he crosses his arms, face unreadable, then sighs. "you standin’ out here in the heat for long?"

"i mean, i guess? i was gonna call someone, but I’ve only got like, one bar and a lot of hope."

another pause. then he turns and mutters, "c’mon."

"huh?"

"you want heatstroke or you want a glass of water?"

you blink. "omg, you’re nice."

"i ain’t nice," he snaps, opening the screen door wider. "i’m just not leavin’ some glittered-up stranger to roast in a ditch."

inside, it’s a mix of rustic charm and obvious bachelor chaos. he pours you a glass of water without asking, sets it down in front of you like he’s done this a hundred times, and leans against the counter like he’s regretting all of it.

although internally he’s a whole different story. he can’t believe his luck meeting someone as cute as you in this area. he swore he felt his heart leap out of his chest the minute he saw you.

"name’s eli," he says at last. "i’ll take a look at your car. if it’s fixable, i’ll fix it. if not… guess you’ll be stuck here a bit."

you bat your lashes. "you wouldn’t mind that, would you?"

he shifts, jaw flexing. then: “don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.”

but he won’t meet your eyes. and he doesn’t notice he poured you a second glass of water before you even finished the first.

you follow eli outside, trying not to trip on your own wedges as you strut across the gravel like it’s a runway and not, in fact, a minefield of dirt and despair.

he walks a few steps ahead, toolbox in one hand, broad shoulders shifting beneath that flannel like they’ve never known a day of weakness. he doesn’t say much, but you catch him glancing back once—just once—to make sure you’re not lost or dead or doing something ridiculous.

you're doing all three, probably.

when he reaches your car, he pops the hood with one rough tug and peers inside like he’s about to deliver bad news to a family of four.

after a beat, he grunts. “when’s the last time you had an oil change?”

you blink. "what’s that?"

slowly, so slowly, he turns his head and looks at you.

his face is completely blank. emotionless. a man on the brink. like he’s just been told that gravity is optional now. or that the cows have unionized.

you smile up at him, unbothered, chewing your bubblegum. “is that, like, something you get at a drive-thru? because i only do drive-thrus if they have fries.”

he says nothing.

just stares.

a long, long pause.

then: “you shouldn’t legally be allowed to own a vehicle.”

"that’s what my driving instructor said!" you chirp.

eli shuts the hood and mutters something to the lord, probably begging for patience, strength, or a strategic lightning strike.

“you’re lucky i don’t believe in abandoning helpless creatures,” he mutters, already walking toward his truck. “i’m gonna get the part you need. stay put. don’t touch anything. don’t lick anything. don’t—just... don’t.”

you wave sweetly. “k love you, byeee!”

he stops mid-step. shoulders stiffen.

and without turning around, he mutters under his breath, "you’re gonna be the death of me."

later that day, eli returns with what looks like half a junkyard and a grim set to his jaw. he spent hours elbow-deep in your car, occasionally muttering things like “what the hell is this glitter doing in the engine?” and “is this a sticker of a unicorn on the oil cap?”

finally, he slams the hood shut, wipes his hands on a rag, and delivers the verdict with the gravity of a man announcing a funeral.

“pinky, she’s dead.”

you gasp dramatically. “pinky? you named her??”

he squints at you. “she named herself the minute i saw the pink steering wheel cover. and now she’s toast. fried the transmission, shredded the belt, and i’m pretty sure the air freshener doing psychic damage.”

“oh noooo,” you moan. “so what do i dooo?”

he sighs. long and loud, like you physically pained him. “you’ll stay here until i can find someone to tow it and get you back to civilization.”

"yay!" you beam.

“that wasn’t meant to be exciting.”

as the days go by, eli gains a large affection for you. he believes that since you’re “living” with him now, that practically means that the two of you are married.

when you two finally travel into town. he doesn’t like people looking at you. not the guy at the gas station who dared compliment your lip gloss, not the mailman who called you “darlin’” with too much sugar in his voice, and definitely not the tourist who asked if you were “lost” with that fake concern dripping off his words.

eli’s a walking warning sign the second you step into town with him. the locals know him—eli carter, the mountain of a man with a scowl carved into his face and hands that could bend steel. most folks keep their distance, half-respecting, half-fearing him.

they say he’s good with his work, bad with people, and meaner than a rattlesnake if you push the wrong buttons. so when he rolls into town with you, all glitter and sunshine and questions like “do horses get cold?”—yeah, people notice. the butcher’s wife whispers that he’s gone soft. the old mechanic raises a brow like he’s seeing a ghost. when someone chuckles a little too long at your rhinestone boots, eli’s jaw ticks. when a guy at the feed store offers to help you lift a bag of seed, eli’s already there, grabbing it with one hand like it weighs nothing. “they’re good,” he says flatly, not even looking at the guy.

even when you try to chat with the locals, eli’s always close—never rude, but not exactly inviting either. he doesn’t trust easily, especially not when it comes to you. and if someone even looks at you sideways, he’s suddenly all sharp glances and low muttering, hand at your lower back like a silent claim: they’re mine to worry about.

eli’s jaw gets tight, voice real low when he steps between you and anyone who so much as thinks about flirting. once, a farmhand from a neighboring ranch tried to strike up a conversation with you at the feed store—eli didn’t say a word, just calmly picked up a full grain barrel, one-handed, and moved it like it weighed nothing. the guy left before eli even had to speak. you giggled, called him “jealous,” and he growled something about “men like that not knowin’ how to treat you right.”

he won’t say this out loud , but every time someone shows a little too much interest in you, he finds a new chore to do right beside you. fencing, fixing the barn door, chopping firewood shirtless in the sun like that’s normal behavior. once, you saw him bend a crowbar back into shape like it was a breadstick and he acted like it was no big deal. he claims he’s just “lookin’ out for you,” but you’ve noticed how fast his mood shifts when someone else tries to.

eli always has an eye on you. he always seems to know exactly where you are. no matter what he’s doing, his eyes find you like it’s instinct. you’ll be picking flowers by the fence or sneaking another cookie from the jar, and somehow, he’s already looking. not hovering, not smothering—just always aware. like keeping you safe is a reflex, not a choice. it’s subtle, but constant. protective, almost possessive. like some part of him’s decided you’re his to watch over, even when you don’t realize you need it.

he can’t keep his eyes off you. to him, you’re just his precious darling.

eli gives you a curfew like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “sun’s down, you’re inside,” he says one evening, arms crossed and eyes steady like he’s expecting a fight. you blink at him. “wait, like... a bedtime?” he grunts. “ain’t about sleep. it’s about not wanderin’ into a coyote den in your platform heels.” you try to argue, but he doesn’t budge—just mutters something about you being a “walking hazard” and how “ain’t nothing good happens after dark out here.” and true to form, every evening as the sun dips low, he’s there on the porch, arms folded, waiting.

if you’re even five minutes late, he’s already out with a flashlight like a grumpy dad looking for a runaway puppy. he won’t admit it, but the curfew isn’t just about safety. it’s about knowing exactly where you are. keeping you close. keeping you his.

every night, without fail, you end up in the kitchen with eli—him cradling a mug of coffee, you wrapped in one of his old flannels, sitting on the counter like you belong there. the light is soft, the air warm, and he’s always gentle with you at this hour, like the quiet makes him softer. he’ll brush your hair back without thinking, pass you the sweeter drink without asking, and murmur low little comments that sound more like affection than teasing.

sometimes he rests his hand on your knee when he walks past, like anchoring himself to the moment. he doesn’t smile much, but with you like this—half-asleep, blinking at him under kitchen lights—there’s a warmth in his eyes that says more than he ever will.

there’s always a comfortable silence between you, broken by the occasional sarcastic quip or dry comment from him when you ask if cows dream or if the moon looks closer out here. sometimes he’ll pass you a spoon to taste something he’s cooking, or nudge your knee with his hip to get you to move over so he can reach a cabinet. it’s quiet, almost domestic. like this little nighttime routine just… happened. and neither of you questioned it.

and just like that it’s been a month. you no longer notice how the roads seem to “get worse” whenever you mention leaving, or how eli’s smile always grows just a little too warm when you say, “maybe i’ll try calling a tow service again.”

you’ve stopped wondering why your cell service hasn’t come back. you’ve accepted that the mountains are just “that bad,” as eli puts it. eli’s a good guy, there's no way he’d do anything to sabotage you from going back home. like eli totally did not install a signal jammer two days after you arrived or that he's murdered everyone who ever offered to take you home. there's just no way.

now, you’re completely settled in—no wifi, no car, and definitely no cute outfits from home. but honestly? you’re so content. the cozy flannel shirts, freshly baked cookies, and endless cups of lemonade have turned life here into a dreamy routine.

but something nags at you.

you’ve been living with eli, enjoying his hospitality, but you don’t want to feel like a useless freeloader. so one afternoon, you decide it’s time to step up and offer to help around the farm. you can’t just keep eating his food and just looking pretty, right?

you walk up to eli, who’s messing around with the tractor, and clear your throat.

“eli, I was thinking… i should help out more around here. you know, so i don’t just sit around all day being a freeloader.”

eli glances up, his face a mix of surprise and a hint of reluctance. he wipes his hands on his pants, a sigh escaping him.

“you sure about that?” he asks, his voice gruff. “you’ve been here for a month and you’re just now deciding to help?”

you nod, determined. “yeah, i wanna pull my weight.”

he doesn’t seem convinced but shrugs. “alright, fine. you can start by feeding the animals. that’s simple enough.”

you beam. “great! i can totally do that!”

you were definitely not cut out for farm life. after eli told you to help with feeding the animals, you felt determined, but that determination quickly turned to chaos.

you squinted at one of the cows and asked, "so, uh... do brown cows make chocolate milk?" eli froze mid-step, gave you the most soul-dead stare, and muttered something about regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

then the chickens got involved. you tried to scatter feed like in the movies, but instead slipped on your own glittery flip-flop and fell right into the middle of their breakfast—cue one chicken hopping onto your back like it was claiming a new roost.

the goats were no better; one of them chewed on your hair extensions while you screamed, "sir, boundaries!" and the pigs? the pigs chased you across the yard when you accidentally dropped a granola bar from your purse. eli didn’t even try to hide his grin as you ran by him yelling, “they smell fear, eli, they smell fear!”

by the time it was over, you were covered in hay, dirt, feathers, and regret, and eli just handed you a wet rag with a grunt, like this was all perfectly normal.

but this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten yourself in a mess. oh, no. this was just the latest installment of “you vs. farm life.” you had managed to almost flood the barn by forgetting to turn off the hose, break a shovel trying to pry open a stubborn gate, and somehow trip over a rock and sprain your ankle—while sitting down. eli had bailed you out every single time. and he didn’t even seem to be all that surprised anymore.

like that one time you got it in your head to “help” eli with a small fix on the tractor. it involved welding, and you’d sworn you could do it. five minutes in, you had almost burned off your eyebrows and started a small fire by the side of the barn. eli was on you in an instant, throwing a bucket of water over the flames, shaking his head like you’d done this a million times before. “i swear to god, you’re gonna burn this place down before we even finish building it,” he grumbled as he handed you a fire extinguisher.

"you really know how to ruin a moment, eli," you pouted.

“moment?” he muttered, sounding exhausted. “you were about to become a human torch.”

there was that time you tried to be helpful in the kitchen by making dinner, only to end up dropping an entire pot of spaghetti on the floor, then attempting to "clean it up" by throwing it into the trash—half of it splattered on the walls and the other half stuck to the ceiling. you’d been standing there, horrified, when eli walked in. “don’t even ask,” you said weakly.

he’d just sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work fixing it. “get out of the kitchen before you burn yourself,” he grumbled, tossing you out of the way with a gentle nudge, as if you were a ragdoll. “and don’t try cooking again until I’m here to supervise.”

you gave him a smile that could’ve melted the coldest of hearts. “you love me.”

he grumbled something unintelligible, but you could see the hint of a smile beneath his gruffness.

and it wasn’t just accidents. oh no. it was your sheer ability to get into trouble. like the time you wandered off into the woods to “explore” and ended up trapped in a thorn bush because you thought you saw a unicorn. yes, you. a unicorn. by the time eli found you, you were stuck, practically covered in thorns, and looking like a glittered-up forest creature. “if I hadn’t come to find you,” he’d said, grinning slightly, “you’d still be out there, trying to make friends with a unicorn.”

you had the decency to look sheepish. “i was trying to be imaginative.”

"yeah, well, next time, try not to get stuck in the thorn bush before you start trying to talk to magical creatures.”

safe to say after that incident eli forced you to wear and carry an airtag with you permanently.

then came the day you decided to help eli with manual labor—big mistake. you tried lifting a hay bale and almost dislocated something. when you grabbed the post hole digger, it practically dragged you across the yard. eli didn’t even let you finish struggling; he took it from your hands with a grunt, muscles flexing like it was nothing, and muttered, “you’ll break before the tools do.” you huffed, but he didn’t budge, already finishing the job in half the time. apparently, your job was now “supervising,” which mostly meant staying out of the way while he manhandled the entire farm.

and then there was the one time you decided to “fix” your own car because you were “bored” and “needed a project.” that involved you somehow locking yourself inside the trunk while trying to find your spare tire. it was a whole dramatic saga that ended with you yelling for help from inside the trunk, much to eli’s amusement. when he finally popped the trunk open, you had the nerve to ask him, “how’d you know i was in here?”

“because you’ve gotten yourself in a mess, like, again,” he replied, his tone dry.

you beamed up at him. “i’m just that special.”

“special? yeah, that’s what we’ll call it.” he smirked before pulling you out of the trunk and checking over your car like he wasn’t wondering why he didn’t just lock you in there himself.

but despite all the chaos you caused, despite the non-stop antics and trouble that seemed to follow you, there was something comforting about it all. eli might grumble, he might make fun of your messes, but he never left you to fend for yourself. he had this way of always being there—whether it was pulling you out of a thorn bush, rescuing you from your own cooking disaster, or simply watching over you while you made another mess in the barn. eli didn’t get frustrated. he just dealt with it—and, in his own way, he took care of you.

you were a disaster, sure, but you were his disaster. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for both of you.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yancore #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere farmer

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pomegranatelifethis · 5 days ago

Text

The Invisible Girl

The hum of Gotham’s streets was a living thing, a pulse that never quite stopped. It was late—far past the hour when most respectable high school girls would be tucked away in bed, dreaming of prom or pop quizzes. But you? You were sixteen, a fleeting shadow in the city’s underbelly, your sneakers scuffing the asphalt as you leaned against the hood of a souped-up Mustang. The illegal car race was alive around you, engines roaring, neon lights flickering, and the crowd buzzing with adrenaline. You grinned, popping a piece of gum into your mouth, the sweet cherry flavor bursting against your tongue. This was your world. Not the stuffy manor you were supposed to call home.

You were the youngest Wayne, technically. A forgotten footnote in the sprawling saga of Bruce Wayne’s adopted brood. Older than you, Damian—your supposed “brother”—was the heir, the prodigy, the one who carried the weight of the Wayne legacy like it was a tailored suit. You? You were the accident. The kid they didn’t know what to do with. The one who came too late, after the family had already knit itself together in blood and trauma.

It wasn’t that they hated you. Hate would’ve required attention, and attention was the one thing the Batfamily didn’t spare. Bruce was a ghost in the manor, always buried in his mission. Dick was the golden boy, too busy charming the world. Jason was a storm, too volatile to notice anyone but himself. Tim was a machine, lost in his plans and contingencies. Cassandra saw everything but said nothing. And Damian? He barely acknowledged you existed, his sharp green eyes slicing through you like you were a smudge on his katana.

So, you drifted. School was a suggestion, not a rule. You slept through algebra, doodled in the margins of your textbooks, and skipped classes when the mood struck. The school couldn’t touch you—Wayne money made sure of that, and no one was picking up the phone when the principal called. You were free, in a way. Free to wander Gotham’s streets, to lose yourself in the chaos of the races, to be the girl no one expected anything from.

Tonight, the air was electric. Your car—a sleek, cherry-red beast you’d “borrowed” from one of Bruce’s many garages—sat waiting at the starting line. You adjusted your cap, tugging it low over your eyes, and slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was cool against your skin, the steering wheel familiar under your fingers. You weren’t here to win. You were here to feel alive.

“Hey, kid!” a voice called from the sidelines. It was Jax, one of the regulars, a lanky guy with a crooked grin and a penchant for bad bets. “You sure you’re up for this? Rico’s got a new rig, and he’s out for blood.”

You smirked, blowing a bubble with your gum. “Rico can kiss my exhaust.”

The crowd laughed, and you revved the engine, letting the sound drown out everything else. The race was a blur—tires screeching, lights streaking, your heart hammering as you weaved through the pack. You didn’t care about the finish line. You cared about the rush, the way it made you forget the empty manor, the cold silences, the family that didn’t see you.

When it was over, you pulled over, breathless, your cheeks flushed. You’d placed third—good enough to keep your rep, not so good it drew too much attention. You climbed out, high-fiving Jax and ignoring the way some of the older guys eyed you. You were a kid in their world, a cute anomaly, but you were theirs. The racers, the drifters, the nobodies—they were your family, not the caped crusaders back home.

You were halfway through a soda, laughing at one of Jax’s dumb jokes, when your phone buzzed. You glanced at it, expecting a text from one of your friends. Instead, it was a notification from the manor’s security system. *Front gate opened. 11:47 PM.*

Weird. Bruce was supposed to be on patrol, and the others were either out or holed up in their rooms. You shrugged it off, pocketing the phone. Probably Alfred letting the cat out or something.

You didn’t know it yet, but you’d just made a mistake. You weren’t as invisible as you thought.

☆☆☆☆

Back at Wayne Manor, the Batcave was a hum of activity. The massive screens glowed, casting sharp shadows across the cavernous space. Tim was hunched over the computer, his fingers flying across the keys. Dick leaned against the console, arms crossed, his usual easy smile replaced by a tight frown. Jason was cleaning a gun, his movements sharp and deliberate, while Cassandra watched from the shadows, her eyes unreadable. Damian stood apart, his arms stiff at his sides, his expression a mix of irritation and something darker.

Bruce stood at the center, his cowl pushed back, his face a mask of controlled fury.

“She’s not in her room,” Tim said, not looking up. “Tracker in her phone puts her at the docks. Again.”

“Illegal races,” Dick muttered, shaking his head. “She’s been sneaking out for months. How did we not notice?”

“Because she’s good,” Cassandra said softly, her voice cutting through the tension. “She doesn’t want to be seen.”

Jason snorted, slamming the gun down. “Or because we’re too busy playing hero to give a damn about the kid living under our roof.”

“Enough,” Bruce snapped, his voice low but commanding. “This ends tonight. She’s sixteen. She’s putting herself in danger, and we’ve let it go on too long.”

Damian’s lip curled. “She’s a liability. If she’s caught, it could expose us all.”

Dick shot him a look. “She’s your sister, Damian.”

“She’s nothing,” Damian retorted, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something that betrayed the lie.

Bruce didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the screen. It showed a grainy feed from a street camera, your figure unmistakable as you laughed with a group of racers. You looked happy, alive, in a way you never did at home. It twisted something in his chest, but he buried it. This wasn’t about feelings. This was about control.

“Tim, pull up her route. Dick, Jason, you’re with me. We bring her home. Now.”

Cassandra tilted her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’ll run.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Then we make sure she has nowhere to go.”

☆☆☆☆

You were halfway through another race, the city a blur outside your window, when you noticed the shadow. It was subtle—a flicker in your rearview mirror, gone as soon as it appeared. But you knew better. Gotham wasn’t just a city; it was a predator, and you’d learned to sense its teeth.

You floored the gas, weaving through traffic, your heart pounding. The shadow moved with you, relentless, a black shape that could only belong to one thing. Or one family.

“Crap,” you muttered, your gum losing its flavor. You didn’t know how they’d found you, but you knew what it meant. The Batfamily didn’t chase unless they wanted something. And if they wanted you? That was bad news.

You took a sharp turn, tires screeching, and gunned it toward the old warehouse district. You knew the alleys, the shortcuts, the places where even Batman’s tech would struggle to follow. You were good at disappearing. It was what you did best.

But as you rounded a corner, a figure dropped from the rooftops, landing in the middle of the street. Nightwing. His escrima sticks glowed faintly, and his smile was gone, replaced by something hard, something that made your stomach twist.

You slammed on the brakes, your car fishtailing to a stop. Before you could react, another figure appeared—Red Hood, his guns holstered but his presence no less threatening. And then, from the shadows, Batman himself.

You were surrounded.

Your grip tightened on the wheel, your mind racing. You could run—crash through a barrier, lose them in the maze of Gotham’s slums. But something in Bruce’s eyes stopped you. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was something colder, something that made you feel like a mouse staring down a hawk.

“Get out of the car,” Bruce said, his voice cutting through the night.

You popped your gum, forcing a grin. “What’s up, Dad? Miss me?”

His eyes narrowed, and you knew you’d pushed too far. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was the beginning of something much darker, something you couldn’t outrun.

Not this time.

☆☆☆☆

Gotham’s night air was heavy and humid, as if the city itself was closing in on you. Inside the car, you still gripped the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles whitening against the leather. Bruce’s silhouette stood like a monolith in the middle of the street, motionless except for the faint ripple of his cape. Dick was on his right, Jason on his left, each positioned like a trap. There was no escape. At least, it seemed that way.

You popped your gum again, just to steady your nerves. “Alright,” you said, your voice trembling with forced cheer. “Family reunion, huh? Bit late for that, don’t you think, Dad?”

Bruce’s face was stone, but something flickered in his eyes—anger, guilt, or something else, you couldn’t tell. “The games are over,” he said, his voice sharp as a blade. “Get out of the car. Now.”

You considered opening the door, but instead sank deeper into the seat. “What if I don’t?” you said, raising your eyebrows. “What’re you gonna do? Run me over with the Batmobile?”

Jason took a step forward, a mocking growl rising from under his helmet. “Kid, you can’t win this game. It’ll be easier—for you and for us—if you get out now.”

Dick tilted his head, flashing that familiar big-brother smile, but this time his eyes weren’t warm. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice soft but laced with threat. “You don’t want to make this harder than it needs to be, do you?”

A shiver ran through you. You’d never heard Dick use that tone before—not with you. They’d always ignored you, hadn’t they? You were a ghost, drifting through the manor’s halls, your presence barely registering. So why were they here now? Why had they suddenly *noticed* you?

You didn’t want to know the answer.

But your options were running out. Your eyes scanned the surroundings—the narrow street, abandoned warehouses, the flickering light of a few streetlamps. You could run. Maybe. Your car was fast, but Batman’s tech was faster. And these three? They weren’t human, not in the way you understood it. They were hunters. And you were the prey.

You took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, and slowly pushed it open. The cold air rushed in, prickling your skin. You stood, shoving your hands into your jean pockets, feigning nonchalance. “Fine,” you said, shrugging. “What do you want? Did you watch my race? What’s my score?”

Bruce stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you. “This isn’t a game,” he said. “We know what you’ve been doing. Where you’ve been, who you’ve been with. You’re coming home tonight, and this… nonsense stops.”

Your eyes widened, and then you laughed. A real, uncontrollable laugh. “Nonsense? Wow, Bruce, you’ve shown me more attention in the last ten minutes than you have my entire life. What’s the deal? Run out of criminals in Gotham?”

Jason grunted, but Dick raised a hand to silence him. “Listen,” Dick said, his voice still carrying that false calm. “We know we haven’t been… around much. But that’s going to change. You’re our family. We need to protect you.”

“Protect me?” The word tasted like poison. “You’re here to protect me? Where were you for the last sixteen years, huh? When I was a baby? At my first race? When I got kicked out of school? Oh, wait, you were busy chasing bank robbers, right?”

The air grew heavy, the silence hitting like a fist. Bruce’s jaw clenched, Dick’s smile faded, and even Jason seemed uneasy behind his helmet. You’d struck a nerve. But the victory felt hollow.

“Not anymore,” Bruce said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “From now on, we’re watching you.”

In that moment, you felt something was wrong. This wasn’t just a family drama. This was a move to pull you back—to what? The manor? Their control? Or worse, their world?

“I’m going home,” you said, stepping back. “But not with you. I’ll find my own way.”

You turned toward your car, but Jason was faster. In an instant, he grabbed your arm, his grip like iron. “Wrong answer, kid,” he said, his voice mocking but dangerous. “You’re coming with us tonight.”

“Jason, let go!” you shouted, yanking at your arm, but he didn’t budge. Panic surged, your heart thrashing in your chest. Dick stepped toward you, hands raised as if to calm you, but you saw *that* look in his eyes—the look of a predator.

“Easy,” Dick said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just… need to talk.”

Bruce remained silent, but his presence said everything. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was an order.

In that moment, you realized you’d made a mistake. Even if you tried to run, they’d find you. Gotham was their city. And no matter how fast you ran, you couldn’t outrun their shadows.

☆☆☆☆

The manor was cold and silent, as always. Alfred had greeted you at the door, his usual polite demeanor in place, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He escorted you to your room, but you heard the click of the lock after he left. A lock. As if you were a prisoner.

Your room felt like it didn’t belong to you. No posters on the walls, no personal items on the shelves. It was like a hotel room—beautiful, but soulless. You sat on the bed, pulling your knees to your chest, your mind still racing.

What were they planning? Why now? After years of ignoring you, why did they suddenly *want* you? The answer scared you, because deep down, you knew—this wasn’t about love. It was about control. And once the Batfamily took control, they never let go.

A shadow moved outside your door. Your eyes snapped to it, your heart speeding up. Someone was watching you. Damian? Cassandra? Or maybe Tim, with one of his cameras already planted in your room? Were you paranoid, or were you right?

You reached for your phone, but the screen was dark. Dead. Or… disabled. Of course. Tim’s work, no doubt. They wanted to isolate you. Cut you off from the outside world.

You glanced at the window. Gotham’s lights glimmered outside, freedom so close yet so far. You could jump. You could run. But where to? They’d find you. They always would.

But giving up wasn’t your style. You were a racer. And racers, no matter how impossible it seemed, always found a way out.

☆☆☆☆

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blueberrykefir · 19 days ago

Text

No Permission Needed

Joel Miller x f!reader x Daryl Dixon 18+

Summary: You hit the road, running from home. Hitchhiking, only to be picked up by your daddy's two best friends. Sat between Joel Miller and Daryl Dixon, boundaries blur along the Texas highway. It's a forbidden attraction with two older men that push your limits.

Warnings: Smut! MDI! age gap, dads best friends, praise, teasing, dirty talk, use of nicknames, threesome, vaginal fingering, oral (m receiving), penetrative sex (p in v) rough/manhandling.

Word Count: 10k lol

—

You stuck your thumb out before you could second-guess yourself.

The sun beat down like it had a vendetta, the heat making the asphalt shimmer, like a mirage. You were hot, you were pissed, and for once, you were doing something your way. No asking permission, no clearing it with your daddy first. No curfew ticking in your head like a time bomb.

You were grown up, dammit. Even if your daddy refused to see it.

So you didn’t care where that truck, slowing down for you, was headed, so long as it was away.

The engine rumbled closer, an old, familiar growl that should've made your heart settle. Instead, it damn near dropped straight into your boots.

The truck coasted to a slow stop beside you, sun-bleached and rusting at the corners.

The window was already cranked down, glass halfway dusted with sun and road grit. You blinked up at the window and froze.

Joel and Daryl. Your daddy’s best friends.

Oh, shit.

You’d seen them around for years, Joel and Daryl, your daddy’s longtime buddies who showed up for the occasional football game, or during Fourth of July barbecues, beers in hand and sun glinting off sun-kissed forearms.

They were older than you, sure, but they made your stomach flip. They were weathered, rugged, comfortable in their own skin the way boys your age couldn’t fake if they tried.

Joel had this slow, gravel deep drawl that always made you glance down at your boots to hide your blush. And Daryl had those sharp eyes that said he noticed more than he let on. Back then you were too young. Off-limits. But now? Now you filled out your denim skirt and knew how to swing your hips just enough to get attention, even if you pretend not to notice when either of them looked a little too long.

They sat side by side on that wide bench seat, like the devil sent them personally to scoop you up. Their eyes drank you in. Bare legs, scuffed cowgirl boots, the tank top you wore to fight off the heat and to show a little more skin than your daddy would’ve liked.

Joel’s brows lifted a notch, “You runnin’ away, Sweetheart?”

You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, heart drumming in your throat. Then you nodded. “Yes.”

Daryl didn’t even try to hide the smile pulling at his lips. “Your daddy know where you’re at?”

You swallowed, “No.”

You were ready for them to scold you. To tell you to turn back around and be a good girl. Or for them to haul you into that truck and deliver you straight back to your daddy’s front porch.

Instead, they looked at each other. Just one second passed between them. Then Joel nodded, subtle and sure, like this had already been decided.

“Hop in.”

A wave of relief washed over you and you smiled, gratefully.

You grabbed the handle and climbed in, the door creaking like it hadn’t been oiled since before you were born. Daryl didn’t move. Didn’t scoot. Just nodded to the space between him and Joel like it was obvious.

Your skirt barely brushed his knees as you passed over him, settling into the seat between them.

The seat was hot and worn smooth. The old vinyl stuck just a little to the back of your thighs as you squeezed in. The truck was older, so it had a stick shift rising straight up from the floor. You had to throw one leg on either side of it, skirt pulling tight across your thighs.

Joel’s thigh brushed yours on one side, hard muscle under faded jeans, warm and solid. Daryl’s was the same on the other, just close enough that the rough scrape of his denim kissed the soft of her bare thigh.

Your legs looked out of place there. Smooth and soft as a peach next to all that rugged masculinity. Neither of them adjusted for you. Neither of them looked surprised. The engine rumbled to life, low and steady. The rough of Joel’s forearm brushed over your thigh as he shifted into gear. The vibration of the truck thrummed right between your knees… between your thighs.

Joel kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, just inches from you, prepared to switch gears as they drove out of town. The subtle proximity made the air feel charged.

Daryl leaned on his elbow on the open window, his other lazily draped over the back of the seat behind you. His touch never quite reached you, but the space between you was electric, like he was seeing how close he could get without crossing the line.

“You runnin’ off somewhere, darlin’?” Daryl asked eyes on the road ahead, but his voice dipped low and slow, like he already knew the answer, but just wanted to hear you say it.

“Maybe.”

The wind whipped through the open windows, warm and wild. Dust kicked up behind you, and you didn’t look back.

Joel shot you a look from under his lashes, “So. You wanna tell us what you’re doin’ out here, stickin’ your thumb out for strangers.”

You shrugged, fingers fiddling with the frayed hem of your skirt. “Got into it with my daddy.”

Daryl glanced over, his knuckles resting lazy on the open window frame. “He put his hands on you?”

“No–no, not like that.” You hesitated, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, “Guess I got tired of being treated like a little girl.”

Daryl chuckled low in his throat, “That right?”

You didn’t answer, just looked out the window like the horizon might save you. The warm wind brushed your skin, lifting the edge of your skirt, like even the breeze was curious.

Joel shifted gears again, this time his hand grazed your thigh when he pulled back from the stick. His fingers skimmed just above the hemline. You swallowed hard.

Joel didn't look at you when he spoke again. Just kept his eyes on the road.

“Funny,” Joel murmured, voice laced with sin. “You don’t look like no little girl to me.”

“Then maybe y’all oughta stop treatin’ me like one.”

That earned a quiet amused noise from Joel. His fingers tapping idly against the stick shift, like they missed the feel of your skin already.

Daryl leaned forward, his arm behind your shoulders, brushing against you as he adjusted the radio, letting a soft hum of old country fill the space. “Well now, darlin’, that kinda talk’s liable to get you in trouble.

You tilted your chin up, “Maybe I’m lookin’ for a little trouble.

Joel chuckled under his breath, like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth.

The low sound of his chuckle curled in your gut like smoke. You didn’t like it. Not because it wasn’t nice to hear.

But because it was dismissive.

Amused.

Like he still saw the kid pouting over curfews and not the woman sitting between him and Daryl.

So you glanced over, chin tilted in challenge, “Somethin’ funny Joel?”

His eyes slid to your, then back to the road. He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted the gear again, knuckles brushing your thigh like the truck wanted to stir trouble.

With a slight curl to his lips he said, “No, no. Just tryin’ to remember when you learned how to bite.”

The low hum of his voice, slithered down your spine, but the words burned hotter. He still thought it was a game. Like you were just actin’ up for attention.

At that, you felt a little frustrated he wasn't taking you seriously. You wanted to be seen as a woman. Treated like one. So you snapped. “You guys think I'm just playin’ dont you?”

Neither of them responded. Joel’s fingers twitched on the wheel and Daryl glanced your way, not smirking anymore. His brows tugged in a furrow, the look of a man questioning something he didn’t see coming.

“I’m not playin’,” You went on, quieter. “I’m done waitin’ around, being treated like I'm ten. I got my own legs now, and I know how to use them.”

That earned a slow glance from both of them. Like finally, they weren’t just looking at you, but they were seeing you.

“Yeah,” Joel said finally. Rough, Barely there. “We’re startin’ to notice.”

You finally settled in, sinking into the old bench seat. The heat of Daryl’s arm pressed warm and heavy against your shoulders and your legs were snug against theirs, like you’d been made to fit there.

“Good.” You finished. “‘Cause I really didn’t wanna have to hitch a new ride.”

The corner of Joel’s mouth curled, almost a smile, but darker. And when he shifted gears again, his hand grazed your bare thigh. But this time it lingered. He didn’t move away, fast like before.

The truck suddenly felt too quiet. The old country song warbled low on the radio, a twangy ache that sounded just the way your stomach flipped.

“So.” You started. “Where y’all off to anyways?”

Daryl answered, “Checkin’ out a property over state lines.”

“Lookin’ for trouble maybe,” Joel added, glancing at you sideways.

You smiled, lashes fluttering. “Lucky you picked me up then.”

Joel looked back at the road. Daryl’s gaze caught the way your fingers messed with the hem of your skirt.

“Yeah,” Daryl said, “We’re beginnin’ to think so too.”

The radio crackled with old country, as you guys drove down the old Texan highway. Fields of scrub, rusted fence posts, telephone wires strung lazily alongside the road. It was the most peace you felt in a while.

You took it all in with anticipation of what's next. A wad of cash in your back pocket. Your past in the rearview. Your bare knees bumping against their thighs every time the truck hits a dip in the road.

Ten minutes passed like that.

Just open road, stolen glances, and accidental touches that lingered too long to be innocent.

Then Joel cleared his throat. “Gotta stop for gas soon.”

Daryl snorted from the passenger seat, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Hell, this old thing runs like it’s draggin’ it’ last breath. We hardly even left town.”

“Hey.” You ran your fingers along the cracked leather of the seat like it was precious. “Ain’t nothing wrong with older.”

That got their attention. Joel looked at you sideways, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Daryl raised a brow, amused.

“Yeah?” Joel asked, voice thick with heat. “What is it about ‘em you like so much?”

You shrugged, pretending like your pulse hadn’t just kicked up a notch.

“Older things last longer… if you know how to treat them.” You leaned your head back against the seat, letting the sun catch your cheekbones just so. “New stuff’s too easy. I like somethin’ that takes a little work.”

Daryl made a noise of amusement. “Talkin’ ‘bout trucks or men, darlin’?”

You shrugged, “Ain’t much of a difference, far as I’m concerned.”

Your words landed like a shot of whiskey. Rough and warm.

You weren’t just playing with fire. You were the match, waiting for them to strike. You wanted their minds reeling. Wanted them to picture your lips wrapped around something other than words.

They tensed. They didn’t look at each other, but you could feel them thinking about it. About you.

“Well,” Joel cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. His lips twitched like he was fighting a grin. “Hope you like gas stations too.” The corner of your mouth lifted, amused, “Love them.”

—

The old truck rumbled to a halt in front of a sun-faded gas station that looked like it had been baked into the Texas dirt. A single rust pump stood half-leaning like it might give out if the wind blew wrong.

The sun poured down mean, sharp as glass. Your skin prickled under it the second Joel cut the engine and the breeze vanished.

“Thirsty?” Darly asked, already nudging open the truck door.

You nodded, legs unfold slowly, denim skirt riding up as you stepped down from the truck. Joel and Daryl’s eyes flicked over your legs and you felt the heat of it like a sunburn.

The soles of your boots crunched on sun-bleached gravel as you followed them towards the station.

Daryl beat Joel to the door, pulling it open with a cocky smile, “After you, darlin’.”

You gave him a mock curtsy and stepped inside, only for Joel to follow right behind, slipping in a little too close. His chest brushed your back as he grabbed the handle and swung the door shut in Daryl’s face, with a lazy flick of his wrist.

You hear the solid thunk of it closing, followed by: “What the hell, man?”

Your laugh bubbled up as Daryl shoved the door back open, giving Joel a shove on his way in.

“That’s what I get for bein’ nice,” Daryl muttered, shooting you a mock wounded look.

You grinned at him, “Didn’t ask you to be.”

Something unreadable passed through Daryl’s eyes, and his jaw clenched like he was holding back words. Before turning and walking down an aisle.

The air inside the station was barely cooler, just stale and humming from a dusty box fan shoved in the corner. Old postcards curled on wire racks, a faded Coke machine in the corner, and the clerk reading a hardback.

“Real fine establishment,” You smiled, fingers trailing along a row of melted candy bars as you trailed behind Joel and Daryl into the aisles. Daryl peeled off toward the back, muttering something about jerky. Joel veered toward the cooler.

He grabbed a water bottle, condensation slick on his fingers. He cracked the cap and took a slow swig, throat bobbing.

Then he held it out to you.

You hesitated for half a beat before taking it. The rim was cold and wet where his mouth had just been. You brought it to your lips and tried not to think about it.

Joel watched you, one brow raised like he hadn’t meant to stare, but couldn’t help it. Your stomach flipped.

“Ain’t gotta get shy on me now,” Joel murmured, voice low and teasing.

You pulled the bottle back, licking a drop from your bottom lip, catching his gaze. “Not shy.” You said. “Just didn’t expect you to be the kinda guy to share.”

He huffed a breath through his nose, “I’m not usually. But some things…” His eyes dragged over you, “...are worth makin’ an exception for.”

Something warm and thrilling raced down your spine.

Daryl came round the corner, snacks in hand. He noted the look on your guys’ face. “What’d I miss?”

You turned toward him with a syrup-sweet smile, voice all innocence. “Joel was just tellin’ me he likes to share.”

Daryl raised a brow at Joel, slow and curious. Joel didn’t say anything. Just ran a hand over his jaw like he was tryin’ to keep it together.

A smirk tugged at your lips. You turned toward the counter, hips swaying and you set the water down with a quiet clink.

Neither of them moved, just fixated on you. “I’ll be waitin’ in the truck. Don’t take too long.” You drift towards the door and toss over your shoulder, “Reckon I’ll find a way to entertain myself.”

That was all it took. Daryl blinked once, then tossed the snacks down like they’d offended him. “Gas is on you this time, buddy,” he said, already making a beeline for the door.

Joel didn’t move, just stared after him. “The hell–,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Daryl's boots were stomping behind you, leaving Joel to deal with the clerk.

Outside, the air hit like a blow dryer set to hell. You reached for the truck’s door, but the metal burned your palm like it had soaked up every bit of the Texas sun.

You pulled back with a small hiss.

“I got it.” Daryl stepped in, casual as anything and pulled the creaky door open. He didn’t even flinch. Of course he didn’t.

“Thank you.” You said, slipping into the middle with a little sigh. The leather had already gone warm under the sun, leather sticking to the back of your thighs.

Daryl lingered outside the truck, arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing beneath the frayed edges of his sleeveless black vest. The angel wings stitched across the back was a cruel contrast to a man who looked more like fallen grace than divine mercy.

The bell above the gas station door jingled, and Joel came out into the sun. He made it halfway to the truck before he tossed a brown paper bag into the cab with a little more force than necessary.

“Dickhead,” he muttered at Daryl, cuffing him on the shoulder, not too hard, but not playful either. Like it wasn’t about snacks or the gas anymore.

Then Joel grumbled something about “damn heat getting to me,” as he walked around to the pump. His eyes cut toward you through the dusty windshield. It was clear, It wasn’t the sun that was getting to him.

Daryl climbed in the passenger side door with a lazy grin, grabbed the brown bag and slid in with a creak of leather and old springs. His arm returned behind you on the seat, this time closer than before.

You gasped when something cold landed in your thigh. He dropped a glass bottle of Coke in your lap. He smirked at you, “Figured you’d want somethin’ sweet.”

It was chilled, beads of condensation rolling over the red label, soaking into your thighs through the denim of your skirt.

You took your time, twisting the metal cap on the Coke, letting the fizz whisper as it opened. You brought it to your mouth and took a slow sip from the rim. A soft sound came out, something between a sigh and a hum of satisfaction.

Daryl's gaze seared into you. Intent and sharp. You pulled the drink away from your lips, with a flutter of your lashes. “You want a taste too?”

Daryl’s tongue flicked across his lower lip. “Might be a little too sweet for me.” His voice was low and rough.

“Huh.” You tilted your head, “I thought you might’ve liked things a little… Sweeter.”

The words floated in the air, charged and suggestive.

Before he could answer, the sound of the door opening sliced through the air. The truck rocked slightly as Joel climbed into the driver's seat.

You smirked at Daryl, as if you’d just shared a secret, and brought the bottle to your lips, taking another sip. You savored the cold rush down your throat, keeping your eyes on him the whole time.

The truck’s engine roared to life and Joel turned to look at you, his eyes lingering on the way you held the Coke and the way Daryl still hovered too close to you.

There was something tense in the air now, and for once, it wasn’t just the Texas heat.

—

As the truck pulled back onto the road, the horizon stretched out before you. An endless ribbon of highway shimmering in the scorching afternoon sun.

The low hum of the tires and old static radio didn’t do much to ease the tension in the truck. It only seemed to thicken with each passing mile.

Your nails traced lazy circles on your bare thigh, like you needed something to do with your hands. Or maybe you just liked driving them crazy.

The road ahead seemed to blur under the heat and the only thing keeping you tethered to reality was the weight of Daryl’s arm behind you, and the brush of Joel's hand shifting gears.

Every now and then, you’d catch a fleeting glance from Joel in the rearview mirror, each look sending a thrill through you. His stare was dark, leaving a spark that lingered long after.

The heat from the sun made everything feel too close. Too tight. You tried to stretch out a bit, but you were trapped between their two muscular thighs.

Joel’s hand rested on the gear shift, letting his forearm carefully hover over your thigh, the lightest brush of his presence. The small act of restraint made your heart skip a beat, a quiet challenge hanging in the air.

You took a slow sip from your Coke, the rim between your glossed lips, pretending you weren't aware of the way they glanced over to watch your mouth.

“So what was the final straw?” Daryl asked, as though it had been chewing at him for miles.

You blinked, popping off the bottle, glancing over, “What?”

Daryl’s hand rested loosely on the open window. “What was the reason? That made you leave in such a damn hurry.”

Joel glanced at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t one for prying, and you both knew that.

You rolled the Coke bottle between your palms. “I told you already.” There was an edge in your voice. “Just needed to get out.”

Daryl made a sound from beside you, like he didn’t quite believe that was the full story. Joel didn’t say anything. The muscles in his neck were tight, like he was fighting the urge to ask more.

You sighed, finally caving. “My daddy ain’t exactly the type to let his little girl grow up.”

Their attention was fixed on you. They looked at you, quiet and waiting. “Couldn’t date. Couldn’t work. Couldn’t breathe without him granting me permission.” You took a sip of Coke, clearing your dry throat. “Saw what I was wearin’ this morning and told me I looked like a whore.”

Joel's brows twitched and daryl shifted in the seat.

“Well,” Daryl gave your outfit a slow, once-over, “You don’t look like a little girl anymore, I can tell you that.”

You grinned, teeth sharp behind the bottle. “That’s what I told him. Right before I slammed the door and left.”

Daryl let out a breath through his nose. “Daddies and their little girls.” He tsked. “Never good at lettin’ go once they realize they ain’t so little anymore.”

“You think he’ll come lookin’ around for you?” Joel asked.

You shook your head. “No. I’ll go back eventually. I just…” You hesitated. “I need to do things on my own for once. Y’know? Just for a little while.”

Daryl sucked in a deep breath, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Gonna be a hell of a reunion,” he said with a coy smile, “Showin’ up for the Fourth…”

Joel finished it, “...With his daughter sittin’ between two of his oldest friends.”

You scoffed, “He trusts you guys. Hell, he’d probably thank you for keepin’ me safe.”

Daryl snickered like you said something funny. Joel ran a hand over his jaw, like he was covering a smirk.

“What?” You blinked, clearly missing the joke.

Daryl leaned in closer, his arm brushing your thigh. “Ain’t no girl in her right mind, sittin’ between two men like us, unless she wants somethin’ real bad.”

You choked on your Coke, with a breathless laugh, “Jesus, y’all are gonna get me killed.”

“No, Sweetheart, you are gonna get us killed,” Daryl grinned sideways.

Joel just huffed, but there was a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, like he knew it was true.

You shrugged, playing it casual. “Y’know, my daddy always did say I was trouble.”

Daryl glanced at you, eyes skimming over your barelegs, “He might’ve been onto somethin’.”

“Funny,” You looked at them, voice all honeyed innocence, “Never stopped you two from lookin’.”

Joel’s jaw twitched. Like he’d been caught, for all those lingering glances over the years. “Ain’t exactly easy when you strut around like that.”

You scoff, lips curling, “Just like my daddy said… That I was askin’ for attention.”

“Well,” Daryl drawled, voice low, “You sure as hell got it.”

“Is that so bad? That I wanted it?” Your eyes darted between them, something reckless sparking under your skin. “For someone to notice me?”

Daryl didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Long. The kind of look that felt like a hand dragging down your spine.

Your boot scuffed against the floorboard as you set the Coke in the cupholder, an innocent move, if it hadn’t hiked your skirt just enough to teeter forbidden skin. His gaze flicked down to your legs. You didn’t fix it.

“I'm noticing, Darlin’.” He looked at your lips. “And if I don’t stop, I'm gonna forget you’re daddy’s little girl.

You leaned in like you were confessing a sin. “I don’t want to be daddy’s little girl anymore.”

The words hung in the air. Tense. Final.

To prove that you meant it, that you weren’t some girl playing grown, you leaned closer. Close enough to breathe in the heady scent of leather and heat rolling off of Daryl in waves.

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t move toward you either. Like he needed you to be the one to cross the line.

So you did.

You closed the distance, crashing your lips onto his. Hot and messy. Like you’d finally run out of patience for all those years.

Daryl tasted like smoke and gasoline. Trouble. The kind of man your daddy warned you about. You loved it.

Daryl’s hand caught your knee, like he was holding himself back. But when your tongue slipped into his mouth, warm and waiting, he made a low, desperate sound in his throat. Like a man letting go.

His palm slid up your thigh, rough fingertips dragging over skin made hot by the sun. He stopped just shy of your denim skirt, like he was giving you the chance to tell him no.

Your legs shifted open instinctively, brushing against Joel’s thigh. Solid and warm. And very aware of everything going on besides him.

The truck shifted with a slight change of gear, the sound of the engine growling beneath you as it sped up. Joel’s jaw clenches as he tightened his grip on the wheel, his fingers flexing. His eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror, watching you two. But he didn’t say a word.

You pulled away from Daryl, tugging his lower lip, before letting go.

But you weren’t done.

You turned and leaned across the seat, toward Joel, slow and sinful. His jaw was locked, that muscle ticking as he stared ahead, like he’d just lost a fight he didn’t know he was in.

Then your mouth grazed the shell of his ear, your voice was velvet, “Still think i’m just daddy’s little girl?”

You nipped, playful and bold on his ear. He tried to balance watching the road and you.

“Sweetheart,” Joel’s voice was low, thick with warning, but not the kind meant to stop you. More like the kind that said keep going.

But you were already kissing him. Soft and teasing, at first. Just the curve of his cheek, where the scruff scratched your lips. Then the corner of his mouth.

He turned his head, chasing it, like he needed it to breathe. Trying to meet you halfway and trying to drive and sin at the same time.

But he failed.

The truck veered ever so slightly, tired humming against the edge of the road. He muttered something low under his breath, but you just laughed a soft, wicked giggle that made his jaw tighten.

Your lips trailed down to his neck, mouthing over stubble and sun-warned skin, feeling his Adam’s apple jump beneath your lips. Joel breathed in deep through his nose, fighting for composure, but it was slipping. Fast.

Behind you, Daryl chuckled low, wicked and amused. “Mmm, look at you.” he drawled, “Just can’t decide who you want first huh?”

You pulled back from Joel's neck, slow and smug, lips tingling from the trail you left on his skin. You looked at Joel first, sweet and daring, then turned to Darly, flashing a grin full of trouble. A challenge.

With a slow smile, you answered Daryl, “Why choose?” You let the words drip off your like honey. Sweet, but sticky enough to trap them both.

The seat creaks with the weight of it… of all the years they looked at you like they shouldn’t. And now you're sitting pretty between them, all willing in your cutoffs and cherry lips.

“Always wondered what it’d feel like… gettin’ touched' by both of you.” You continued.

Daryl leaned in close, breathed hot against your ear, “How long you been thinkin’ ‘bout this, huh?”

You exhaled your truth like a prayer. “Years.”

Then Joel’s hand found your chin, turning you to face him. To face the truth.

“Dirty girl. Walkin’ around all summer, fantazing about gettin’ fucked by your daddy’s friends.” Joel’s eyes were dark and ravenous.

“Been beggin’ for this without sayin’ a damn word.” Daryl added.

But you weren’t the only one.

As if you hadn’t noticed the way their eyes would linger too long when they thought you weren’t paying attention. They wanted this just as bad…Maybe worse.

“And you boys never looked at me like you were saints either.” You blinked up at them, lips parted. “You were just waitin’ for me to grow up.”

Joel’s jaw ticked, “We never claimed to be saints.”

Joel and Daryls hand slid up in unison, breaching the edge of your skirt, pausing letting you stop them. But you didn’t.

“Maybe it's time we stop pretending,” Daryl said, voice rough and hungry. “And finally take what we want.”

Joel’s free hand shifted the gear in fifth, then landed on your thigh, warm and heavy. Like a claim.

Then Daryl’s hand found your other thigh with rougher, calloused fingers. Like a dare.

Their hands couldn’t have felt more different. One firm and steady, the other lazy and hot. But both felt possessive. A silent agreement of their shared sin.

You could feel it. All that tension burning low and deep in your belly. The kind that made your pulse drum in your ears and your breath come light.

“You think you can handle the both of us?” Daryl asked, grip on your thigh tightening.

“Or are you just playin’ pretend.” Joel’s eyes found yours in the rearview, dark and unreadable.

“Ain’t nothin’ pretend…” You purred, slowly, “... about how wet I am right now.”

“Fucksake,” Daryl muttered, at the same time Joel cleared his throat.

The temperature in the truck rose significantly. The old vinyl seat stuck to the back of your thighs, and sunlight cut through the dusty windows like a blade, striping Joel’s forearm in gold as it gripped your thigh. His fingers just a little tighter now.

Outside, the road blurred in the heat shimmer. But inside… inside was hotter.

Need throbbed inside you, sharp and sweet. It was too much. Your thighs tried to press together for friction, but the gear shift mocked you, right in the way. The truck bounced again, hitting a loose patch of dirt. The movement sent a shiver rippling through you. Every nerve ending felt like it was one fire.

Daryl noticed and whistled low, eyes dark. “Look at her, Joel,” his hand slid down your thigh with the slow patience of a man savoring a favorite song. “Poor thing’s shakin’. Needs it so bad, she's tremblin’.”

There was no hiding it now. Your body had given you away.

“Reckon we oughta be gentlemen and help her out,” Daryl said, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “Don’t you think so, Joel?”

Joel’s voice became dark like a warning. “Ain’t nothing gentlemanly about what I wanna do.”

Those words punched air from your lungs. Your stomach twisted in on itself, heat spreading through your core like fire catching dry grass.

“Then stop pretending otherwise,” the words exploded out of you. “And fuckin’ do it.”

Joel's hand caught your jaw, firm and warning. The grip made your heart skip. Half fear and half delicious thrill.

“You better watch how you talk to us,” Joel's low and commanding voice had your thighs twitching against their hold.

Daryl’s voice was laced with promise. “Gonna have to teach you manners.”

“We're gonna ruin you, sweetheart,” Joel growled, “and when we’re done, you're gonna say thank you.”

You eagerly nodded your head, unable to suppress the anticipation flooding your body.

“You got that? Use your words.” Joel’s voice was unwavering.

“Yes. Please.” The words tumbled out without hesitation.

As if your words were a surrender, Daryl grabbed your jaw, turning you toward him. “She’s a fast learner.” You barely gasped before his mouth swallowed it. The kiss was messy and unhurried. All heat and carelessness.

A moan spilled from you as your tongues tangled, lazy and deep, like neither of you had anywhere to be, but right here, in the middle of the wide-open nowhere.

Despite your tank top clinging to your skin, damp with head and need, a shiver ran down your spine, sharp as lighting. Your nipples pebbled beneath the thin cotton, aching for more.

But even as your lips moved with Daryl’s, you still felt Joel. The steady, unmoving grip on your thigh, that made your breath catch. His hand wasn’t roaming the way Daryl’s was. Joel’s was anchored.

Daryl pulled back, chest rising fast. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, swollen and kiss-bitten.

“Go on,” he rasped, “Give Joel a turn, baby.”

You smiled, sugar sweet and slick with mischief. Then you turned in the seat, the curve of your rear brushing against Daryl’s solid denim, teasing a groan from deep in his chest.

The warm breeze slipped in through the open window. It caressed your skin, like even the wind couldn’t help itself in wanting to touch you.

God, the sight of Joel. The white knuckled grip on the wheel. The tick in his jaw. His eyes like thunderclouds, barely holding back a storm. And below the belt… There was no mistaking the way his jeans strained against the denim.

He liked it. Watching.

And that realization made your whole body sing with delight.

You leaned forward again, pulse pounding softly in your ears. Daryl’s taste still lingered on your tongue, but now your eyes were on Joel.

Every vein in Joel’s forearms stood out like he was barely holding it together.

“Joel,” You purred, dragging his name slowly over your lips. You shifted closer, your thigh brushing his. His jaw clenched, hard enough to crack. “Did you like watching me kiss Daryl?”

“Didn’t need to rush. I knew you’d come around.” He said smugly.

That made you smile.

You giggled teasing and breathless. You leaned in, wanting to share your attention with Joel now.

Your breath skimmed the side of Joel’s face as you brushed your lips against his stubbled jaw. He didn’t look at you, not yet. His eyes were locked on the road ahead. But you felt his restraint thrumming beneath the surface.

You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, feather light. Then another closer to his mouth. He turned his head just enough to offer a half-hearted kiss back. His focus stubbornly locked on the road ahead. Responsible and resisting. But you weren’t in the mood for restraint anymore.

So you brought your mouth to his ear, licking and nipping the skin that had seen too many summers, “Come on, old man,” You whispered, “Don’t you wanna know how I taste?”

Joel’s whole body tensed, like he was one breath away from pulling over and wrecking all three of you right then and there. The grip on your thigh was steel now.

So you kissed him again. Below his ear. Along the lines of his jaw. Corner of his mouth. Teasing, tempting, and absolutely relentless.

And when he finally snapped, it wasn’t with words.

It was with a sound, so low and deep in his chest. In one sharp turn of his head, his mouth was on yours, delivering a punishing kiss to your welcoming lips.

You moaned in relief, like you’d been waiting hours for that kiss. His lips were soft, but the way he used them wasn’t. It was desperate, and aggressive.

He wants this. He wants you.

And you kissed him back like you meant it. Because you did. For years you wanted this. Wanted him.

The stubble on his jaw was rough against your hands, and your chest ignited with excitement as his tongue swept into your mouth. He possessed your mouth like it was his.

This kiss was different. Not better, just different. Joel was all hard lines and rough hands. But Daryl was slow and hot.

Heat was radiating off Daryl from behind you, like a second sun. He watched and waited, full of desire.

You wanted more.

From both.

Suddenly, the truck lurched and Joel ripped his mouth from yours with a curse. All three of you jerked upright. Dust kicked up behind the wheels, blurring the endless stretch of sun-bleached Texas highway in the rearview.

The sudden lurch of the truck had adrenaline pulse through you like a living and breathing thing.

You giggled, breathless, a little too delighted by how close you were to getting the three of you killed.

It was if fate was trying to issue a final warning, one you were too far gone to heed.

Then Daryl joined in, letting out a deep huff, dragging his hands through his hair. “Fuck, darlin’.” he rasped. “You’re gonna get us wrecked, actin’ like that. Gonna have this old man forgettin’ how to drive.”

You tilted your head, biting back a smile, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“If that’s all it takes, Joel,” You teased, “I’m just getting started.”

Daryl barked a short, stunned laugh, and shook his head, “Jesus, she’s tryin’ to kill us.”

“Huh,” You hummed, “Thought you boys could keep up.”

You settled into your seat, dragging your nails lightly down your bare thigh, just to watch their eyes follow, “Must be the age.”

Daryl’s hand gripped your jaw, not gently. His fingers pressed into your cheeks as he leaned in close, voice thick with hunger. “That damn mouth.”

Then Darryl slammed his mouth onto yours. All heat and hunger. His tongue slipped past your lips like he owned the space. You sighed into his mouth, like you were finally getting what you wanted.

“Look at you,” Joel said, “putting that mouth to better use.” his hand slid up your thigh. Daryl's hand followed suit.

Both of their hands slowly slid beneath the hem of your skit, fingers greedy, knowing exactly what they were after. You shifted in your seat, legs falling open another inch. Barely a movement, but an invitation all the same.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, wild and waiting. Wondering which one would cross that line first.

They didn’t touch you. Not yet. Instead, they laughed. Low and amused, like your need was funny. Like your eagerness was cute.

You flushed, cheeks burning as heat coiled through your stomach. “Don’t make me beg.” You were so wound up it hurt. “I’ve been good for too long.”

Daryl let out a low, taunting chuckle, “Hear that, Joel? She thinks she's been good.”

“Good?” Joel scoffed, eyes amused. “Good girls don’t end up in the middle of this truck.”

“You want it that bad?” Daryl growled, eyes blazing. “Then show us.”

“Go on,” Joel encouraged. “Let's see how desperate you really are… for two old men.”

“Lift your skirt.”. Daryl’s gaze pinned you down, heavy and expectant.

You hesitated, not from modesty, but from the way nerves and desire tangled like twin heartbeats. There was no going back after this. And you didn’t want to.

The pads of your fingers curled in the hem of your skirt. Slowly, deliberately, you pulled back the denim inch by inch, offering yourself like a secret you’d been dying to spill.

“Fuck,” Daryl hissed, eyes fixed between your thighs. “Underwear completely soaked.”

Your cheeks burned hot. The kind of humiliation that throbbed between your legs. You tried to close them, but their hands were already there, holding you open helplessly and displayed.

Joel’s voice came rough and tight, “You’re makin’ a mess of my truck, Sweetheart.”

You couldn’t meet their eyes. Could barely breathe through the ache swirling in your belly.

Joel's hand slid up your thigh, so slowly you trembled in anticipation. His fingers grazed the soaked cotton stretched tight between your legs. His thumb pressed down, rubbing the wet fabric right where you needed it.

A breathless sound escaped your lips.

A heart beat later, Daryl's hands were on you too, sliding up your ribs and palming your breast though the thin tank top. His mouth found your neck, dragging wet hot kisses over your racing pulse.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Air exploded out of your lungs when Joel’s thumb found your clit through your soaked underwear at the exact moment Daryl’s rough fingers found your nipple through the cotton.

“Yes,” You whined. A cry of relief, of years of pent up desire, finally happening.

Your head fell back against the seat and your eyes rolled back as twin waves of pleasure crashed over you, stealing thought and breath alike.

Daryl’s teeth scraped against your neck, “Such a fuckin’ tease,” he said against your fevered skin. His hand pinched your nipple hard, wrenching a gasp from your lips. “Until your falling apart for us.”

All you could do was whimper in response, legs twitching against their grip.

Joel growled low in his throat, a raw primal sound and Daryl held your thigh wider as Joel hooked your underwear to the side.

Two fingers slid into you, deep and effortless. Filthy-slick from how wet you were.

Your eyes squeezed shut from the sudden stretch, the fullness, and the sudden wave of white hot pleasure… It was overwhelming.

A needy cry tore free from your throat. You couldn't have swallowed it down if you tried.

Joel’s fingers thrust with purpose, brushing that perfect secret spot inside of you as Daryl kissed all the way down your neck until he reached your nipple, straining against the fabric of your top.

Your skin buzzed, burning hotter than the Texas sun leaking in through the dusty windshield.

“Open your eyes.” Joel ordered, “Watch us ruin that little cunt of yours.”

You forced them open, dizzy from pleasure, just to see the sight you knew would haunt you forever. Rough, sunburned hands on your soft, yielding body. Their mouths, their teeth, their fingers, worshipping you like you were some spoiled offering they’d been starving for.

“Fuck,” you sobbed, watching helplessly as they devour you. You felt like you were on fire from the inside out.

Your legs trembled violently.

Ruled by lust, Daryl growled and pushed your tank top up and over your breasts, smirking at what he unveiled. Your nipples were aching and hard, despite the Texas heat. Without hesitation, he swiftly sucked on one nipple, rolling the other between calloused fingers.

You groaned, puffing your chest out further into his possession as a hot sensation rippled throughout your body.

“Fuck, look at you, giving it up so easily for us.” Daryl smirked against your skin.

“Knew you'd be perfect.” Joel said, curling his fingers deep inside you.

You were completely open now, bared for them like a feast. And they were starving.

Joel’s fingers thrust in and out, steady and ruthless. His thumb circled your clit with cruel, precise strokes that made you buck helpless between them.

Your whole body jolted when Joel found that perfect spot again and Daryl’s teeth scraped your nippled. They did it again and again, like they knew how to pull you apart at the seams.

“Oh my god,” you mouthed because you lost your breath. “Im gonna–”

Your hands scrambled for purchase, clutching at Joel’s forearm and at Daryl’s wild hair, desperate from something solid as your orgasm barreled down you, unstoppable.

“Doin’ so good for us.” Daryl growled under his breath, his cool breath against your wet skin. “Such a pretty girl.”

You tried, god, you tried, to keep your eyes open to watch them, but when Daryl’s teeth nipped sharp on your skin and Joel’s fingers hit that devastating rhythm inside you… You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, hot and blinding. Your whole body shook, shuddering violently, in their hands as you came with a broken cry.

Your hands flew out, trying to find something to anchor you in place, for fear that you were leaving your body from pleasure.

“That’s it.” Joel coaxed, his voice warm and rough in your ear.

When you finally floated back down to earth, your left hand had carved crescent moons into Joel’s skin and your right hand fisted tight in Daryl’s thick hair.

You were gasping, trembling, and utterly undone.

Joel removed his fingers and your body twitched with aftershocks. You whimpered at the emptiness, clenching still wanting more.

You blinked up at them in a daze. Joel’s fingers glistened with your orgasm in the golden light of sunset.

Fingers dripping and shining. And then, Christ, then Joel brought those fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes half lidded, humming low in his throat.

“Just as sweet as I thought you’d be.” he turned to Daryl, smirking, “Go on, have a taste.”

Your hand shot out and gripped Joel's denim clad thigh when Daryl’s fingers slipped between your thighs. His fingers dipped inside your dripping entrance, then pressed hard on your throbbing clit on the way out, making you twitch and gasp.

Holding your gaze, Daryk smirked at you as he slowly slid his fingers into his mouth, sucking them like he was savoring honey.

“Mmm,” he hummed, “Maybe you were right. I do like things a little sweeter.”

He repeated your earlier words and they settled low and deep in your belly. Despite your heaving chest, you were still so goddamn greedy for them.

You needed more.

You needed them inside of you. It felt as vital to your existence as oxygen.

So you did something wicked. Something you have been dying to do since you stepped foot in this rusted truck.

You placed your soft palms against the coarse, sun-faded denim that covered their thighs. Your hands slid up and down, lazy and lingering. You felt their muscles twitch beneath your touch.

Joel exhaled through his nose, voice as rough as the road, “Goddamn, look at you teasin’ us like it's your job.”

You smiled, a picture of pure satisfaction. Sated, yet starving at the same time. You traced your way further up, reaching where aching hardness was trapped behind worn denim.

“What’re you doin’, pretty girl?” Daryl drawled, his eyes amused.

“That wasn’t enough for you?” Joel rasped.

You tugged your lip between your teeth and your palms pressed harder against the heat between their thighs.

“I'm thanking you.” You purred, lashes fluttering like a promise, “For ruining me.”

Both of their breaths hitched, a heavy twin sound that only fueled you. You kept your motions slow and measured, just enough to tease them. Enough to make them suffer the same desperate ache that rattled through your bones.

“Fuck darlin’, driving me crazy.” Daryl hissed.

“Just takin’ my time.” Your eyes sparkled with desire and mischief, “There’s enough of me to go around.”

You turned towards Daryl first, pressing a sweet, little kiss to his mouth. Soft and almost innocent, if not for the hint of your arousal on his lips. It was a tease of a kiss. Like saying goodbye.

Because then you shifted towards Joel, kissing a trail up the thick column of his neck, tasting salt and sun. You grazed your teeth along his stubbled jaw until you reached the shell of his ear.

“Hi,” You whispered sweetly, before nipping once. He huffed a breath in response.

You shifted your hips towards Daryl, angled like a siren. Your hands stayed busy on Joel, palming him light and taunting over his jeans. Daryl’s hands, rough over soft skin, snuck around your waist grounding you while you misbehaved.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath, hips shifting under your touch when you squeezed him harder through the denim.

“Relax, old man.” You teased with a sly smile.

“Keep doin’ that and I won't.” He warned, voice dark with desire.

Power thrummed through you, finally having some control of the situation.

You reached down and popped open the button of Joel’s jeans, then eased the zipper down slow enough to be cruel.

The second you did, heat and hardness surged into your palm.

You licked your lips, drunk of the way he stared down at you. His gaze made you feel suddenly too hot. Sizzling with desire.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Daryl rumbled from behind you, gripping your hip, “Least you can do is be sweet to the poor bastard… after makin’ such a mess all over his seat.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining when I made it.” You said, pushing back against him.

Daryl's hands slid down your waist until he reached the end of your skirt. He breached the line of fabric until he was massaging your thighs all the way up to your ass. You pushed your hips further into his touch, hungry for more.

Joel’s hand found your face, cupping it gently, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “It’s okay, Sweetheart,” Joel’s hand came to cup your cheek. His thumb tugged your lower lip down. “A little filth doesn’t bother me.”

A lewd smile tugged at your mouth. you hooked your fingers into his underwear, and pulled down, freeing him. “Let’s see if you still think that, when I'm done with you.”

Joel's cock made your eyes widen. He’s huge. Veined. And beautiful.

Teasing him was tortuous for Joel and you. Every second you played with his restraint only made the ache in your body grow stronger. You couldn’t help it. Your fingers moved on their own accord, wrapping around him in desperate need.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

You grip the base firmly, feeling the heat of him pulse against your palm. You stroked once before, placing a teasing kiss to the tip, then another, letting salty pre-cum gloss over your lips.

You moan, a hot breath on Joel's cock when Daryl’s hand slips under your skirt, cupping between your legs, sending a rush of heat through your body.

“How much do you care for these?” Darly asked, snapping the band of your underwear against your skin with a sharp sting.

You turned over your shoulder to look at him. Your mind was hazy… Too aroused to think straight. “What?”

“Guess I'll find out,” he muttered to himself.

In one swift motion, he tore the cotton right off. The sound of fabric ripping echoed through the truck.

“Daryl–” The protest died on your lips when the sudden rush of air from the open window hit your exposed core, sending shivers through you.

Momentarily distracted by Daryl's hands roaming between your thighs, exploring and caressing every inch of you, you turned back to Joel.

He looked so hard it had to hurt. His length was straining against the air pointed straight at your waiting mouth.

You gave him a slow, gentle squeeze, never breaking eye contact. “So pretty.” You said, lashes fluttering.

Wasting no time, you time you flicked your tongue around the swollen head of him. Slow, languid licks, then quick teasing licks. Joel’s hand found your hair, gripping it firmly, making you exhale a hot breath against his skin from the delicious pressure.

“Sweetheart,” He warned with a serious glare.

You smiled against him, then, shocking him completely, you parted your lips and took him deep in your mouth. You licked and sucked along the length of him, hollowing your cheeks, swallowing him down.

“Shit,” Joel groaned, tightening his grip in your hair.

Tears formed in your eyes when he hit the back of your throat, and still, you kept going, greedy for every inch of him.

You moaned around Joel, the sound vibrating along his length, when suddenly, Daryl’s fingers found your swollen bundle of nerves. He rubbed a slow lazy circle that made your hips buck into his hand and your mouth sink deeper onto joel.

Daryl shifted closer, his rough hands greedy as he lifted your hips, settling you on top of him.The coarse scrape of his denim met your tender skin and you whimpered grinding down against him, aching for more.

You pushed back into Daryl, wanting to feel all of him.

You popped off Joel with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his aching cock. Over your shoulder, you cried out, “Daryl, please.”

“How’m I supposed to say no when you finally used your manners?” Daryl said voice thick with lust.

You heard the rustle of his zipper. You replaced your mouth on Joel’s cock with your hands, so you could watch Daryl unsheath himself.

Your stomach twisted with want at the sight of him, thick and flushed. You clenched around nothing, already aching to be filled.

Daryl lined himself up behind you, the swollen tip teasing your dripping entrance. You were so slick, he could have slid in with one hard thrust, but he didn’t. Instead he relished the way your wetness coated him, dragging his cock slowly through your folds, soaking himself in your need.

“Guess you ain’t as tough as you act, huh?” you teased, trying to push him over that edge, daring him to stop holding back and take what he wants.

A cruel smile tugged at his lips.“You’re gonna be cryin’ for it when I’m done with you.”

Then he pushed forward, until he reached the end of you, stealing your breath. You fisted the denim of Joel’s jeans so hard your knuckles grew numb.

“Taking him so well, Sweetheart.” Joel praised, voice thick with sin, “Should see how pretty you look sittin’ on his cock.”

You moaned, helpless, the sound tumbling out of you in a string of broken cries. Words abandoned you. You were nothing but pure pleasure. Raw and reckless.

As Daryl settled inside of you, you turned your attention back to Joel. You wrapped your lips back around him, bobbing your head in time with the slow, punishing roll of Daryl’s hips. The three of you moved together in a filthy symphony, all rhythm and ruin.

Joel’s free hand fisted your hair so hard it stung, like maybe if he held on tight enough, he won't go to hell for this.

Daryl’s fingers bruised into your hips, dragging you back onto him with every thrust, like he was trying to brand you from the inside out. “So fuckin’ greedy for it.”

Your jaw ached but you had no sympathy for it. You only cared about sending Joel over the edge with your mouth. Your tongue swirled around his head and you hummed around him when Daryl’s pace turned ravenous.

Joel grunted, low and viscous, “Don’t stop sweetheart, fuck, that it.”

Their words spurred you on, pushing you to move faster and harder.

The cab of the truck was filled with slick, obscene sounds of sin. The wet slap of Daryl’s hips against you, the hollow, desperate gag of your mouth on Joel. The sound of all three of you coming apart at the seams.

Daryl struck that sweet, hidden place inside you, sharp enough to make your body jolt forward, driving Joel deeper down your throat. You gagged, choked, and Joel groaned low and wrecked, his hips twitching up into your mouth.

You clenched around Daryl from Joel’s dirty sounds. Your orgasm was clawing its way up your throat, wild and inevitable.

Both men growled, a ragged harmony of pleasure, when your body squeezed tight and desperate between them.

“Gonna come?” Daryl asked, “Can feel you’ squeezin’ me so damn tight.”

Completely overwhelmed from sensation, you just whimpered around Joel’s throbbing length. You couldn’t respond–nor think. Instead you sucked harder, tears sliding down your flushed cheeks.

Joel huffed a breath through his nose, chest expanding. “Poor thing can’t even think straight, too full of cock.”

Daryl chuckled darkly then lifted your hips up and slammed you back down on his cock Simultaneously, Joel pushed your head down grunting at the pleasure you provided. You could do nothing other than just take it.

You’re pretty sure this counted as a one way ticket to hell… pretty sure you didn’t care.

It shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was, how easily they manhandled you, used you for their pleasure and yours alike.

Every thrust, every groan of pleasure, brought you closer and closer to bliss, Your body trembled violently with a second approaching orgasm.

Noticing the way your body responded, Daryl went faster, thrusts becoming sloppier as his orgasm followed close behind your own.

Joel's chest heaved erratically, and you could feel him twitch in your mouth. He was almost there too.

Then, Daryl’s hand went around rubbing your clit, sending sparks of pleasure so intense you felt it start in your toes and shoot all the way up your spine. You vibrated against Joel, making lewd, choking sounds.

“She love’s it.” Daryl praised, rough and warm. “Made to be fucked by men like us.

“That right, Sweetheart?” Joel cooed with mock sweetness.

Their words send you to oblivion. You hummed around him, being caught by surprise as pleasure crashed over you, like a tsunami.

“Fuck, she’s coming.” Daryl said through clenched teeth.

You popped off Joel's cock as your muscles spasmed, clenching tightly around Daryl. Your orgasm took your breath away and your eyes squeezed close.

“That’s it.” Daryl said as you fisted Joel's shirt in one hand anchoring you while you jerked him up and down with the other.

“Sweetheart, fuck–keep going.” Joel praised.

You were desperate for it. Wanting both of them to experience the same pleasure you did.

Even in the haze of your post bliss, you wrapped your mouth around Joel, and moved your hips up and down, slipping effortlessly onto Daryl’s cock from your spent desire.

“Faster.” One of them said, but you were too gone to know who. Regardless you bobbed your head fast and lifted your hips faster, chasing both of their orgasms now.

“Fuck–” Joel breathed out, as his cock twitched in warm, hot spurts of his release hit your tongue. You swallowed, gagging around him. Daryl spilled inside of you with a groan. You felt warmth rush down your thighs.

You were completely full from both ends, and you’ve never felt more satisfied.

Sated, spent, and dazed, Joel gently helped you sit upright. Daryl adjusted your hips with a careful, reverent touch, pulling you off him slowly. They sat you back down in the seat, each of them guiding you with quiet intent.

Daryl smoothed the fabric of your skirt over your thighs, while Joel wipes away the tears streaking your flushed cheeks.

There was no need for words, just the flow of their hands and the deep silence between you, thick with the aftermath of what just transpired. You felt dizzy, floating in the aftermath, but in the best way. Like you were safe, even if it was just for the moment.

“Pretty girl,” Joel murmured, brushing your tears from your skin, “Did so good for us.”

You exhaled shakily, still coming down from the high of it all. Daryl’s hand rubbed soothingly up and down your thigh, grounding you, bringing you back to earth. “You’re alright, honey,” he whispered, his voice low and comforting.

They fixed themselves with a quiet kind of ease, zipping their pants back up. But your lip curled in a small pout, something soft and needy stirring inside you when they turned their attention elsewhere.

It wasn’t until you looked out that window that you realized how late it was. How the sun hung low in the sky, bleeding orange and pink across the horizon. You hadn’t noticed the time or the world outside the cab of this truck.

A dazed laugh bubbled from your chest, escaping your lips before you could hold it back. You couldn’t find the words to speak. Your breath still caught in your throat, tangled in their hands.

Joel joined, also chuckling softly at the absurdity of the situation. “It’s getting late. We better stop for the night. Get somethin’ to feed the poor girl.”

Your stomach rumbled, a soft reminder that your body was only just starting to remember its other needs, other than them. Now in the aftermath, your body finally felt the quiet pull of hunger.

Joel pulled the truck into the lot of a quiet motel and diner, the neon sign flickering lazily in the light of dusk.

Joel and Daryl shared a look when the engine stalled in the parking lot. Then they looked at you.

A secret they’d keep between them.. And between your thighs.

#blueberrykefir writes #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x female!reader #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #tlou #tlou smut #daryl dixon #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon smut #norman reedus #TWD #dbf!joel miller #dbf!daryl dixon

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pitlanepeach · 28 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, complex family dynamics, ableism.

Notes — This chapter has given me SUCH a hard time. Please enjoy it, I feel like I put my entire soul into it. Also… Fernando’s return is announced in the next chapter (everyone cheer).

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2020

Silverstone came around in the blink of an eye.

Amelia sat perched on the edge of the engineering desk, her legs swinging absently, trainers knocking gently against the metal drawer units below. Her gaze swept across Alex’s side of the garage, quick, focused, restless. She wasn’t here to be social. She was here to figure something out.

Something wasn’t right.

She’d been quietly monitoring it since Austria; since testing in Barcelona, even. The data, the footage, the telemetry. There were too many inconsistencies between Max’s car and Alex’s. And sure, she understood the baseline logic. Max was Max. His driving style demanded everything from the car and then some. His feedback loop with the team was honed to a science. But even so, there shouldn’t be this much of a disparity.

Not in identical machinery.

Not at this level.

Her brows pinched, eyes narrowing at the readout on the nearest screen. She hated the term “second driver” with a passion. It grated against every instinct she had. But watching Alex’s side of the garage felt like watching a different team operate altogether. Different priorities. Different urgency. It wasn’t malicious. Not outright. But it was subtle. It was systemic. And it was stupid.

A puff of frustration escaped her nose. She’d already brought up some of her theories to Adrian, offhanded and careful, like she was floating curiosities instead of suspicions. He hadn’t disagreed. Hadn’t confirmed anything either. But she could see it — how he was watching now, too.

Still, it was driving her crazy.

The way Max’s floor and rear suspension packages were being iterated on faster. The microscopic setup tweaks that were tailored to his style but never translated for Alex. The way team radio responses came faster, the tone of them just slightly more reactive. She could hear the difference because she listened for it.

It wasn’t cheating. But it wasn’t fair either.

And it was messy. Amelia didn’t like messy.

A burst of compressed air hissed across the garage as a mechanic adjusted Alex’s front wing, and Amelia’s head jerked toward it instinctively, eyes narrowing again. Her fingers twitched against her tablet, the internal debate warring louder than the buzz of the pit crew.

She lifted her ear defenders from around her neck and settled them over her ears. All of the noise softened to a low hum.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted Max on the far side of the pit lane, deep in conversation with Christian by the pit wall. Calm and focused. He always looked like that before qualifying. Grounded. Unshakable.

Alex, by contrast, looked tense. He stood near his engineer, shoulders drawn tight, brows pinched as he nodded along, but his eyes kept flicking to the floor. Amelia watched for a beat longer, her heart tugging faintly. She wanted to fix it, whatever it was, but there was only so much she could do.

She looked down at her trainers.

They were her usual white ones, a little scuffed from the garage floors, but dependable. Comfortable. Familiar. But now, right at the edge of the left sole, something new: a messy swipe of orange marker.

LN4.

Her chest did something funny when she saw it.

Lando had crashed in her hotel room again, something that had quietly become routine. He always had his own room, but more often than not, he ended up in her bed instead of his. She didn’t mind. Would never say a word about it.

He was a good hugger now. He’d figured it out, finally, exactly how she liked to be held. Firm and tight enough to feel anchored. He’d taken to wrapping around her like a human shield, heartbeat steady, breath soft against the back of her neck. She hadn’t slept so consistently well in years.

He was usually gone before she woke up.

That morning had been no different. She’d blinked awake to an empty bed, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to the hotel bedsheets. But when she’d gone to pull her trainers on, there it was; bright orange ink catching her eye.

Initials. A number. A quiet claim.

She didn’t know whether to roll her eyes or smile.

So she did both.

—

The McLaren garage had its usual pre-quali buzz. Max Fewtrell leaned against the back wall, wearing a team guest lanyard and a vaguely amused expression as he watched Lando loll around in his race suit.

“Alright, you’re being weirdly calm,” Max said, eyeing him. “You’re never this chill before quali. What is this? Zen Norris?”

Lando didn’t even look up from the banana he was unwrapping. “Just had a good night’s sleep, mate.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Let me guess. In someone else’s hotel room?”

Lando gave him a slow, infuriating grin, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

Max stared at him. “No. Oh fucking hell. You’re not…?”

Lando just bit into the banana.

“You are,” Max said, half-laughing. “You’re back with her?”

Lando shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘back with’ like that, since we were never together in the first place, but yeah. We’re...talking.”

“Right,” Max said, drawing the word out. “Talking. In her bed. At night. Sounds familiar.”

Lando shot him a look. “Don’t start, mate. I’m still pissed at you for telling me to bin her off in the first place. Worst mistake of my life.”

“I stand by what I said then,” Max said, folding his arms. “And now she works for Red Bull. The actual enemy. She's probably hardwiring your secrets into Verstappen’s car while you’re asleep.” He said, eyes narrowed.

Lando rolled his eyes. “She literally tells me nothing technical. I tried a few weeks ago, asked her what they changed on the rear wing. She said ‘carbon things’ and then threw a tortilla at my face.”

Max laughed. “Okay, yeah, that’s… okay, that’s funny.”

Lando looked a little too smug. “Exactly. Mate, I know what I’m doing. She’s worth it, you know? Just wish I’d realised it sooner.”

“Oh, you definitely don’t know what you’re doing,” Max scoffed. “You’re back in your feels, acting like it’s not completely mad that your maybe-girlfriend works for a team that would pay to see you finish outside the points every Sunday.”

“She’s not just some Red Bull lackey,” Lando said sharply, shoulders tensing. “She’s Amelia. She’s a fucking genius, Max. That car? It’s hers as much as it is Max’s or Alex’s.”

Max gave him a dry look. “You do realise how insane you sound?”

“I don’t care,” Lando said, straightening. “She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. Yeah, I screwed it up before. But I’m not walking away from her again. Not ever.”

Max blinked. “Bit dramatic, mate.”

“Whatever,” Lando said, smirking. “You’re just bitter because I’ve a hot, genius in my bed and you’ve got a Twitch stream and a meal deal.”

“I brought you that Pret,” Max muttered.

“And I’m grateful,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder like a smug little shit. “But I’m also head over fucking heels, mate. So.”

Max groaned. “Jesus Christ. You’re unbearable.”

“Yup.” Lando tossed his banana peel perfectly into the bin. “Get used to it.”

Across the garage, an engineer called Lando over for a final briefing. As he jogged off, Max shook his head. “Mad bastard,” he muttered. “Completely lost the plot.”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor of the Red Bull garage, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows across the slick concrete. Her tablet rested beside her, darkened screen still smudged with notes and numbers from the race. Her yellow golf ball rolled slowly between her hands, back and forth, back and forth; rhythmic and grounding.

Silverstone had always felt like a second home. Growing up watching races here, dreaming about being a part of it. Now she was properly in it. Deep in the heart of Red Bull Racing, elbows-deep in data, decisions, and disappointment.

Max had salvaged something, as he always did. P2 wasn’t nothing. But the numbers didn’t lie. Mercedes were still faster, smoother, untouchable on the straights. And the tire degradation? She closed her eyes, jaw clenching slightly. It didn’t make sense.

She could feel the quiet frustration that had hung over the garage all weekend. Engineers working longer hours. Adrian pacing more. Alex struggling to connect the car to the track. And her, Amelia, trying to play translator between machine and man, and still somehow coming up short.

Her fingers tightened painfully around the golf ball.

It wasn’t failure, not really. But it wasn’t a win either. And that unsettled something in her. She wanted better. She wanted cleaner gains. More decisive margins. Less almost and more perfect.

Her thoughts drifted to Max, to the way he’d found her after the debrief and muttered, “We’ll get them next week,” like it was a promise more than reassurance.

She dropped her head, staring at the tablet, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek. There had to be something.

And then—

It hit her like a flash.

She blinked, straightened, then scrambled to unlock the screen, fingers flying. Rear aero wake management. Micro-channel re-shaping on the rear floor edge. She muttered to herself as she typed. “Shift the outer wake—no, no, narrow it, and bleed the turbulence—”

Her heart kicked up. Her breath got shallow. The pressure in her chest gave way to something electric. Her hands fluttered before she even realised, wrists snapping, fingers stimming with giddy, instinctive rhythm as the idea built in her head. She scribbled on the screen with her stylus like it was oxygen. She was grinning, properly grinning.

She barely registered the noise of the paddock returning to life behind her.

A Sky Sports camera had swung past, catching a glimpse of her in the garage, tucked between tool cabinets and telemetry units, flapping hands and bright yellow golf ball balanced in her lap. The presenter spoke softly over the shot. “And there’s Amelia Brown. A quiet presence in the paddock so far, but proving to be a very hard worker indeed.”

In the Red Bull hospitality suite, Christian Horner glanced up at the screen, watching the feed with his usual half-interested expression. “Ah, there she is. Our shining example of disability-positive hiring.” It was offhand. Meant as a joke, maybe. But it hung awkward in the air.

Adrian didn’t laugh.

He turned his head slowly toward Christian, expression unreadable. “She’s the most promising technical mind I’ve worked with in a decade. And she is working with me on merit alone.” He said mildly, eyes still on the screen.

Christian blinked. “Right. Of course.”

Adrian sipped his tea. Said nothing more. But when he looked back to the TV, his gaze was thoughtful.

And in the garage, Amelia kept working, entirely unaware of the camera, the commentary, or the conversation she’d just ignited. Her mind was moving too fast now to care about anything else.

She’d found something. Something big.

And she couldn’t wait to show Adrian.

—

Max found her sitting alone on the pit wall.

She had her yellow golf ball in one hand, thumb rolling over its surface absently. The other held her tablet, still filled with drawings and annotations, now marked with scribbled arrows and half-formed formulas.

Max climbed up next to her with the casual ease of someone who did it a hundred times a year. “You solved the issue,” he said, legs dangling over the edge.

Amelia blinked, as if pulled out of her own thoughts. “It’s not solved,” she said automatically. “It’s a direction.”

“A good one,” Max replied. “Adrian was very happy when you showed him. I saw it on his face.”

She smiled at that, a flicker of pride showing before she quickly tucked it away. One hand rolled the golf ball. The other hand jolted, maybe spurred on by a burst of excitement. She didn’t notice she was doing it.

Max did.

He watched it for a moment, then leaned back on his hands. “You were doing that earlier. With your hands. They showed it on the live feed.”

She froze, just for a second.

Max didn’t sound judgmental. Just curious. But still, something knotted tight in her chest. The instinct came fast, automatic; hide it, clench her fists, smooth out the edges. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend she was just like everyone else.

But then she remembered what Adrian had told her, calm and firm that day in the design office, looking at her without even a flicker of doubt.

Why should you ever have to hide the manifestations of your greatness?

So, instead of retreating, she let her hands speak the language her brain needed.

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s called a stim.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

“A… like, a repetitive movement. Helps regulate my focus. Or calm me down. Or… sometimes just helps me think,” she said, gesturing with the ball. “Ah, my hands flap on their own. And the golf ball’s got the right weight. Tactile enough to keep my hands busy while my brain does its thing. Means something to me.”

Max nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon. “You always do it when you're excited about something?”

“Sometimes. Or anxious. Or overstimulated.” She shrugged. “I mask a lot. Most people don’t notice the physical stuff. But the ball helps. I notice that I swing or bounce my leg a lot, too, but people don’t notice that as much.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “So, it’s part of the autism?”

She turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing. Not angry, just curious. “You saw my Twitter?” She was very open about her diagnosis there, sharing informational and up-to-date medical journals.

“I read part of your interview with RaceTech Weekly,” he admitted. “You said it’s not something you hide, but not something you announce either.”

“Yeah, well…” she exhaled. “Some people get weird. Or patronising. Or make jokes.”

“Christian,” Max said knowingly, a darker tone in his voice.

Amelia smiled, a bit twisted. “Adrian is nice about it, though.”

“Good.” Max looked at her again. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

She stared at him. “I’m not—” And then paused. “Okay. I am. A little. But I’m trying not to be.”

Max just gave a half-nod, like that was fair enough. “You don’t need to explain it to me,” he said, kicking his foot gently out into the air. “I just wanted to know what it was. You looked happy.”

She blinked. “I was.”

He nodded again. “Good.”

Eventually, she bumped her shoulder against his. It was barely more than a nudge, but for Amelia, it was a big deal; intentional, physical contact she initiated. She didn’t do that often. Almost never. “Thanks for not being a dick about it,” she told him.

Max smirked, eyes flicking down to where their shoulders had touched before he leaned back. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I start asking to borrow the comfort golf ball during strategy meetings.”

“You’d lose it.” She sighed.

“You’ll forgive me.”

Amelia stared at him, dead serious. “No I wouldn’t.”

—

It was late. Too late for anyone still at McLaren HQ except security and cleaning staff.

Tracy stood across from him, arms folded, gaze cool and steady. She didn’t come to Woking often anymore, but something in Zak’s voice when he’d asked her to come by tonight had stopped her from saying no.

“You’re not sleeping,” Tracy said after a long beat. “You hardly even come home anymore.”

Zak rubbed both hands over his face, voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Good,” she replied, sharp but not cruel. “She should be at the front of your mind. Just like she’s always at the front of mine.”

Zak let out a bitter laugh and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, head bowed. “It’s been five months, Trace. Five months of silence. She won’t reply to my texts. Doesn’t even open my emails. I tried to speak to her at Silverstone and she looked straight through me. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Tracy sighed and lowered herself into the seat across from him, her expression tight. “You didn’t lose her because of one bad conversation, Zak. You lost her because you took something from her; something you had no right to. You tried to control what wasn’t yours.”

He looked at her, pain written into the lines of his face.

“She could’ve sued you,” Tracy continued, quieter now but no less firm. “Do you even understand that? Millions, Zak. She would never do it, of course, because she’s still loyal, still stupidly kind when it comes to you, but that doesn’t make what you did any less wrong. You treated her brilliance like a family asset. Like it belonged to you because she’s your daughter.”Her voice cracked, not with emotion, but fury. “That’s not how this works. That’s not how she works.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Zak said hoarsely. “I didn’t realise—Christ, Trace.”

“You were blind to it,” Tracy said, her voice steady but cutting. “Everything she was doing to elevate that team; improving car performance, supporting the drivers, stabilising Lando’s garage dynamic. She wasn’t just useful, Zak. She was essential. And now you’ve lost her to Red Bull.”

Zak sneered, bitter. “God. I just—why them? I would’ve understood Mercedes, maybe. Even Ferrari.”

Tracy didn’t flinch. “She’s built her own space in that garage already. They obviously respect her there. She’s on her way to helping Max Verstappen fight for his first world title. She’s not just surviving, Zak. She’s thriving.”

“I know that,” Zak said, his voice small, still dark and bitter. “I’ve watched. I’ve seen the press. Adrian Newey can’t stop signing her praises. But, Trace, I wasn’t even proud. I was angry.” He paused. “I didn’t understand it. I don’t even recognise her anymore.”

Tracy sighed. “She spent years trying to get you to see her. Always trying to fit herself into a box, hoping that maybe things would finally change and you’d suddenly realise what was standing right in-front of you.”

Zak looked down. His hands were clenched together, knuckles pale. “I miss her so much,” he whispered. “I miss her laugh. Her rants. Even that awful yellow water bottle.”

Tracy pursed her lips. “The water bottle is gone. She has a golf ball now. Still yellow.”

He looked up at her quickly. “A golf ball?”

Tracy smiled sadly. Shrugged. “Probably from her and Lando’s first date. I’ve never asked, but…”

Zak blinked. “He… They went on a date? He managed to get her to go to a golf course?”

Tracy nodded.

Zak closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to pull himself together. “I just want a chance. One chance to tell her that I was wrong. That I see her now. That I’m proud of her. That I—”

Tracy leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. “You have to let her come to you. Not the other way around. When has she ever responded well to being chased, hm?”

Zak blinked, fighting back the sting in his eyes. “Do you think she ever will, though? Come to me?”

Tracy stood, brushing a hand over his shoulder as she walked past. “She’s her father’s daughter. Stubborn. But eventually, something will happen, and your name will be the first one on her mind. Just… be patient. And come home, Zak. You need a shower.”

He watched her walk out, the soft click of her heels echoing in the stillness of the room. Then he turned back toward the window, staring out over the empty car bays and spotless garage beyond. The place that, in so many ways, had become his refuge; and his prison.

He could be patient. He could.

He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and followed her out.

—

iMessage — 20:03pm

Amelia I think we should go on a date.

Lando Norris No, no, no. Babe, no. I’m supposed to be the one to ask you on a date, not the other way around.

Amelia Why? You haven’t asked. I want to go on a date with you, so I asked.

Lando Norris Ok. I’m still paying. Doesn’t matter if you asked or not. I’ll plan it too.

Amelia Of course you are paying. Women don’t pay on dates.

Lando Norris Some ppl think they should

Amelia Oh. Should I bring money then?

Lando Norris No babe. Never.

Amelia :)

—

He’d hired out an entire restaurant.

Fully staffed. Every table other than theirs empty.

It was insane. Completely over the top.

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel… warm about it.

Amelia ran her fingers along the smooth edge of her wine glass, her gaze drifting out the window as the sky darkened into soft shades of twilight. Normally, a full restaurant would have her on edge; the constant hum of conversations, the clatter of plates, the shuffle of waiters, the occasional laughter ringing too loudly in her ears. It always felt like too much. Too many sensory inputs, all at once.

Tonight, it was just them.

She glanced across the table at Lando, who was looking at her with that mischievous, bright-eyed expression. But there was something softer there too. A warmth, a genuine care she had come to expect from him.

"This is much better than golf," she said, trying to ease the tightness she felt in her chest. Her fingers tightened slightly around her wine glass, a small manifestation of her nerves.

Lando stared at her for a moment, then laughed; a loud, free sound that made her heart skip a beat. "Yeah? I’m sorry I dragged you there. I won’t ever do it again, I promise." He had that usual teasing grin on his face, but there was softness in the way his eyes lingered on her.

Amelia shifted in her seat, glancing down at the menu in front of her. There were so many choices, so many different things to try, and the overwhelming amount of options made her stomach twist. Her mind started to race, analysing every single dish on the list, the flavours, the textures. Would they be too spicy? Too sweet? Would she like them or regret the choice? It felt like too much.

"I like the beach," she muttered, trying to shift focus. "And I like boats." But her thoughts kept circling back to the food. The choices were suffocating.

Lando seemed to notice the change in her, the tension creeping into her shoulders. "Boats, huh? So you don’t get sea sickness, then?” he teased, leaning forward a little, trying to pull her out of her head.

Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her mind still too loud. “Boats are just… private. Calm.“

He paused, studying her for a moment, before his voice softened. “If the options are too much, we don’t have to pick anything just yet. You’re here with me, we can go slow. The restaurant is ours until midnight. No pressure.”

She sucked in a breath. “I— I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice small. “I’ve never been here before. It’s nice, I just... I don’t know what I’ll like.”

Lando reached across the table, taking her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Well, after the amount of room service we’ve eaten recently, I think know what you like, and what you don’t. Want me to just order for you?”

Amelia blinked, startled by his offer. “What?”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze softening. Then, without warning, he stood and walked around the table. Before she could react, he pulled her chair back, coaxing her to her feet. He guided her back to his side and gently settled her onto his lap. His left arm wrapped around her waist, secure but not too tight, pulling her closer. Amelia felt the tension drain from her body as she sank into him, her back resting against his chest.

“We can share, yeah? I’ll pick a few things, and we can try them together,” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Amelia hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. “They’ll stare.”

She could feel her cheeks warming, the faint pressure of being so close to him in a public space, even if the restaurant was empty. But despite her discomfort, she didn’t want to move. His arm around her felt right, comforting in a way she hadn’t expected. It was perfect.

Lando rolled his eyes, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Let them.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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satellite-evans · 1 month ago

Text

all of me (loves all of you)

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: When the podium isn’t enough to quiet his self-doubt, you remind Lando that love isn’t earned by perfection — it’s already his, always.

Word count: 2.7k+

Warnings: fluff, self doubt

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Bahrain was finally quiet. The grandstands, once alive with cheers and chants, had long fallen silent. The floodlights still burned bright against the ink-black sky, but the world beneath them felt hollow now — empty seats, scattered tire marbles littering the track, and the faint, lingering scent of burnt rubber riding on the dry desert breeze.

But none of that seemed to reach Lando. He sat slumped on the padded bench tucked into the far corner of the McLaren hospitality suite, as still as if the world had stopped moving around him. His race suit, half unzipped and limp around his waist, clung to him like the weight of the entire day had settled into the fabric. His hands rubbed over his face again and again, palms dragging slow and hard like he was trying to scrub away more than sweat — like he could erase the whole day if only he rubbed hard enough.

You stood by the door, frozen for a moment, watching the man you loved fall apart piece by piece in front of you. There was something especially painful in the quiet — no cameras, no interviews, no engineers offering consolation or stats. Just Lando and the crushing, invisible battle playing out in his head.

Slowly, you crossed the room. Your footsteps were soft, but the hush was so deep that even the sound of your breath felt too loud. You lowered yourself to your knees in front of him, placing a careful hand on his knee, your thumb brushing the edge of the scuffed fabric.

“Lando…” you tried, voice barely above a whisper.

But he didn’t lift his head. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, unfocused and distant, and when he spoke, his voice was low, flat, and bitter.

“I shouldn’t be happy about today. I don’t deserve to be.”

Your heart clenched at the sharp edges in his tone. You knew how hard he’d fought — you’d seen every lap, every desperate overtake, every second shaved from the gap on the timing screen. And yet here he sat, wrapped up in the belief that it wasn’t enough.

“You finished P3. You made the podium,” you said softly, your fingers curling around his knee, grounding him. “That’s not nothing, Lando.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound empty and sharp enough to cut through you.

“A podium because I got lucky with the safety car and half the grid got their strategy wrong,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “I couldn’t even nail the start. Simple thing. I messed that up too.”

You shifted closer, your hand moving up to trace the deep furrow that had carved its way between his brows. His skin was warm under your touch, but the tension there was iron-strong, unyielding.

“You fought your way through the field,” you whispered. “You didn’t give up. Not even with the penalty hanging over you. You drove your heart out today.”

His eyes flicked up at last, meeting yours, but there was a distance behind them — like he wasn’t really here, like his mind was still out there on the track, replaying every lap on loop, cataloging each mistake.

“It’s not enough,” he said, barely audible. “I’m not enough.”

Your throat tightened at the weight those words carried, the way he seemed to believe them so completely.

“Baby,” you murmured, sliding your hand into his, lacing your fingers through his even though his grip didn’t return the squeeze. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

He leaned back against the cold wall, his head tipping back, exhaling the kind of breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for hours.

“Because I don’t feel like the guy people think I am,” he admitted quietly. “Everyone looks at me like I’m some future world champion. Like I’m supposed to be special. But every race I just... prove I’m not. I sit in the car and I tell myself I believe — I force myself to believe — but the second something goes wrong, it’s like... I can’t hold onto it. It slips away before I even cross the finish line.”

Your thumb brushed slow circles over the back of his hand, but his shoulders stayed rigid, braced against something you couldn’t fight for him.

“You know I see you, right?” you said after a long silence. “Really see you. Not the results. Not the press. Just you. And I’ve never thought you were anything less than enough.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second you thought the words might reach him, but he only shook his head, voice cracking as it spilled out.

“You see the best parts of me,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “But I don’t deserve it. I let everyone down. I let him down.”

You blinked, puzzled by the shift in his tone. “Who?”

There was a pause, and you watched him swallow hard, his throat working around the words.

“The kid I used to be,” he answered finally, his voice raw and unguarded. “The one who believed this was all going to be worth it.”

And in that moment, you understood. No amount of comfort, no perfectly chosen words, no pep talk could close the space between the boy who dreamed of this life and the man who now sat doubting it all.

Without another word, you stood and crossed the room, grabbing your phone from the side table. Your fingers scrolled through your gallery until you found it — a photo you’d saved long ago. Tiny Lando, crammed into his too-big karting suit, clutching his very first trophy with both hands. His smile stretched from ear to ear, eyes shining with pride and hope, completely untouched by the world that lay ahead.

You walked back to him and placed the phone in his lap, not forcing him to look, not saying a thing.

But when his eyes finally dropped to the screen, you saw the faintest shift in his expression — the crack in the wall he’d built around himself.

“Look at him,” you said softly, your voice steady but tender, anchoring him even as it wavered with your own emotion. “That’s who you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

Lando’s fingers hovered above the screen, barely grazing the edges of the photo. His thumb traced the outline of the little boy — the oversized helmet cradled in his arm, the too-big karting suit swallowing his frame, and that impossibly bright smile stretching across his face. His throat worked around the lump that had lodged there, but the words never came. He just stared, like the past and present had collided in his hands.

“You’re tearing him apart,” you whispered, your voice cracking like your heart had. “Every time you talk like this, every time you convince yourself you’re not enough, you’re not just hurting you. You’re hurting him. That little boy didn’t grow up dreaming of being perfect, Lando. He didn’t care about mistakes or bad days or people doubting him. He just dreamed of racing. Of standing on that podium, wearing McLaren orange, fighting with everything he had until the very last lap.”

You watched his jaw tighten, his lips pressed into a thin, unsteady line, and his eyes glistened under the harsh fluorescent light. His whole body seemed trapped between holding it all in and letting it all go.

“He didn’t care about grid penalties, or if some commentator called it ‘luck’ on the broadcast,” you went on, your hand gently curling around his, grounding him. “All he wanted was to grow up and do the thing he loves. And today... you did that. You did it for him.”

The tear came quietly, slipping free before he could stop it, trailing down his cheek. His hands lifted to his face, palms pressed against his eyes, his voice breaking as it finally slipped free.

“I just...” His words crumbled around the edges. “I don’t feel like I’m good enough. Like, ever. Not on track. Not for the team. Not for you.”

Your chest ached at how raw he sounded, how honest. You reached for him, gently curling your hands around his face, guiding him to meet your eyes. You didn’t let him look away, not this time.

“Hey,” you whispered, your thumbs brushing away the tears as they came. “You are more than enough. For all of us. For me. I don’t love you because you stand on podiums, or because of the stats, or how many people believe in you on the good days. I love you because you’re you. Even the parts that don’t believe they’re worth loving.”

His lips quivered, his shoulders shaking under the weight of everything he’d carried alone for too long. He let out a fragile, unsteady breath, the faintest hint of a smile flickering through the sadness.

“You know...” he said, voice barely holding together, “even when I lose... I’m still winning. Because I’ve got you.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss — not to erase the ache, not to fix what couldn’t be fixed in a night, but to remind him you were still here. That you always would be. The kiss was slow, steady, the kind that said more than words ever could. When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“And you’ve got me,” you whispered against his skin. “Always.”

The room fell quiet again. The world outside the walls of the hospitality suite kept spinning — engineers packing up, transporters rumbling to life, the desert wind sweeping away the last traces of the night. But inside, the quiet was different. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, fingers holding on like he’d finally stopped freefalling, the photo of his younger self still glowing faintly on the phone screen beside him.

Eventually, his head tilted against your shoulder, the weight of the night catching up with him, exhaustion finally tugging at the frayed edges of his posture. His voice was quieter now, stripped of the sharpness from earlier, soft and almost childlike.

“Do you think... he’d be proud of me?” he asked, barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning.

You turned your head, resting your cheek against his hair.

“I know he would,” you murmured. “Because you’ve done everything he dreamed about. And you’re still the same kid at heart — still chasing it, even on the days it hurts.”

Lando’s exhale was slow, and for the first time all night, it wasn’t heavy. Just tired. Just human.

You sat there until the voices outside faded entirely, until only the night remained pressing against the windows, quiet and vast. It was you who finally shifted first, gently squeezing his hand.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s get you out of this suit. You’ve done enough for one night.”

Reluctantly, he let you pull him up from the bench, his body stiff from sitting so long, but when he stood, it was like some invisible part of the weight had lifted. You helped peel the rest of his race suit off, folding it neatly and setting it aside, and he changed into the soft hoodie you’d brought — the one he always reached for when the world felt too loud.

As you both made your way back to the hotel, the silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was easy. His hand found yours again as you walked through the dim, empty corridors, and you could feel the difference in the way he held it — like he was no longer gripping to stay afloat, but just holding on. Because he wanted to.

Later, when the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t say much. Just dropped his bag on the floor and sat at the edge of the bed.

“Will you... stay with me a bit longer?” His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your side, almost like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t ask.

You leaned your head against his, answering without hesitation. “Always.”

A long pause followed, his breath steady but his body still tense, like sleep wasn’t ready to fully take him yet. After a while, his voice came again, quieter this time.

“Can we... I don’t know. Just—be close. I don’t wanna think. I just... need you.”

His honesty cracked something new and tender open inside your chest. You tilted your head, pressing a soft kiss against his temple.

“Let’s wash the day off, hm?” you murmured, running your fingers through his curls. “You’ll feel better.”

He nodded slowly, almost childlike in the way he let you guide him off the bed, his hand never leaving yours as you both padded toward the bathroom.

You turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm as the steam began to curl into the quiet space. When you glanced over your shoulder, Lando was still standing there, hoodie sleeves pushed up slightly, eyes flicking to you and then away like he was still stuck somewhere between the racetrack and the little boy in that photo.

You reached for him again.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He stepped closer, close enough that your hands could slide up beneath the hem of his hoodie, helping him peel it away, and then the rest — each layer like shedding a little more of the doubt clinging to his skin. You slipped out of your own clothes too, and when the water was ready, you guided him in first.

The heat wrapped around both of you, and for a long moment neither of you spoke. You stood chest-to-chest, the sound of the water filling the space, your arms sliding around his waist, holding him steady. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and you felt the way his chest rose and fell, slow and deep.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered into the wet curls at the nape of his neck. “Not tonight.”

But after a few quiet beats, his voice broke through, hoarse but honest.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, brushing your fingers across his cheek. “You didn’t have to do anything to deserve me, Lando. You just have to be you. That’s enough. You’ve always been enough.”

His throat worked around another wave of emotion, and his arms slid around you, holding you tighter now, more grounded.

“You make it easier to believe,” he whispered.

You smiled, pressing a kiss against his damp shoulder. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The rest of the shower passed like that — quiet, simple touches. Your fingers combed gently through his hair, rinsing the day’s sweat and grime away, while he let his hands trace slow, absent patterns along your back. Not rushed. Not complicated. Just the kind of closeness he’d been aching for, the kind that told him, without words, he wasn’t alone.

When you finally stepped out, you wrapped him in one of the oversized hotel towels, your hands smoothing it over his damp shoulders. He let out a soft, tired laugh under his breath — the kind that wasn’t about being fixed, but about finally breathing a little easier.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice scratchy but warm. “For all of this. For you.”

You cupped his face again, gently, looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me stop choosing you. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing for a moment, and when he opened them again, the weight in them was still there — but softer, not so sharp.

You climbed into bed together after that, the covers pulled up, his body pressed close to yours, limbs tangled like he couldn’t quite bear to let the space grow between you. His head nestled into the crook of your neck, breath evening out little by little, and as the minutes passed, you felt the tension finally slip from his muscles.

Before sleep finally claimed him, he murmured one last thought against your skin.

“Maybe I’ll start trying to believe it. If you do.”

You smiled, holding him tighter. “I already do. And I’ll keep reminding you until you do too.”

The night settled fully around you both, and this time, it wasn’t silence filled with doubts — it was peace. And even if tomorrow brought the doubts back, for now, this was enough.

And for him, that meant everything.

411 notes · View notes

bitterrfruit · 2 months ago

Text

wild cherries [3]

[masterlist]

Price x f!Reader - cw: dubcon, spanking, light sadomasochism, brat taming 18+ mdni - 10k words

And I guess the sound of the outward bound Made me a slave to my wanderin' ways.

The sky was powder grey the following morning, sun concealed by a sheer veil of dry white cloud.

You had a fitful sleep.

Wracked with feverish dreams of sun and skin, of plum bruises and cherry juice. You woke up many times throughout the night with cold sweat damp on the back of your neck, cunt shivering and slippery as you dreamed of the cowboy’s tormenting hand, of his thumb intruding into your slit. Of your wet knickers being held in a tight and burly fist, being shoved covertly into a worn pocket.

It was near impossible for you to get comfortable in your bed – you were unable to lie on your back, for any pressure on your marred buttocks stung hot like a fresh brand.

Before the sun had risen you had been briefly awoken by the raucous sounds of the ranch whirring to life; disturbed by the yelling of your elder brother and his ranchmen from your second-storey window, by the humming engines of trucks and tractors rolling off to toil. The sounds, at least, brought you some form of nostalgic comfort, and it didn’t take you long to drift back to sleep.

When you finally bothered to kick off your sheet and slip out of bed, it was after nine. You slid your feet into your sandal slippers and wandered down the moaning staircase in your linen nightdress, rubbing fists into your puffy sockets and making your sleep-blurred vision all sparkly. You heard your sister’s voice in the kitchen before you spotted her.

“Slow morning?” She murmured, soft enough in tone that perhaps she didn’t intend for you to hear it.

Evelyn was perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, frowning at her open laptop and tapping away contemptuously at the keys. You thought to ask her what she was working on, but knew the half-hearted response you’d get – a distracted oh, it’s nothing, while her eyes remain pinned to the screen.

“Yep,” you croaked, scuffing over to the pantry and hanging off the open door. Perused the shelves for a box of cereal that didn’t have the word bran on it.

“Eat quickly, will you?” She said, far more pointedly, and when you glanced over your shoulder she was looking right at you. Had that quirk in her lip that betrayed an uneasy vexation. “Miles is taking us over at quarter-to.”

You frowned as you tugged a box of Honey Nut Cheerios from the back of the pantry, one with the cardboard flap ajar, and which you swear was the same box that had been there the last time you came to visit.

“Taking us where?” You asked mindlessly, shuffling to the fridge to grab the milk.

You heard a scoff from your sister as you poured the dry wheat cereal into an empty bowl. “To the neighbours’.”

“What?” You spat, cocking your head around to glare at her. “Why?”

The adrenaline that rinsed you was sudden and sharp, at the thought of seeing the man again so soon after his incursion. Having to sit still, to pretend all is normal, to feign sweetness and ignorance as you stand in the presence of both he and your siblings in one room. Suddenly you didn’t want your cereal anymore.

“We’ve got things to discuss with him,” she said grouchily. “And you have an apology to give.”

“Apology for what?” You snapped, resorting to petulance having been scolded.

Evelyn only released an exasperated groan as she shut her laptop lid. “You know what,” she chided. “Second day here and you’ve already pissed him off.”

“He wasn’t-” You started, biting your tongue just as swiftly as you had begun to blurt out that he was just as at fault as you. “He wasn’t pissed off.”

“Miles told me he dragged you home by your ear, Bee,” she grumbled. “I don’t even want to know what you coulda done to get him that burned up.”

“I didn’t even do anything,” you mumbled testily, tipping a splash of milk into your cereal.

“Whatever. Just – be polite, and–” She sighed as she paused, “just don’t get into any more trouble, will you? We want him on our good side.”

You snorted as you scooped a spoonful of your cereal and shoved it into your open mouth. “What are you going to discuss with him, then? Why do I even need to be there?”

“It’s – ugh. It’s a complicated situation, Bee,” she failed to explain, “but we need to be a united front. We’re a family, it’s a family business. A family ranch. We all need to be in it together.”

You pursed your lips, fought the desire to furrow your brows in contempt. “Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, Miles can explain it better to you later. Just finish your breakfast and wear something – something presentable for once.”

The Cheerios were stale and tasted like cardboard and dried syrup. You only shot your sister a foul look and huffed derisively, taking your cereal upstairs with you.

Something presentable. Your sister had a way of insulting you without even needing to utter the words. That was her way of telling you that you had been dressing like a slut. Short sundresses were simply so much more practical for your escapades – easier to ride in, to walk in, let you feel the breeze on your skin. Ensured you wouldn’t bake alive under the summer sun.

So you simply chose a slightly longer dress than usual. Dusty red plaid with a hem that brushed your calves, a wide neckline and little cap sleeves. Probably a hand-me-down from the seventies, one of the perks of so many generations of women living in the same farmhouse. It smelled like dust and patchouli.

You scrunched your wild hair up into an uncombed ponytail, barely held in place by a floppy hair tie, and smeared some strawberry chapstick over your lips as you meandered your way down the stairs.

Immediately crossed paths with Miles as he trudged down the hallway, black rancher hat still atop his head and a leather briefcase tucked under his arm. His tan button down was tucked into his jeans, a truly anomalous sight.

“So why are we going to the neighbours’?” You asked pertly, as you immediately followed behind him towards the kitchen.

He sighed gruffly, as you completely expected. It was always such a nuisance for them to explain things to you, to dumb it all down enough that you’d understand it. That, or, he was simply in a sour mood. Either just as likely.

“We’re only going over for a conversation,” he deadpanned, dumping the briefcase on the island counter before going to the sink to get himself a glass of water. Evelyn was gone – busy making herself presentable, you assumed. As if she weren’t in a perpetual state of presentableness.

You groaned. Their persistent vagueness was excruciating. “About what.”

“It’s just – it’s all business stuff, Bee,” he said, exhaling sharply after downing the whole glass. Must have been hot out there. “Negotiations and junk – it’d bore you to death.”

“Then why do I need to come?” You grumbled, crossing your arms as you leaned against the jamb of the open door.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, already exasperated with you. You seemed to have that effect on people. “Look, if you really don’t want to come then don't. I’m not gonna drag you there.”

“Eve said we have to be a united front,” you disputed. Still wanted an explanation. “What does that even mean?”

He smiled a little at that, moustache stretching with the grin.

“Good at likening things to war, that woman,” he snorted. “She just means it’d be less – less formal if we show up, all of us. Ol’ John’s probably sick of both our faces by now.”

“Probably sick of mine, now, too,” you said coyly, mindlessly tracing the lines of the hardwood with the tip of your big toe.

He laughed at you, full and from his belly, and the room lightened up with it. “Likely,” he chortled, “Especially if you keep sniffin’ round after ‘im.”

“Wasn’t sniffing. Only looking,” you murmured, through a bashful grin. “You’re not mad at me after yesterday?”

“No, hun,” he said, rubbing his forehead, concern still eking through the creases in his brow. “Only surprised you got yourself caught so quickly.”

You snickered. “Not mad at him for grabbing me, neither?”

He shrugged. “No. That served you right.”

“M’kay, fine,” you conceded demurely. “I’ll come, then.”

There was another truck parked beside Mr Price’s blue Chevy as Miles pulled up his long driveway, a black pickup coated in a layer of dust.

Evelyn and Miles had been murmuring to each other for the duration of the short drive, bickering about some deal or other, about what to say and what not to say. In truth, you paid little attention, despite your earlier curiosity. Miles was right, it bored you to death, even attempting to listen in on whatever business endeavour the contentious visit was going to cover. You quietly stuck your head out of the window of the back seat, eyeing the looming homestead as you drove around the bend, and Miles pulled to a stop by the front porch.

The air smelled wet and heavy when you hopped out and onto the gravel drive. The blanket of rolling clouds had swelled, distended with imminent rain sagging in its blue-grey bulges. You could feel it sticky and warm on your skin, it made your hairs prickle up.

Your siblings were still mumbling between each other as they slammed shut their doors, wandering towards the porch steps, briefcases and papers in hand. All business, so they said. How tedious.

While their backs were to you, you slinked towards Mr Price’s truck.

You wondered if he spotted the cotton sin you left in the cab. You wondered why you had even thought to do such a thing at all. What was wrong with you? Were you really made so delusional by his degenerate punishment that you would so debase yourself?

Humiliation simmered sour in your belly, as you heard your siblings knock on the great front door. You imagined John revealing your foul little secret, making some sly comment about it as you greeted him. Might he chastise you for your outrageously licentious behaviour? Shame you for your petulant whorishness?

Perhaps he hadn’t seen your panties at all, inconspicuous as they were.

With a swallow you stood on the tips of your toes, fingertips barely grazing the dusty metal of the truck, you peeked through the passenger window. Eyes scoured the leather seat, between the seatbelts, below the dashboard.

They were gone.

You wrenched your eyes shut, wetting them so you could check again, and again – eagerly seeking a glint of white fabric anywhere in the truck’s cabin. No sign.

With that, you knew that not only had he noticed them – he must have touched them. Must have picked them up, that sliver of pointelle cotton, must have looked at them closely enough to determine what they were. Might he have noticed the fabric was still wet, cold to the touch between his fingers?

Your tongue ran along the back of your teeth at the thought of him holding them, feeling the material in his hands, against his skin. At the thought of him knowing it had been the only barrier between his finger and your–

“Honeybee!” Hissed your sister through sharp teeth, and you jumped – spun around on the heel of your boot with your hands pinned to your sides.

John stood in the open front door. Arms crossed. All three of them looked dead at you.

“Coming,” you bleated, walking towards them as casually as you could make yourself appear. Your heart was fat in your throat, and your skin was sheeny with anxious sweat and humidity.

You caught John’s eye as you sheepishly scooped a stray curl and tucked it behind your ear. His expression was rigid as stone, eyes squinting, lips in a censorious curl under his beard. The weight of his glare was leaden and your feet felt heavy.

Did he know what you were looking for in his truck?

There was a faint quirk in his brow, you saw, as you approached and stood slyly behind your older siblings. A glint of surprise. Perhaps agog at the bravura of showing up at his home after your transgression, bold enough to bare your face to him.

“Whole family, eh?” He asked gruffly, heavy stare only leaving you when Miles offered a pleasant chuckle.

“Only polite,” Miles said warmly, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Lil’ miss has some making up to do, too.”

Your cheeks turned apple-red and you fought back the scowl that tugged at your mouth. Lil’ miss. Good at calling on your father’s old patronising habits, Miles.

John only seemed to find the comment amusing, letting out a low huff, cracking a faint smirk.

“S’that so?” He coaxed, amused. Sharp blues fastened to you once again, and you could only pick at your fingernails.

You held your tongue, hoping you could convey that he’s the one who needs to apologise without having to say it aloud. His smugness was unearned, you had just as much to reveal about him as he did you.

He knew you wouldn’t out yourself. You could see it in his sinking smirk.

“It’s a new day, eh?” He grunted, standing to the side and flicking his head to beckon the lot of you inside. “C’mon in, then.”

Your siblings filed in first, but you dithered by the door. John waited in the arch, thick arms crossed cavalierly over his chest, he looked down his nose at you. You hoped he’d venture in after Evelyn and you could slink in behind, but he stayed put. Waiting for you to pass him. Kept your eye as you glowered up at him, daring him to say something; to admit what he had found, to apologise for assailing you, to castigate you for your insolence.

There was plenty you wanted to say to him, and the words itched at the very tip of your tongue. You stifled them with your teeth instead. Let out an impudent huff as you nudged past him, and he followed closely behind you, shutting the door. You felt his livid warmth on your back, heard his coarse breathing and felt it tickle your hair. The adrenaline thumping through your runny blood made your fingertips tingle, you closed them into fists.

The foyer was grand, almost cavernous; stained walnut wainscotting on all the walls, old patterned rugs peppered every floor. The enormous staircase unfurled in the centre of the hall, second story mezzanine wrapped around its edges, ornate spindle balustrades wrapped the stairs and the loft. An enormous light fixture hung from the centre second story ceiling, fashioned of deer antlers and many coruscant lightbulbs. You wondered how long it had been there. How many Prices ago it had been made by hand out of the severed antlers of hunted game.

Seems your siblings had been here for many meetings before, because they knew immediately where to go – put themselves in some sort of drawing room past the stairs, and you meekly followed them. Had Mr Price at your tail like a collie herding you where he wanted you.

Led you to the room containing two imposing leather sofas, facing each other, a large slab of polished wood serving as a coffee table between them. The furthest wall contained floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets, filled to the brim with upright rifles. Long and short, hunting rifles, shotguns, double-barrels. Some of them looked a hundred years old. Towering transom windows lined the eastern wall, bathing the room in the dim ashen glow of the cloudy sky outside. A spinning fan hung from the ceiling.

You noticed that there was another man in the room, only once you had been ferried in and stood awkwardly before you decided where to sit. He sat opposite your siblings with a black brick hat on his knee. Blond-haired and brown-eyed.

John must have noticed you staring blankly at him, because his hand landed on your shoulder. A purely cordial touch, and yet it made you wince like he had spanked you again.

“Ah, this’s Simon,” he said amicably, “he’s my foreman.”

Simon stood and reached over to shake your hand, silent type, and gave you a stiff nod when you slipped your hand in his and shook it. Big and calloused, like John’s.

Seemed to be business from there on. Miles opened his briefcase on the coffee table and pulled out a manila folder, a few sheets of paper with words and numbers printed on them. Evelyn had her laptop open on her knees. John and Simon leaned back into the couch with apathy engraved in their stone faces. Seemed your siblings were the ones here to do business. They were buttering him up for something.

You went to sheepishly sit on the couch next to Miles as he started droning on about some sale, something about acreage and borders and permits, whatever. You glanced at his papers in hopes of spotting a word or two that might have jumped out at you.

The moment you landed in the leather, though, you winced and sucked a gust of air through clenched teeth – the mark of Mr Price’s savage hand on your bottom burned white-hot under the sudden pressure, and the incisive pain shot through you like a bullet.

John’s murky glare was already on you when you looked across the room.

Didn’t need to say a word to you, his lour spoke for him. He was scolding you.

You wondered what he would say to you, if he let himself. What words his tongue formed behind his teeth as he glowered at you. Serves you right. Don’t you get caught. Does that burn feel good?

He opened his mouth to speak, and your stomach plummeted.

“Why don’t y’go fix us some drinks, girl?” he said gravely, directly to you, crudely interrupting your brother mid-spiel.

Your brows twitched into a bemused frown, jaw loose as you failed to summon a response to him.

Girl? The condescension in his tone made your blood roil in your veins, turbid with shards of spite. You weren’t stupid — you knew it was a thinly veiled demand to go away. To let the grown ups talk, as if you were not one of them.

“I—”

“Mm, good idea,” Evelyn cooed calmly – but the bulgy-eyed tight-lipped look she shot you snapped behave. “I’ll have an ice water.”

“Me too,” said John, arm hung insouciantly over the back of the sofa. “Lil’ slice o’ lime would be nice, eh?”

You scoffed. “Sure,” you grumbled, vitriolic facetiousness bleeding into the word. You pushed yourself up from the couch and thundered out of the room.

“You’re a doll,” John called after you, and you could hear the smugness coating his throat, thick as honey.

Prick. Prick.

You murmured it over and over under your breath as you steamed towards the kitchen, your angry boots echoing out in clunks with every step on his parquet floorboards. Only once you found your way to the kitchen entrance did you stop in your tracks, eyes raking over the cluttered counters and the open door to an outdoor veranda.

You didn’t have to pour them drinks. You didn’t have to do anything. You were as much an adult as any of them, regardless of how egregiously they patronised you, or how many years of life they had gained on you.

No, you could busy yourself with something else entirely.

You had a treasure to find.

The panties you fatuously left in his truck just to spite him. You wanted them back.

It made your head muzzy with unease to think of him sitting across from your siblings, chatting away about something innocuous, all the while your dirty little secret was tucked away in the back of his mind. Stashing it up like a slug in the chamber of a rifle. Ready to fire it whenever the opportunity presented itself, whenever you displeased him.

What could he have done with them? Perhaps he threw them away, tossed them in the trash where they belonged, or dumped them in the crick so he could be rid of them. Maybe he left them by the door, in anticipation of returning them. Maybe he has them in his pocket.

You started with the coat rack by his front door. Skulking around on the tips of your leather toes, you stuck your fingers in every pocket of every jacket, no luck.

Checked the laundry – fucking chaotic as it was in there, reeked of his sweat and the loamy smell of farm work. His boxers and sweat-stained t-shirts piled in baskets, plaid flannels tossed unlovingly over an ironing board, black triangular burns of a dropped iron painting the blue foam.

The richly heady scent in there made you dizzy and hot on the back of your neck. Made your stomach flutter. Smelled like the barn. Like him bending you over the hay.

No panties in there, either, and you dug through everything. Left it messier than it was when you got there, but you could be near certain he wouldn’t even notice.

Upstairs, next.

Crept up them as quietly as you could, begrudging the cries of the old wood as you made your way up. You noticed, as you made it to the landing, that all of the doors to old bedrooms were closed; those of his brothers, and his parents, sealed off like tombs.

It made you swallow. The air was heavier up there, dense with dust and solitude. It was hotter, too, all of the warmth of the lower storey funnelled up the stairs and pumped into the mezzanine, and it was pyretic just to breathe it.

One door was open, though, barely ajar. A tawny wax canvas jacket with a brown corduroy collar hung from the top of the old door. You recognised it immediately – John’s jacket. Old, worn-out, might have been his father’s, just like his hat. His bedroom, you were sure. You slithered towards it, holding your breath as devotedly as you might while submerged underwater.

And as you got closer, you spotted it – a glimmer of white, the tongue of pointelle cotton sticking out of an open pocket on his coat. Right there.

“Fuck y’think you’re doin’?” Came a bark from the stairs, and you jumped like a startled cat.

John came hounding towards you once he made it to the landing, and you immediately backed away from his door. You spun around to inch away, hoping you’d end up in a bathroom with a door that locked, but it became quickly obvious that you had nowhere to run.

Exasperation radiated from him with each ragged breath – sick and tired more than furious, it made you shrink all the same. With a few short strides he was behind you, and you chirped in fright when he grabbed you by your ponytail and yanked you back like a puppy on a lead.

He held your hair in a fist, pulling your head against his chest, angled back so you could look up at him from behind you.

“Lookin’ for something?” He asked throatily, a low growl, accusation on his tongue.

You yelped when he lightly tugged your ponytail, seemed to you like he did it just to make you squeak. “I was – I was just looking for the bathroom.”

“Liar,” he grunted.

“I’m n–”

“You’re in my good graces for now, honey,” he muttered, as his head craned beside yours, wiry beard grazing your cheek, “on account of your lil’ present.”

Your ribs clamped shut around your lungs. Fingertips turned ice cold. Present. Such a euphemistic way to put it. A present. You froze when you felt his hand on your buttock, wide enough to cup it, fixing into place over the wound he had already left there.

“But don’t you push your luck.”

Then he squeezed, and you shrieked, muffled quickly by a winded whimper — the pain as blinding and searing as a branding iron, shape of his hand all but cooked permanently into your skin. The palm of his hand may as well have been barbed, pierced the skin with a million little needles, it might have even hurt less.

“That hurts,” you whined, cleaved to him by his grip on your hair.

“Good,” he growled.

Only then did he let you go, after twisting your body around to face the direction of the stairs.

“Go’on,” he barked, goading you forward with a smack on your ass. “Get.”

You meandered ahead like it hurt to walk.

John hoped it did. He hoped that every time you moved, every time you sat down, every time you accidently brushed it with the caress of your skirt, you thought of him. Of every apology he struck out of you. Of every line you’ve ever crossed.

Oh, what he’d give to see it.

He reprimanded himself every time the image crossed his mind, of your supple little ass, defaced by his punishment. He simply couldn’t help it. He imagined that the weal of his hand was raised there, pricked with plum and cherry red, a marker of his authority. Of his territory.

He had to be rid of you. Couldn’t focus on a single word lobbed at him by your diplomat of a brother while you were in the room with him, sucking up all the air and every drop of his attention. The dramatic suck of your teeth as you landed on the brand he gave you, just rubbing it in.

Such a little shit, you were. Intractable animal. Asked you to fix a drink, and you couldn’t even do that.

No, you slinked around his home instead, sticking your misbehaving little fingers into every room, filling his house up with the smell of you. Good thing he caught you before you snuck into his bedroom, leaving trails of you in his only refuge. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if you had.

He kept a pointed glare hitched on your back as he followed you, limbs and teeth braced to chase and tackle you if you dared to bolt in any direction. But, a good girl for once, you made your way to the stairs, little eyes flicking over your shoulder every now and then to check whether he was still following you. He didn’t let more than two feet stretch between his body and yours. Not stupid enough to take that risk again.

Far less revealing dress this time. He could still see down the neckline, and you had probably made sure of that. Could see the swell of your breasts, soft and round, their rise and fall as you breathed so meekly against him. Couldn’t see your pebbled nipples through the fabric, though. Skirt was quite a bit longer. For the best.

He guessed your sister might have told you to wear it, proper as she was. Always painfully worried about image, and yet he could see right through her and your slimy prick of a brother.

Still had no clue what to make of you.

Were you cognisant of the effect you had on him? Were you toying with him for your own sake, or for theirs?

Either way, he didn’t want it.

Trouble.

Your siblings waited for you at the bottom of the stairs, Evelyn with her arms crossed, and Miles gave him a suspicious glare through his pinched eyes on his way down. Mustn’t have liked the way John handled his little sister. Either too much of a coward, or too hungry for his bargain to say anything. Or, equally as likely, he was utterly blind to your exploits, enigmatic as you were.

Didn’t matter. John could not give less of a shit about your brother’s notions.

“Found ‘er,” he barked, watching as you grouchily wandered between the two of them and swiftly escaped through his front door.

Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose, an exasperated groan. “What was she doing this time?”

John huffed. “Looking for the bathroom,” he said dryly, immediately questioning why he lied for you. So he buffered it; “Apparently.”

“Sorry about her,” she said stiffly, it was evident you’d be receiving a scolding once the lot of you got home. “She’s – ugh. You know.”

He had nothing to say to that.

“Well – thanks for having us by, anyway, Jonathan,” she continued, suddenly perking up, returning to her prim and proper self. “Hope you’ll think about it? Just give us a call, will you? Or – drop by, you know, whenever. Door’s always open.”

He nodded apathetically. “Uh-huh.”

She returned with a nod of her own, a hopeful one, before she tucked her laptop under her arm and followed out after you, where you waited winsomely at the top of the porch steps.

Miles sauntered towards him, then, thumbs tucked aloofly into the pockets of his jeans, until one hand landed on John’s shoulder. Gave him a squeeze, tighter than would be friendly. His jovial smile was translucent, and it faded fast, once the girls were out of earshot.

“Don’t you fuck me on this, Jonathan,” he said derisively, snarled under breath.

John chewed on nothing. His hands were in fists of their own volition. If he were to speak he’d say something regrettable, he knew himself well enough to be certain of that. So he said nothing, only glowered at the man who all but threatened him.

“It’s the best offer we’re ever gonna get,” Miles rigidly insisted. “You know that as well as I do. We’ll be under in two years. Three if we’re lucky. This ain’t our world anymore.”

John took measured breaths through his nose. Licked his teeth. The urge to maul the man like a bear rankled in every muscle. You probably wouldn’t forgive him, if he did such a thing.

“You wanna keep that hand?” He asked hoarsely, monotone, through a clenching jaw.

Miles grinned at that, as sunny as ever, before landing two genial pats on John’s shoulder.

“S’alright,” he said, as he stepped back, fixing his black hat to the top of his head. Shot a glance at Simon, who hovered behind John like a shadow, until then unnoticed. “You’ll come around.”

You had left your bedroom door open when you put yourself to bed that night.

Not to let anyone in, God forbid; though you did find yourself seeing the cowboy’s silhouette in your doorframe, a shadow in your periphery. Your heart flitted in your chest before you blinked him away.

Instead the decision was some callback to your teenagehood. You had learned at fourteen that your cast iron doorknob squealed and clattered in dispute when you twisted it; loud enough to alert your father whenever you attempted to sneak out of the house after nightfall. Through trial and error, you discovered that if you left your oaken door ajar, only slightly, it would appear closed from the corner of the hall – where daddy would peek around before barking, good night, Honeybee.

You were an adult now, though, and your father was long gone. For a time your brother tried to adopt the habit of monitoring you, but it was futile, even in your youth.

You confounded even yourself with your precaution. You weren’t going anywhere, were you? No rules you intended to break?

Your toes twitched. And your fingers twiddled. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if holding them closed for long enough would trick your mind into sleep, and didn’t instead focus the entirety of your attention on the still lingering sting of Mr Price’s hand.

You couldn’t help but circle like a vulture the memory of the ground under your knees, the hay under your elbows. The barbaric clap of his hand on your skin, the grinding of your kneecaps into the gravelly dirt on every thrust. What you daydreamed his expression might have been as he hurled his retributive hand into the bare skin of your cheek.

Might he have been frowning? Grinning? Did he inspect the damage of his handiwork very closely? Did he let his eyes linger on your curves and valleys longer than he should have?

What went through his mind as he let his thumb venture down the cleft of you, as he pushed the tip into your slit through your sodden gusset? Might he have been marvelling in the wetness? Repulsed by its implication?

What was he going to do with your knickers, your present as he called it? You imagined them tangled in his fingers, tucked into his fist in his pocket. Him pinching the fabric between his thick fingers as he spoke to his ranchmen. Would he tell his foreman about it? Would he show him?

Now you were entirely awake. Glaring holes into your plaster ceiling, listening to the hammering of your heart in your ears.

Baking alive in your bed, you were covered only by your thin cotton sheet, and even that was too hot. You sweltered in it, a torrid heat that made your hair crispy and skin itchy. Sweat beaded along your brow, clammy on the back of your neck, and no matter how you laid, you found no comfort. No relief.

Soon, you had slipped out of bed completely.

You had not decided on a course of action, yet you crept through the gap in your bedroom door. The moonlit hallway moaned grumpily as you slithered down the stairs, ensuring the patter of your bare feet on the hardwood was as silent as you could muster.

Plucked your father’s old Carhartt chore coat from its hook by the back door, canvassy and speckled with mud, and pulled it over your bare arms to provide at least some protection from the night. It was longer than your floral linen nightie, short and sheer as it was. You didn’t bother with shoes, your seasoned feet were well used to tip-toeing around the prairies bare. With a careful push of the screen door you stepped out onto the veranda, following your nose without the need for a torch.

The night air was a cool relief, gentle and calming on your febrile skin. The quiet song of crickets filled the breezeless air, the occasional cry of a coyote in the far distance. Kept at bay by the guardian dogs that littered your ranch. Sometimes you thought you could sleep out there, curled up in the grass like a barn cat, if it weren’t for the gnats.

You knew the path to Mr Price’s property so well you could navigate it with your eyes shut. Every rock to skip over, every fallen fence post, every tree marking the way. Nonetheless the swollen moon glowed unfettered by clouds, bathing the grassy hills in ultramarine and illuminating the way as you hopped his decrepit fence.

You had a plan.

Knew where the knickers were. In the pocket of his canvas jacket, hung on his door. He wouldn’t be expecting you to sneak in after dark, so surely his guard would be down. He’d be sat with his feet up in his lonely sitting room, cigar hooked in his finger, watching baseball highlights or whatever else solitary men busied themselves with. You were sure he wouldn't be sleeping yet. It wasn’t even ten at night, knowing him, he probably only turned in an hour or two ago.

His ominous homestead came into view through the cottonwood trees, as you scampered between their trunks and over the vibrant underbrush. You creeped around the front of the house, silent step after silent step, hoping to spot an open window.

And you found one, barely open, a sash window raised only an inch — you stuck your nosy fingers between the gap, carefully lifting the heavy pane by its dark-stained trim. Slipped inside like a little burglar.

It was dark inside. You found yourself in what looked like a study, bulky mahogany desk in the centre of the room, spinning chair tucked underneath it. It was busy, filled to the brim with clutter and signs of life – seemingly untouched, layered in dust like it had been long abandoned. You supposed a man like Mr Price didn’t give much time to studying.

You took a single step, and froze – your chore coat rustled loudly, dangerously so, even with a mere breath it threatened to alert your reticent neighbour to your intrusion. So you cautiously slipped your arms from its roomy sleeves, and gently left it in a pile by the very window through which you had trespassed.

Now truly silent you inched towards the foyer like a spider. Every step whisper silent, moved on the balls of your feet, swallowed shallow breaths.

The light was on in the kitchen – must be in there, you thought, and you avoided going anywhere near it. Instead you slithered up the staircase, one by one, where the faintest amber glow poured from an open door. As you retraced your steps to the landing, along the loft, to his door – the coat was gone.

You would have cursed if you could speak aloud. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You could well have turned and left, abandoned the expedition altogether and prayed he didn’t hear you escaping. But you were in deep, now. Deep enough that giving up felt like a greater risk than persevering. Sunk cost.

He must have hung the coat on the back of his door, or maybe dumped it on the end of his bed, or tossed it over the back of a chair. Perhaps he wore it out for the day, ensuring the panties were on his person, in case you dared to commit the very crime you now did.

With kittenish fingers on the door, you eked it open, and its old dry hinges whimpered with the movement. Peeking through, you saw the origin of the faint light was seeping from a separate room; an ensuite, likely, though his bedroom was still bathed in darkness.

It was different than how you had imagined it. You pictured something sparse, messy, beer bottles on the chest-of-drawers and a tissue box by the bed. A bachelor suite.

Instead, it was well-kept. A painting of a pine-coated landscape hung over his bed, framed in ornately carved wood. His bed was made, an old hand-made quilt folded over by the head, and a plaid woolen blanket draped over the end. Little picture frames sat in a line on his dresser, too dark to see of who – but there were three of them, so you could guess. Two brothers and a pair of parents.

His room smelled of him, warm and musky, rich with the terpenic scent of chypre cologne and cigar smoke. It made your mouth water.

Then, you found them.

Your little cotton knickers. Hung from the brass knob of the top drawer of his dresser. Bright white against the darkly stained pine.

You swallowed and it went down your throat like broken glass. He hadn’t even hidden them. Brazenly hung them on display for anybody to see.

Foolish of him.

You glissaded towards the chest-of-drawers, plucked them from the knob with shaky fingers, and triple checked they were yours. And they were, absolutely – you could tell by the little satin rose of pink ribbon that adorned the front of them.

Relief rinsed you warm and sweet once they were bundled in your hand, objective achieved. Yours again. You only needed to–

“Adding burglary to the list, are you?”

The rumbling voice blurted out from behind you and you sprung from the ground like a rabbit, squealing in the shock that wracked you.

You swivelled in a blink with your heart in your throat, facing the man who had caught you. Still shaking with adrenaline, you could scarcely wrangle your tongue to utter a single word in your defence.

“I’m – they’re–”

“Didn’t expect that,” he drawled.

It was difficult to make him out, the tall silhouette of the prodigious man against the light of his ensuite bathroom, broad shoulders rocking as he sauntered in your direction. You watched in silence as he tucked in the tongue of the powder-blue towel wrapped around his hips. His tousled hair was wet and spiked – freshly showered, you guessed, the benzoin scent of his soap lingered in the air around him.

“I’m – I’m not burg – burgling,” you stammered, finally finding your words, you straightened your spine. “I’m taking them back.”

“No you’re not,” he grumbled, edging towards you, heavy thuds with each arrogant step.

You were frozen in place. Shivering as though cold. Toes digging into the hardwood like it might fall out from beneath you.

The moonlight glaring through his open window barely illuminated him on his approach; carving out the valleys of his gladiatorial chest, thick pectorals cast shadows over the well-padded abdominals of his bare stomach. His fuzzy towel sat precariously low on his hips, your impudent stare couldn’t help but trace the damp brown curls that trailed down from his navel.

“They’re not yours,” you disputed, balling the soft panties in your fist and tucking your arms behind your back in a juvenile effort to hide them from him.

Only once his face was doused in the silver light from the window could you make out his features; lids hung low over dark eyes, goading lips in a stern curl under his beard.

“Yeah, they are,” he challenged, low voice oozing scorn. A shrinking foot away from you, you felt the heat of him radiating out from him, licking at your skin with warm little tongues. “They were a gift.”

Your brows knit together as you endeavoured to stand your ground, tilting your head back so that you could glower up at him. You wrestled with yourself for any defences and found none. Nothing to say for yourself, no excuse to muster, no dispute to mount.

“They were not a gift,” was all you said, puerile as you were.

“Then they’re a fine,” he grunted, smirk fading, reaching a sturdy arm towards and around you.

His indignant hand gripped your bicep, reeling it out from behind your back and pulling it towards him with absurd ease. You resisted – attempted to, at least – but any resilience in your arm was quick to falter, and he presented your balled fist palm-up like you had offered the prize to him of your own volition.

Skittish eyes darted from your hand to his steely lour, you imagined yourself flipping a coin.

Admit defeat; relinquish your cotton sin to its new owner, embolden him with your acquiescence, and find a way to live with the knowledge of their presence in his pocket. Or, better yet – snatch your knickers in a tight fist and scurry into the night, throw them into the woodburner when you get home, and pretend none of it had ever happened.

Landed on tails. You impulsively yanked your fist from his grip, ducked past him with a hop and a skip, before bolting on your shaky legs towards his bedroom door.

But as if he had readily anticipated that very move, predictable as you were, his thick arms had snatched you up before you had even noticed your capture. You squeaked in dispute, his arms like pythons constricted around you so tightly that they forced a desperate mewl from your throat. He riveted you firmly against his chest, tips of your toes barely grazing the hardwood beneath you.

Jaw pressed to the side of your head, his breathing was warm and strained against the burning shell of your ear.

“You want them back,” he rumbled, the barbarity in his voice sending cold terror down the nape of your neck. “You wear ‘em.”

Sipping quick and shallow breaths, you didn’t dare wriggle or buck in defiance of him. Not this time. There was a threat in his tone, ferine yet forthright, oozing from his throat like molten iron.

“Y-” you stuttered dizzily, heart thundering in your ears. “You want me to put them on?”

“Uh-huh,” he answered, cocksure, the vibration of his frayed voice prickled in your skin.

He released you, then, and you dropped to your bare feet with a quiet thud. Fist clenched tightly around your ball of cotton, you sucked in a quivering breath before daring to move.

He crossed his arms imperiously, sniffed gruffly, already impatient. “Put ‘em on.”

You nervously unfurled the white floral fabric from between your fingers. Checking them briefly to ensure you didn’t put them on back-to-front, you spread the waistband, and began to lean forward.

“Other ones off first,” he groused, and you blinked at him over your shoulder.

“I’m-” you began, cutting yourself off with a swallow as you meekly turned to face him. Warm blood rushed to the apples of your cheeks. “I haven’t got any on.”

You swore a smirk tugged at the corner of his ever-severe mouth, but he simply let a hoarse breath out through his nose. Letting your confession float unchallenged in the turgid air between you.

“You’re a real troublemaker,” he chided, through gritted teeth. “Aren’t you.”

“I’m not,” you retorted, feeble and unpersuasive.

“No?” He sneered. “You break into my house in that pathetic little dress and no panties on, and you wouldn’t call that making fuckin’ trouble?”

“I-”

“Put them on.”

His order was as hard and piercing as a bullet, and it turned your blood runny as water, flooding hot into the most illicit parts of you.

Made obsequious, you followed his command. Bent forward and stepped your first toe through the leg of your panties, delicately placing your foot back to the floor, then followed the other.

You drew careful air through wet lips as you shimmied the thin fabric up your thighs, forced to lift the slippery hem of your nightie as you adjusted them around your hips, a gentle snap as you flick the elastic of the hem to fix it over your unmarred cheek. You winced as the gusset sat flush with your pussy, cringing at the knowledge they had already been worn – they were dry, now, at least, no longer sodden with lust and sweat. Satisfied with their positioning, you floated the thin skirt back down to cover them, stroking your hips to settle the fabric.

John stood across from you with his wide hand over his mouth, thumb and forefingers rubbing his cheeks as if releasing some tension in his grinding jaw. The rigid muscles of his arms strained and twitched under his ruddy skin. Tension visible from where you stood.

With a huff, he straightened his spine, and your stare jumped to the long weight under his towel. Dawned on you that he wore nothing underneath it. Suddenly felt light-headed.

He grunted. “Show ´em to me.”

Your lips parted just slightly, toes curled, you obliged him. With impish fingers you clutched the lacy hem of your slip, coaxing it upward, you folded it into pleats in your fists. Up, up, up. The cool of the air between your legs was almost a relief.

He inched forward. Closer to you.

“Turn around.”

Sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, and worried for a moment you might chew it off. With your skirt hitched up, you spun around slowly on the tips of your toes until your nose was a few inches from his dresser.

You felt his warm breathing on the top of your head, he was behind you. Sandwiched you between his body and his chest-of-drawers. Your only hope of escape was to do what you were told.

With his thumb he grazed the hem of your panties where it sat against your disfigured cheek, and the sudden sting made you twitch.

“S’that hurt?” He asked roughly, and for a delirious moment you thought you might have heard some tenderness in his tone.

You nodded flimsily. “Yes.”

“Mh,” he grunted, whole hand ghosting over the sore skin as if to feel the texture of your wound on his palm. “Didn’t teach you a thing, did it.”

“What was it s’posed to teach me,” you breathed, careful with your words.

His paw raked over your side, fixing at your hip. “To stay the fuck away.”

“I can–” You panted, tongue heavy in your mouth, “I can go away. I can go.”

His domineering hands were at your waist, the hem of your little dress scooped up with them.

“Not now, you won’t.”

Your stomach turned to lead.

Suddenly possessed by the skittish need to bolt, you lurched to the side to un-wedge yourself from between him and the dresser – let out a squeal when he predictably ensnared you with leviathan arms. He wrangled you like cantankerous livestock, growling as he wrestled you until your back landed against the drawers.

“Mister–” You yelped tightly, all air squeezed out of you by his restraint.

“Play stupid games, girl,” he snarled, “Y’win stupid prizes.”

You whimpered, blinking up at him through fluttering lashes, a hair's breadth away from you. His eyes were almost sinister, pinned to you, inky black pools blown wide in the darkness. Predatory.

“I’m sorry—” you squeaked, flustered and winded.

Almost cracked a smirk. “Too late for that.”

Even as he threatened you, you were helplessly magnetised to him. His harsh glare oozed hatred and hunger and it made your heart buzz like a bee trapped in the cage of your ribs. He pinned you forcefully to his chest-of-drawers, a brass knob pressed into your spine, and like a broken filly your resistance turned to butter. Unctuous and supple.

You weren’t certain whether he had sensed your capitulation, or if he simply steamrolled ahead in his blind paroxysm whether you liked it or not. His titanic hands had you by the thighs, and he jounced you up, propping you up on the very edge of a drawer that stuck out a mere inch from the dresser. You chirped as the hard wooden edge cut into your raw bottom – hurt less, somehow. Distracted.

He kept your thighs jammed tightly together by his legs, and used a single hand to cuff both of your wrists, pinned them to your sternum.

Your vision was blurry, skin burning so hot you could sear something on it – you looked down, and his towel had been shirked from his hips, cock landed heavy on your belly.

Heavy, the operative word – you could see the flesh of your belly pillowing out around its trunk, thick and lengthy, shaft leading down to a bed of dark curls at the base of his stomach. Your throat swelled shut as you stared at it, dizzy at the sight, as he hooked two fingers into the waistband of your knickers.

He yanked the front of your panties down with impatience, unveiling your mound and making the taut elastic cut into the flesh of your hips. Didn’t pull them off all the way, though, only allowed himself enough room to feed his cock through the gap between your cunt and the gusset of your underwear.

The lips of your pussy spread like petals as he wedged his cock between them, and your breath lodged in your throat – but he didn’t pierce you with it, not at that angle. The aperture between your cunt and thighs was tight, tight enough for him to gain traction, and it made you whimper.

Only once the round head of his cock was buried in the valley of your pussy did you realise how slick you were. Mortifyingly so. Your syrup had pooled there, undisturbed until he split you open, and now you painted his shaft with it.

He cracked a proud smile. Canines caught the glint of moonlight. His breathing turned ragged and you felt it on your open lips, sucking down the hot air he exhaled, and it made you feel drunk.

“Feral little thing, ain’t ya?” He growled, grinding his cock out of the slit of your thighs before driving it back in, the friction of his shaft against your clitoris made your eyes flutter shut.

You only let out a little mewl in reply, trapped against the hard dresser that shook and clattered with every movement. He fucked the fissure between your thighs and cunt in earnest, and it was somehow embarrassing; that he refused to grant you the dignity of fucking you properly, of surfeiting your starved cunt with even an ounce of real attention. He gripped his cock by the base of his shaft and guided it into the slim gap, offering you only the chafing of his iron-hard length against your pebbled clitoris as he rutted.

It was barely satisfying, but it made you twitch and shiver with a neglected pleasure – just enough to turn you syrupy sweet, not enough to truly sate the little creature in you that put you in this very predicament. You tried to tighten your thighs, firmer than they were already, in the desperate hope that it might augment the pressure of his cock burnishing your slit, might drive it in at the right angle to break into you.

But it wasn’t about you. Your enjoyment was inconsequential to him.

This was your punishment.

You could tell he approached the zenith of his own pleasure as his breathing became frayed and arrhythmic, and his thrusts unsteady – he stilled, large fist gripping his cock, and while his blunt head was still tunnelled into your knickers, he began to shuck his dick from its base, jerking off into the gap.

It was mortifying – besides the denigration itself, of having him masturbate himself with you – the downright pitiful desperation you were dripping with. Coating his cock in it and yet remaining ignored. The tingles of an orgasm fluttered around you like a butterfly you could not catch, coiled up and unwinded over and over with every inward and outward rake of his shaft.

You had no freedom to move while you were entangled with him; legs pinned shut and feet dangling off the ground, hands manacled to your chest so tightly your fingertips went cold. You had no option but to take what little he gave you.

He let out a stifled groan, and you gasped when you realised he was coming — you watched his face as he finished himself, as you felt his come pump into the gusset of your panties, filling up the gap between your lips as he chased a few final ruts. You felt his cock jolt with the aftershocks of his climax, and he rested the entirety of his weight against you, forcing the rest of the air out of your feverish lungs. His jaw was viciously tight, huffing through his nose like a bull, and his squinting blue eyes were glued to you. Lucent with spite and a potent satisfaction.

“Y-you–”

“Don’t make a damn fuss,” he muttered wryly, short-winded.

You whined as he tugged his cock from between your thighs, returning your knickers to their chaste position with a snap of the elastic over your mons.

“You shouldn’t have – have done that–”

He all but snorted at that, as he stepped back from you – let you fall to your feet from where he had jammed you against the drawers. Kept your hands shackled together, though. “What else did you come here for, then, eh?”

My panties stayed unspoken, because it would have been a lie.

You flinched when he raised his free hand, but he only grazed your jaw with his thumb. “Wanted a fuck, did you?”

Your head nodded itself despite your lack of instruction. Subconscious. Too humiliating to confirm of your own will.

“Ain’t gonna happen,” he grunted, as he finally released your cuffed hands, dropping down to pick up the towel he had left in a pile on the floor.

You moaned, rubbing your tender wrist, light-headed after the blustering outburst. Felt his come between your folds, slippery and hot, it escaped through the groin of your knickers and ran down the inside of your thigh.

“Why not,” you whinged, quietly, as though hopeful he wouldn’t hear it.

“Gotta earn it,” he jeered. “I ain’t rewarding your fuckin’ behaviour.”

You wouldn’t tell him even this was a reward, in itself. The frustration was blistering hot, thumping in your temples. “I hate you.”

“I bet,” he snorted, as he fixed his towel around his waist once again. “G’on. Go home.”

You scowled at him, lips curled and brows knitted tight. You wanted to throw something at him.

“Fine,” you griped, as you reached under your dress to pull down your defiled knickers.

“Don’t you dare,” he snapped. “You keep ‘em on and you walk in ‘em.”

Your jaw went slack. “Are you serious?”

“Does it look like I’m jokin’?”

It didn’t. Not a bit. He wore that same rigid face that sunk in his features every time he scolded you, lips in a line under his dense beard, brows flat and heavy over his squinting eyes. Somehow made more severe while he was without a shirt, you could see every ireful twitch of the worn muscles that rippled under his sun-baked skin. He could hurt you worse, if he wanted to. The thought makes you sweat.

“Fine,” you groaned, again, and you impudently rammed him with your shoulder as you stormed past him and out of his bedroom door.

You heard his low chortle on your way out, but he didn’t call out for you. No more snide remarks. You bashfully returned to the dark study, picked up your father’s chore coat, and slipped out the same window you had broken into.

The walk back was sticky and uncomfortable. Suddenly you felt like buzzing insects were hovering around you, landing on your skin, hoping to poke in and suck you dry. The baying coyotes sounded closer than before, just over the hill. The moonlit air wasn’t cool enough to mollify your temper. The wheaten grass was sharp and splintery under your bare feet. The come in your gusset was viscid and gooey, glued between your thighs with every step.

Yet, you were grotesquely proud of it. Wearing the evidence that Mr Price wasn’t as mighty as he purported to be. He didn’t ride a high horse. He came in your panties and made you walk in it, as a punishment.

Truly depraved man. You knew that confidently, now. If he thought he had deterred you, he was sorely mistaken.

You didn’t bother being quiet when you finally returned home after a slow and sulky walk through the night. Dumped your jacket on the floor by the back door rather than hanging it on its hook, trudged up the crying stairs and shut your door with a clank once you got to your bedroom. You tore the linen sheet off your bed and left it astray, before falling immediately into your mattress, flat on your stomach.

You fell straight to sleep.

a/n: far be it from me to insert a political statement into my cowboy porn, but as a non-american depicting a sanitised rural USA, i feel the need to make clear my stance on everything happening over there (and the ripple effects it is having on the rest of the world): fuck trump and all his nazi partymen, fuck everyone who voted for him, and fuck every non-american who would have if they could. if you are supportive of or ambivalent about the oligarch-cum-drinking, bold-faced-fascist ideology of he and his ilk, just know that every breath you take is a fucking waste of oxygen. and if you're upset by that sentiment then fuck you too. no middle ground on this! love ya

#john price x reader #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price #john price x f!reader #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cowboy price #bella-writes

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the-teufort-nine · 5 months ago

Note

may i rq a scenario with any of the mercs where they find reader injured when respawn's down. maybe bc of an accident or an ambush. i like angst as long as its ok in the end

HOLY SAXTON HALE ANON THIS ONE GOT AWAY FROM ME!

This isn't explicitly romantic, but you could definitely interpret it as being romantic if you want! You're def the team's fave <3

Anyways, enjoy about 8400 words of hurt/comfort goodness and the Blu team being pathetic lil meow meow when they think you're dead dead.

Mercs x GN!Reader | Respawn Malfunction

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ Hurt/Comfort | SFW | Cw: starvation, temp character death, excess drinking, animal death ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Featuring:

Everyone! Even Miss Pauling is here!

Scenario: During the last few moments of a match, Blu team's Respawn Machine suddenly malfunctions, with you inside! Left reeling by the loss of their Chemist, the team attempts to cope. A week later, Miss Pauling receives a most unexpected phone call...

There had been no warning.

If there had been, then the sharp eyes of RED and BLU’s Engineers would have certainly caught it. Unfortunately, the Respawn Machine had been just as reliable as ever for the entire match, bringing the mercenaries back from the great beyond time and time again, just as it had been designed to do.

Scout and Soldier had just been revived when it happened; the two men taking a moment to shake off the inevitable rush of nausea that came from going through the unholy machine. An Ubercharged Heavy had taken both them and their teammate, Y/N, known officially as the Chemist, out as the hulking giant made a final push to capture one of their points, and both BLU men knew it was only a matter of time before they heard the biting voice of the Administrator informing them of their failure.

Scout scuffed his sneaker against the concrete floor of the Respawn Room as Soldier launched into a furious rant, leaning against the wall as he waited for Y/N to come through, knowing that they'd been killed only a moment after him. He sighed when felt the gentle pulse of the machine as it vibrated like a speaker, getting ready to return his friend to the world of the living.

SKREEEEEECHHHH- BOOM!

A blast of hot air sent the two men crashing into the wall, stunning them momentarily. It was Soldier who regained his wits first, the BLU quickly pushing up his helmet and looking back at the source of the damage in shock and mounting horror.

“Aeughhhh… what da hell just happened?” Scout moaned, one of his hands rubbing against his throbbing forehead. He blinked, his blurred vision slowly clearing, and as he regained his sight, his eyes began to widen.

Respawn was on fire.

Flames licked hungrily at the walls as they spread out further from the Respawn Machine, with the contraption itself bathed in white and blue hues, the intense heat making quick work of what hadn't been destroyed in the explosion. Shards of complex metals and pools of gleaming Australium were littered all over the room, reflecting the light of the fire.

“HOLY CRAP!” Scout yelped, adrenaline coursing through his body as he attempted to scramble up off the floor.

His voice jolted Soldier out of his shocked state, and he shot a hand out to grab the back of Scout's shirt and yank him along as he made for the door.

“Emergency! Cease fighting immediately!” The Administrator's voice boomed out over the battlefield, the old woman's voice sounding more shocked than stern for once.

Scout finally found his footing as he pulled out of Soldier's grip, spinning around to stare at the encroaching flames. Fear roiled in his gut like an angry serpent as his disoriented mind finally allowed the reality of their situation to sink in. Respawn was gone.

Death was permanent once again.

“Private, this is no time to be standing around! We need to go!”

They could die. For real.

“Scout!”

If they'd come through only a moment earlier, they wouldn't have come back at all.

Wait…

“Solly, where's Chem?”

Soldier paused in his attempt to drag Scout down the hall, his gaze snapping back towards Respawn. He hadn't seen them when he'd grabbed Scout, too focused on getting away from the rapidly approaching fire, but he'd assumed that they were right behind him.

“They probably snuck past us! They're sneaky like that.” he replied. That had to be it! Otherwise that would mean they…

Scout looked down the hall, searching for any sign of the Chemist, before looking back towards Respawn, his face paling. He jerked forward, sprinting towards the blaze.

“Chem! Chem, hang on!” Scout yelled, reaching the doorway in only a few seconds, his eyes desperately searching for where his friend could possibly be.

The room was as empty as it had seemed before. There was no trace of the Chemist, alive or dead, to be found in the room.

They hadn't made it through.

“What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on here?!”

Scout wrenched himself away from the door as he heard his teammates gasp behind him. Engineer was up by his side in an instant, his mechanical hand gripping the doorframe so hard it cracked the material. He pushed his goggles up, and Scout could see real fear in the other's eyes.

“Vhat zhe hell happened? Zhe Respavn Machine vas fine only moments ago vhen I came through!” Medic said, pausing as he looked at Scout, who was trembling. Gently, the doctor led the young man away from the fire, “Scout? Are you alright? Vere you injured?”

“Chem’s gone.” was Scout's quiet reply.

“Vhat?”

“They was suppose’ta come through after me ‘n Solly, but Respawn went up in flames before they could come through.” the runner's voice was shaky and hollow, and he leaned more of his weight against Medic as his legs started to feel less dependable than usual, “They're gone. Like, gone gone.”

The gathered mercenaries went quiet, the only sounds being that of the crackling flames and Scout and Soldier's laboured breathing.

“DAMN IT!” Engineer bellowed, throwing his hard hat onto the ground, “GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!”

Medic closed his eyes, bringing a gloved hand up to his face as a wave of grief crashed down on him. He'd been rather fond of their newest teammate, glad to have someone around who was as interested in risky experiments as he was. The Chemist had often taken up many of the smaller, more neglected duties around the base, such as cooking proper meals and making sure that Medic's less used medical supplies stayed topped up, in case of emergencies. They'd also been of great help in wrangling some of his more… problematic patients, using their charms (or stealth) to herd them into the Medbay for check ups or shots.

He watched them die every day, but this was different. This was permanent. The machine he and Engineer had worked so hard to build, the one that had allowed them to cheat death time and time again, had finally taken its pound of flesh. Y/N had been taken from them, from him, before he'd been ready to let them go.

Now, this usually wouldn't have been a problem; committing sins against both God and nature was something he did quite often and with great delight, and he was sure he could wrest Y/N back from the afterlife, provided that he had access to their body.

And therein lay the problem. There was no body. Respawn hadn't even spat them out half formed or thrown them into the flames, it had simply not reconstructed them. Whatever remained of the Chemist was likely nothing more than a partially formed mist of human remains that had burned up almost instantaneously.

The tenth class was no more, and there was nothing Medic could do.

“Aw, hell,” Engineer gritted out finally, looking back at his teammates with a tired, beatdown expression, “Christ, someone go ‘n track down a fire extinguisher. If we don't get this under control soon, we'll all end up dead.”

Seeing an opportunity to both flee the horrific scene and be useful, Scout ran off like a bat out of Hell, skidding around a corner and disappearing from sight. Soldier, who was being uncharacteristically quiet and still, made to follow him, but Engineer stopped him before he could take more than a few steps.

“Hold on, pardner. I need you to round everyone up and let ‘em know what- what happened.” the southerner swallowed hard, trying his best to push down his emotions for the time being, “The last thing we need right now is to lose someone else because someone did somthin’ stupid and got themselves killed.”

Soldier thought of how often Demo tested his equipment after their daily battles, especially after a loss, and stopped only long enough to give Engineer a salute before rushing off, determined not to lose any more teammates.

“Gott, vhat a mess.” Medic whispered hoarsely, mentally preparing himself for the utter shit show that was inevitably coming their way. The Chemist had been a friend to all of them, even to Spy, who pretended that he didn't care, and losing them was going to be hard on everyone.

Personal loss wasn't something the mercenaries were used to, lulled into a sense of security, of immortality, by the Respawn Machine. After all, why be afraid of death when you knew that you would be back in what felt like only an instant? None of them ever considered that Respawn might fail one day.

“C’mon, Doc. We can't stay here.” Engineer said, leading his co-worker-turned-friend away from the fire.

“Ack!”

You yelped as you tumbled face first out of Respawn, hitting the floor hard and fast. You hissed in pain, pushing yourself up and rubbing a hand over your aching face. Instinctively, you check over the various vials of chemicals you have strapped to your person, praying that your odd tumble hasn't resulted in anything breaking.

A sigh of relief passes your lips as you determine nothing to be out of place or wrecked. You pulled yourself to your feet, stretching and cracking your knuckles. Christ, the RED Heavy must have gotten you good that time, because you felt just awful. Exhaustion made you slouch slightly, and your stomach ached something fierce.

After bracing yourself for the inevitable screech of the Administrator's voice telling you that you had failed, you allowed your eyes to fall open, expecting to see Scout and Soldier's sour faces.

An unfamiliar room greeted you, wooden planks replacing the expected concrete. Dust lingered around the space, and your only company was a chittering raccoon, which startled and ran off upon seeing you.

What the fuck was going on?

“Hell-o?” you called, confusing coloring your tone, “Scout? Soldier? Anyone?”

Silence greeted you. Not even the sound of gunfire and shouting could be heard, only the sound of a fierce wind blowing outside.

Thoroughly confused and more than a little creeped out, you stepped out of Respawn, head constantly swiveling about as you called for your teammates. However, no matter how much you yelled, no one ever responded. No matter how much you searched, you couldn't find anyone. No matter how much you listened, not a soul could be heard.

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” you chanted, rubbing your arms. It was so cold here, and your outfit was designed for the New Mexico heat.

Your breaths came in steamy puffs, and you could feel goosebumps prickling along your arms as you made your way towards what you hoped was the Intel Room. Whatever it was that was going on, you were too tired and too sore to try and puzzle it out. If this was some kind of elaborate prank, you were going to kill whoever was responsible, because the last thing you wanted to deal with after such a rough day was this creepy bullshit.

Finally, after a solid hour of getting lost within this bizarre, wintery base, you managed to find the Intel Room. A phone, blue in colour, sat mounted on the wall only a few feet away. Wasting no time, you dialed the number Miss Pauling had given you to use if there was ever an emergency, or if Engineer and Medic started spending too much time together again. (The last time they'd gone unchecked for too long, the base had become overrun by something they called Spycrabs. It took weeks for you and your team to get rid of them, though you were fairly certain both Spy and Pyro had managed to hide one to keep as a pet.)

“Aperture Bakery, where the cake definitely isn't a lie! This is Tammy speaking, how can I help you?” an obviously fake cheery voice greeted you after only two rings, and you smiled slightly.

“Jesus, Pauling, I think that's your worst ‘wrong number’ persona yet.” you groused, no real venom in your voice.

“...Y/N?” Miss Pauling’s voice suddenly became very soft and disbelieving, something you'd never heard it do.

You frowned, your brow furrowing. “Yeah, that's me, last I checked. I thought you were supposed to call me Chemist, though?”

“Holy shit, you're alive?!” she shouted, the volume causing you to pull back slightly, “How are you alive?!”

“Uhhhhh,” you stammered, completely at a loss as to how you were supposed to respond, “I… I breathe? And eat? And sleep? Jeez, Pauling, I don't know what you want from me here.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, one that lasted so long, you began to worry Miss Pauling had hung up on you.

“Hello?” you tried.

“Oh! Shoot, sorry, I'm still here! I just-” there was a sound like papers being moved, “Chemist, what is the last thing you remember?”

“Losing the point and getting shot to pieces, why?” Was this a test? Had you already failed somehow?

“Right, yeah, okay that makes sense.” Miss Pauling took a deep breath, and you shifted uncomfortably, sensing that something was wrong.

“Chemist, Y/N, you've been declared dead for just over a week now.”

The phone slipped from your grasp, and it was only years worth of training and quick reflexes that kept it from smashing into the wall. You gripped the phone right, pressing it tightly into your ear as you spoke. “I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right, Miss Pauling. Would you mind repeating that?”

“You were dead, Chemist. Something happened to BLU’s Respawn Machine, and it was completely destroyed before you could come back. I- I don't know how or why it took so long for you to come back this time, but I'm so glad you did.”

You all but collapsed onto the wall, your free hand tangling itself in your hair. You'd died? Like, died for real? The thought made your stomach turn, and you had to suppress the urge to vomit.

“Pauling, Christ, I-” you swallowed, breathing in through your nose, “Is everyone else okay? Oh God, please tell me no one else… died.”

“No, no, no! Everyone's- well they're not fine, but they're all alive. The Administrator called for an emergency ceasefire the minute she saw what happened, and both teams got the message pretty quickly that something was wrong. The ceasefire is still in effect, since everyone needs to be relocated to one of the other base locations.” Miss Pauling replied.

You audibly sighed in relief, tension leaving your body as you uttered a soft ‘Oh, thank God.’ “I think that's where I ended up. One of the other bases, I mean. It's fucking freezing here, Pauly.”

“Shit, you're that far out?” Miss Pauling sucked in a breath through her teeth, “Okay, just- just stay put, alright? There's not going to be any supplies there, so just fine somewhere warm and try not to move too much. I'm going to come get you, okay?”

“Okay.” you replied, smiling slightly as you heard her immediately begin to gather various items on her desk, “Thank you, Miss Pauling. I know you're busy.”

“I'm never too busy for my mercenaries, especially when they manage to defy all logic and cheat death more than they usually do.” a warm, fuzzy feeling settled in your chest at her words, and it remained even after you hung up. There was something so viscerally pleasing about being wanted, about having someone care for you.

Worn out from your return to the living world, you peeled yourself away from the wall and wandered around the base a bit, before locating what had to be the common room. A couch and a few chairs were tucked in around an unlit fireplace. There wasn't anything around to burn, and you didn't feel up to going out to find something suitable, so you chose instead to simply curl up on the couch. Once you laid down, it was as if all of your strength left your body. The aches and pains that plagued you became more apparent, and your stomach growled and gurgled loudly. You were starving, but as Miss Pauling had said, there was no food at the base, and you certainly weren't going to be able to hunt any animals that might be scuttling around.

Resigning yourself to a fitful sleep and an empty stomach, you closed your eyes and pressed yourself in closer to the back of the couch, slowly drifting off into a light slumber.

The BLU base had never been so quiet. It was not a calm quiet, like one might find if they walked into a library, or in a room full of people simply enjoying each other's company while they entertained themselves, but rather a tense, unnatural quiet. A mercenary base with nine men living in it should have been full of noise and movement, but each member of the BLU team seemed more than happy to break away from the norm today.

Engineer was holed up in his workshop, pouring over blueprints, both new and old, determined to find some flaw, some imperfection, some failure, that could give him an answer as to why the Respawn Machine had gone up in flames. He needed to find the problem so that he could fix it. He couldn't leave things as they were; everyone, even the RED team, once they'd found out what had happened, felt unsafe going through any of the Respawn Machines, since no one knew what exactly had gone wrong.

Medic was working himself to exhaustion right alongside him, while also fretting over packing up his birds and equipment on such short notice. They weren't due to rotate out to another base for another month, but the accident had pushed the timeline up to a few days. What's more is that he needed to review the applications for a new Chemist, though he'd been putting that particular task off for as long as possible. He'd never once needed to replace a teammate, nor had he ever expected to. The process of both finding someone who was Respawn compatible and willing to fight and die everyday was an arduous one indeed, and Medic could feel a stress induced migraine begin to come on whenever he even glanced at the paperwork.

Heavy had been trying his best to help Medic prepare for the move, but he, like everyone else, was feeling the effects of their friend's sudden death. He kept expecting to hear their voice coming from the kitchen, or to see them waltz through a door with some manner of bubbling condition held in their arms. Often, he caught himself setting out the supplies for two sandviches, only realizing his mistake when he had plated the food.

Pyro had firmly planted themselves in the Chemist's room, taking special, delicate care to pack up their things into neat little boxes. When Medic had gently floated the idea of reusing their supplies for the next Chemist, Pyro had chased the doctor around the base with their fire axe. There were drawings of the two of them taped carefully to the wall, gifted to the Chemist by the resident firebug, and Pyro left them for last, wanting to keep pretending that they were simply packing up to move like the rest of them. When they'd nearly finished, Pyro noticed that the Chemist's uniforms, which had been folded up on their friend's bed, had mysteriously disappeared. They'd panicked for a moment, before the faint smell of cigarette smoke filtered through their mask.

Sure enough, the clothes were returned the following morning, freshly washed, dried, and without any wrinkles. Any and all holes or rips had been carefully hand stitched with expert precision. There was also a single rose lovingly tucked into one of the pockets on the outfit the Chemist wore most frequently.

Demo could often be found in the company of Soldier, sitting out on some roof or bridge, nursing his tenth or so bottle. Soldier didn't drink nearly as much, but when he inevitably did get drunk, only he and Demo knew about the few tears that would slip down his cheek. Neither acknowledged it, nor the sinking fear of having to inevitably go through Respawn again that sat like lead bullets in their guts.

Scout ran to ignore that same sense of fear and loss, to push it down into the deepest parts of himself. He ran from sunrise to sunset, pausing only when he absolutely needed to. Sometimes, when he would stop, panting and sweating and one small breeze away from toppling over, if he was in just the right spot at just the right time, he'd catch a glimpse of Sniper, tucked away on some far off cliffside or peering down from a tall, rickety building. The marksman hadn't been seen in the base proper since the accident, but he was always around somewhere, watching day and night to ensure nothing happened to his remaining teammates during the ceasefire.

So it was no wonder that it was him who first spotted a frantic looking Miss Pauling as she parked her scooter and dashed off towards one of the base entrances.

Curious, Sniper pushed himself up out of his hiding place, ignored the burning sensation that rippled through his taunt, stiff muscles, and started to make his way down to the base. He didn't make any attempt to soften his footsteps, but he also didn't call any attention to himself. The dark haired woman had been heading for Engineer's workshop, so that's where Sniper went.

Just before he could reach the door that led to the workshop, he collided with someone coming down the hall. He let out a quiet ‘oof’ and stumbled back, baring his teeth instinctively when he saw an expensive suit and steely blue eyes. He calmed, however, when he saw that this Spy was dressed in his team's colours

“Bushman.” came Spy's snide greeting. The Frenchman eyed Sniper up and down, “You look like shit.”

“I could say the same for you, mate.” Sniper sneered back, and he really could have.

There were heavy bags around Spy's eyes, and he smelled as though he'd been absolutely chewing through his expensive, imported cigarettes. Clearly, the man had been coping just as well as Sniper had.

“I'm shocked to see zhat you are no longer wallowing in your mobile hovel, or rolling around in zhe dirt, or whatever it is that you've been doing zhese days.” Spy raised a brow, “What has brought you back to zhis cheap imitation of civilization?”

Now, normally, this would be the point in their conversation where Sniper would tell Spy to not-so-kindly fuck off, but the Australian was running on coffee and will, and Spy was good at getting information. If Miss Pauling’s sudden appearance was supposed to be a secret, then Spy would be Sniper’s first choice for a partner in crime.

“Miss Pauling just showed up lookin’ real frazzled, and I want to know why. I didn't get any alerts or messages, did you?” Sniper asked.

Spy pursed his lips. “Non, I did not.”

Both men's gazes flicked towards the workshop door, and before either could contemplate if this was a good idea or not, Spy had cloaked and Sniper was pushing the door open slowly. A conversation came into earshot as the door opened silently.

“Engie! Thank God you're here!”

“Miss Pauling? What are you doin’ here?”

“There's no time, I need to borrow your truck!”

“Whu- mah truck? What for?”

“Listen, I need to get up North. Fast. And my scooter isn't going to cut it for this trip. Also, I think I might need that emergency dispenser you guys built a while back.”

Sniper's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. Miss Pauling did many things to people, but healing them wasn't something he'd ever heard of her doing.

“Well, now, see that there dispenser is still a prototype. It ain't ready for fieldwork yet- HEY!”

“Sorry Engie! Look, I promise I will bring the truck and the dispenser back, but I really need to get going! If this works, I'll bring back something that will make up for all of this.”

“And just what the hell would that be?!”

“Your Chemist!”

Sniper jolted, his body moving faster than his mind, which was still struggling to understand what he'd just heard. He gripped the guardrails that overlooked the lower floor, arriving just in time to see Miss Pauling putting the pedal to the metal and hauling ass out of the workshop in Engineer's truck. Engineer himself was standing stock still on the workshop floor, hand still raised mid gesture.

A set of hands suddenly grabbed Sniper by the shoulders and spun him around. Spy was staring at him, eyes alight in a way Sniper hadn't seen in a long time.

“Bushman, you can fit at least four people in your disgusting van, yes?” the man asked, squeezing harder when Sniper's mouth failed to make words come out, “Well?!”

“Eh- ur- yeah mate, that's right.” Sniper nodded finally, still reeling from the idea that Chemist might still be alive, “What's it to ya, Spook?”

“Gather up Soldier, Heavy, and Demo. I will take Medic, Scout, Pyro and Engineer in my car. We need to get going immediately if we want any chance of catching up to Miss Pauling!” he exclaimed.

Sniper's eyes widened as he understood what Spy was saying. The Frenchman wanted to follow Miss Pauling, to see their supposedly not dead teammate for himself, and he knew the rest of them well enough to know that if they didn't take them along, then the others would find their own way to them. That, or they'd simply destroy the base if left alone for too long, and Sniper was willing to bet that Spy didn't want to risk Pyro or Soldier destroying his precious suit collection.

‘Still,’ Sniper mused, ‘It’s nice to see that Spook cares about our feelings, even if it is mostly for ‘is benefit.’

“Right, I'll go round up the boys. You focus on snapp’n Engie outta his stupor, yeah?” Sniper agreed.

Spy nodded, and the two separated, with Sniper wasting no time in flying back down the hall. Obsessively stalking- er, observing everyone over the course of the week had granted him a decent understanding of where they chose to spend their time while in mourning.

Heavy and Medic were up first, and Sniper knew exactly where they'd be. With a swift kick, he burst into the Medbay, startling both the pair and all of the birds.

“Augh! Herr Sniper, vhat do you think you're doing, barging in here like-” Medic started, but Sniper cut him off.

“Can it, Doc! Pauling was just ‘ere, and she says Y/N is alive!” Sniper exclaimed. The other two men's eyes widened, and Medic almost dropped the glass beaker he was holding. “She sped off a moment ago, and we're gonna follow ‘er. Spy's taking you, Scooter, Engie and Py in ‘is car, while I'm takin’ the rest.”

The dynamic duo shook off their shock and nodded.

“Heavy will grab Soldier and Demolitions. Leetle Sniper will find Pyro in their room.” Heavy paused, then fixed Sniper with a stern look. “Be very careful how you tell news. Fire starter has… not been taking loss well. May attack, if they think you are playing joke.”

Sniper gulped quietly. “Think we should hold off on tellin’ them why we're really leaving?”

Medic shook his head quickly. “Nien. Zhough it is not alvays apparent, Pyro is quite intelligent. Lying to zhem about zhis will not end well for any of us.”

The marksman winced, remembering the feeling of fire blasting across his skin. “Too right. Okay, I'll handle Pyro, and Heavy’s gettin’ the drunk bastards. Hopefully they can sober up a bit, because I do not want those two sicking up in my van.”

Suddenly, a thought came to him.

“Oh, and bring yer Medigun. Miss Pauling mentioned something about need’n the emergency dispenser, but Engie didn't seem too confident that it would work.”

Medic's face crumpled up in distress. “And he shouldn't be! Zhat machine is just as likely to kill both zhe Chemist and Frauline Pauling as it is to heal zhem.”

“Shit.” Sniper swore, “We better be quick, then.”

The three men scattered, each one going in a different direction. Sniper hauled ass towards the barracks, eyes flicking to the different class symbols that marked each of the doors. He had only ever been here once, but picking out the little blue and yellow picture of a bubbling vial was easy enough.

He skidded to a stop before the door, taking a second to rap his knuckles against the wood before pushing the door open.

Pyro was where Heavy had said they would be, sitting on their friend's neatly made bed, their stuffed Balloonicorn clasped tightly in their grip as they rocked slightly. Pyro tilted their head at Sniper, communicating their confusion at the man's sudden appearance.

“C’mon, matchstick. We gotta get going right quick now.” Sniper panted, motioning for Pyro to follow, “Miss Pauling was just here, and she seems pretty damn convinced that our Chemist isn't as dead as we all thought.”

Pyro stilled on the bed, their masked face staring right into Sniper's soul. The Australian licked his chapped lips, feeling a sense of unease creep across the nape of his neck. After a moment of relative silence, Pyro seemed to find no deception in his words, and quickly leapt up, pausing only to grab their axe and holster it on their back.

“Huddah huddah huddah!” They yelled, voice muffled by the mask. A thick rubber glove suddenly gripped Sniper's vest, and the marksman found himself getting dragged along towards an exit.

Barely able to keep up with Pyro’s quick stride, Sniper stumbled a bit, all but crashing into the firebug when the large door before them slid open.

“Let's go, let's go, let's go!” Scout's voice carried across the desert base as the young man practically flew towards the workshop, clearly having been told the news, “Py, Snipes, let's friggin hustle! We got places to be, ya bunch a slowasses!”

“Piss off, ya bloody roadrunner! We're goin’ as fast as we can!” Sniper shot back, no real venom in his voice. He knew that Scout had been hit hard by the loss of their teammate, especially since he and Soldier had been the last ones to see them. The kid was more sensitive then the rest of them, especially when it came to someone he cared about dying

Scout slowed ever so slightly, just enough to grab ahold of Pyro's hand. The runner and the arsonist took off together to where Spy was waiting, and Sniper deviated off towards his van.

Heavy was already waiting for him when he arrived, the hulking giant holding both Soldier and Demo over his shoulders. The two had clearly had more to drink than usual, because neither of them were conscious. Sniper contemplated waking them for a moment; this was important after all, and he knew neither man would want to be left out of the loop.

And then he considered how completely insufferable the duo would be if they were awake, and he simply nodded towards the back of the van as he moved to sit in the driver's seat.

Heavy joined him a few moments later, and they were off, speeding down a dusty New Mexico road. Spy's expensive, gleaming vehicle was tearing down the same road as them, the light of the gradually setting sun bouncing off the well maintained blue paint job. He'd told Sniper the name once, while also threatening to gut the marksman if he so much as stepped near the vehicle, but Sniper couldn't be bothered to memorize it.

Sniper had thought that Spy wouldn't ever dare go as fast as he was now, what with all the potholes and tumbleweeds around that could potentially damage the Frenchman's precious ride, but perhaps he'd underestimated how much losing the Chemist had weighed on their most elusive teammate. Spy, for all his aloofness, did occasionally let slip the fact that he actually liked his teammates. Sometimes. Rarely. And usually in some strange, hard to interpret way.

He saw Scout's head pop out of one of the backseat windows, and the lad raised a hand to shield his eyes, like he was trying to see something in the distance. He must have spotted something other than desert, because he pointed towards an upcoming side road before popping back inside.

Sure enough, the car skidded around the corner, and Sniper followed, squinting his own eyes in an attempt to see what Scout had been pointing at.

Tire tracks marred the road, ones that hadn't been caused by Spy's quick turn, but that were also very recent. Sniper grinned and pressed harder on the gas, accelerating until he was only a few feet behind the other vehicle.

He'd never had a target escape before, and Miss Pauling wasn't about to make him break that streak.

Cold.

You were so cold.

You'd awoken to the sound of your teeth chattering, the sound only made worse when another wave of ripples inevitably wracked your prone form. Each breath came as a gasping wheeze, catching on the film of phlegm that had made a home in your throat and chest. Your stomach felt almost alive in your guts, spitting acid on your sensitive middle as it growled and snarled and roared for food that you couldn't give it.

You tried to get up, but your body began to shake and wobble dangerously as you began putting pressure on your forearm. Apparently, all your energy had been diverted to shivering in a, perhaps futile, attempt to keep your internal organs from freezing over. Breathing out a puff of warm air, you slid your hands over your chest and stomach, eyes widening as you realized that something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Gone was your well earned muscles and insulating body fat. You felt dangerously thin, like a starved greyhound. Whatever dark magic and science pulled you back from death had seemingly lost most of your fat and muscle reserves in the process. Truly, it was a miracle that you'd been able to walk at all!

You were in a bad spot, and you weren't sure Respawn would be able to save you again, should the worst happen. After all, no merc had ever starved to death before, and you had no idea what would happen if you did.

‘That’s not going to happen.’ You tried to reassure yourself, ‘Pauling will come to get me.’

How long had you been asleep? It hadn't felt like long, but there were no windows in this common room, and it wasn't as though you could rely on your stomach to tell you that a great deal of time had passed.

With little else to do, you lay your head back down on the cold couch cushions, attempting to curl up closer to the plush, velvety fabric. You tucked your arms into your armpits and folded your knees up close to your chest as you shivered once again. You'd lost feeling in your toes and fingers, but you could still, with great difficulty, wiggle them, which you counted as a win. Your eyes slipped shut as you turned your face down towards your chest, nose buried in the fabric of your uniform in a desperate attempt to seek out any scrap of warmth.

Sleep came easy enough, but it was far from a peaceful rest. Nightmares of endless darkness and being reborn wrong plagued your mind. You woke frequently, but exhaustion dragged you back into unconsciousness just as quickly. Each time you awoke, you were reminded of just how hungry you were, and the urge to gnaw at your own dangerously thin arms grew in intensity. Thirst plagued you as well, and each time your failing mind allowed it, you licked desperately at the inside of your mouth, trying to acquire some moisture for your sandpaper-esque throat.

On your next return to the waking world, as you stared out towards the door that led to the hallway, contemplating drinking one of your fatal mixtures, if only to end your suffering and quicken your return to Respawn, a sound echoed out into the lonely building. You lifted your head, blearily squinting towards the door. Had that been real? Or simply an illusion, a trick crafted by your starved brain?

“Chem? Chem, can you hear me?!”

Miss Pauling.

She did come for you!

You grinned, the action pulling at your chapped lips. You tried to call out, but all you managed was a slight cough. Huffing, you flopped your head back down, eyes locked on the door. You knew that she knew where the phone was in this place; there was no way someone like Miss Pauling didn’t know the ins and outs of every place her mercs set up shop in, so it was only a matter of time before she found you.

Sure enough, after a few minutes passed you began to hear footsteps pounding down the hall. It wasn’t the heavy, familiar footfalls of your team, but rather a lighter, quieter sound. A blurry purple figure entered your field of vision, and after your eyes finally focused, you saw a disheveled, red-cheeked Miss Pauling standing before you.

“Hey there, stranger.” You rasped, wincing slightly when you felt hands suddenly cup your cheeks. Pauling’s hands were warm and slightly calloused, and you blinked slowly, leaning into her touch.

“Jesus Christ, Chem. You never do anything by halves, huh?” Pauling laughed, though the noise came out more like a sob.

“Can't. I wouldn't be a very good Chemist if I did, right?” You joked softly, your eyelids drooping slowly as you began to relax, “Things’d be spillin’ all over the place.”

“Woah, hey!” A series of quick, rapid taps against your cheeks made you open your eyes again, “Stay awake, okay? You're in rough shape, but I brought- well, stole but that's really not important- Engie's truck and his little mini dispenser thing-”

“You stole Engie’s truck?” You interrupted, voice tinged with a sense of horrified awe, “He's gonna kill you.”

The raven haired woman gave you a half smile as she reached an arm under you, pulling you up to your feet to stand beside her. Your vision swam, and you had to lean heavily into her.

“I think bringing you back will soften him up a bit.” She said, looping your arm around her shoulders, “Come on, let's get you to the truck. You look like you're about to pass out.”

“I might.” You admitted. “Got anything to eat? I'm starving.”

Miss Pauling glanced over your emaciated form. “That… actually might be the case. When Respawn brings someone back, it usually leaves them feeling a little bit drained, and it's why you're all so hungry at the end of a battle. Respawning takes energy, and I'd say this last trip took almost all of yours. It ate right through your fat and muscle reserves!”

“Ah,” You replied, “I was afraid that might be the case. What happens if I Respawn again?”

“It's… it's probably best if we don't test that out.”

The two of you walked through the base in silence after that, with you leaning heavily on Miss Pauling for support. She didn't seem to mind, however; though you often caught her casting worried glances at you. You felt the temperature in the air steadily drop as you reached the entrance to the base, yet you were still caught off guard when a chilly blast of wintry air smacked you in the face. Snow swirled all around you, coating the base and battlefield in white. The first rays of an early morning sunrise were just starting to peak over the horizon, giving you enough light to see by.

In the distance, you could see Engie's truck, the blue vehicle standing out amidst the white. However, something seemed… off about the truck. You squinted, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Hey P, did you bring a… a dog with you?” You mumbled, tilting your head at the canine shape that stood in the headlights.

“What?” Miss Pauling looked confused for a moment, before she, too, saw the creature. “What is… uh oh.”

“Uh oh? Why uh oh?” You questioned, before taking a closer look at the dog, which was now slowly moving towards the two of you.

Oh.

Uh oh indeed.

It wasn't a dog.

It was a wolf.

The beast was huge, with a thick, ungroomed black coat and amber eyes that glowed a bright, golden color in the early morning. It growled as it approached, and you could see saliva frothing at its mouth.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” You balked, stumbling as Miss Pauling pulled you both back, “A rabid wolf. Why not!”

“How did it even contract rabies all the way out here?!” Miss Pauling yelped, quickly drawing her pistol. You eyed the small gun, wondering if she could aim well enough to shoot the hulking animal with your dead weight hanging off her.

Left with no other options, you weakly pawed at your coat, trying to locate something that could help you fight off the rabid beast. You had all the ingredients needed to make something truly dangerous, but if you tried to mix them now, you'd just as likely make something that would kill you before the wolf could.

Grabbing something that would at least blind the animal, you braced yourself as best you could, ready to try and help Miss Pauling fight.

“INCOMING!”

You, Miss Pauling, and the wolf all turned your heads as one, eyes widening when Sniper's van suddenly emerged from the snowstorm like the chariot of an angry Australian god. The vehicle slammed into the wolf, sending it flying out of sight. A few seconds later, an expensive looking car skidded to a stop a few feet away, one of the back doors opening before the car could even fully stop.

Scout came barreling out first, slipping on the snow and ice as he tried to regain his balance. Sniper, Heavy, and Spy followed suit, with the other's appearing behind them. They all looked absolutely horrendous; their eye bags had eye bags, Soldier and Sniper clearly needed to shave, and none of them were even remotely dressed for the cold weather of the north.

But they had never looked better to you.

Scout spotted you first, and you hardly had time to blink before the Bostonian was upon you, yanking you out of Miss Pauling's hold and into his arms.

“You're alive! Holy crap you're alive!” Scout cried, spinning you around and pressing his face into your shoulder.

Pyro joined you next, the arsonist all but smothering both you and Scout as they sobbed. You patted their back, leaning into their warm suit, attempting to leech their abundant body heat.

Before you could get a word out, a fierce yell startled you into a defensive stance. Suddenly, you were being held up by your armpits and being shook like a maraca.

“DO NOT PULL SUCH A STUNT AGAIN, MAGGOT!” Soldier yelled angrily, but you caught a glimpse of wet eyes under his helmet, “IF YOU DIE LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL PERSONALLY RIP YOUR YELLOW-BELLIED SOUL RIGHT OUT OF HELL!”

“Sol, put them down, consarnit!” Engineer chided, smacking Soldier in the side. Once the helmeted man set you back down onto the ground, Engineer pulled you into a warm, firm hug, his flesh hand coming to rest on the back of your neck.

“Hey Engie.” You murmured softly, “Don’t be mad at Miss P, okay?”

“Buddy, ah’m gonna be treatin’ her to a steak dinner after this.” he chuckled, before gently passing you over to someone else, “Here, Demo. Be careful with ‘em. They ain’t lookin’ too good right now.”

“Aye, ya look like shite, dont’cha?” Demo laughed softly, gently ruffling your hair before pulling you into a hug, tucking you under his chin. “Ah, I’m glad yer alright. Ye gave us a right scare, ya wee bastard!”

“Sorry.” You chuckled, leaning into his chest. Demo patted your shoulder, before you were released and spun around to see Medic, Heavy, Spy and Sniper. While Heavy lifted you up into one arm, Miss Pauline began questioning how the mercenaries had found out where you and her were.

Medic descended upon you like a mother hen, fretting about the poor state you were in while simultaneously raving about the unexplored limits of the Respawn Machines. He plucked a few tablets out of a bottle in one of his coat pockets, instructing you to swallow, not chew them as Sniper handed you a well worn thermos. It was warm, and when you opened the lid, the smell of coffee hit your nose. A quick sip revealed that it was made just how you liked, which made you smile, because it meant that the usually unsociable marksman had gone out of his way to make the drink specifically for you.

“Here, mon ami,” Spy strode forward, a blanket draped over his arm. He wrapped it around your shoulders gently, tucking it in tightly, almost like your parents would do for you when you were small, “this should warm you up a bit.”

The tenderness of your usually tough, rowdy teammates made you sniffle, and you snuggled in closer to Heavy, clutching your thermos.

“I love you guys.” You said, your voice wavering with emotion, rather than cold this time, “Seriously. I- there isn’t a better team out there.”

Your praise made the gathered men puff up slightly. It was clear your opinion mattered a great deal to them.

“Hell yeah! We’re da’ freakin’ best!” Scout shouted.

“Leetle Chemist is included in that.” Heavy added, and you blushed slightly.

“Heavy is right, mein Chemiker.” Medic agreed, “Jou have cheated Death more zhen anyone else before jou! It is truly amazing!”

“I don’t feel amazing.” You said, quickly sipping the offered coffee.

“Vell, you are severely malnutritioned, so I am not surprised.” Medic replied. “Ah, don’t drink zhat so fast. Jou’ll just zhrow it back up.”

Once the word ‘malnutritioned’ passed the doctor’s lips, you could practically hear Engineer’s ears perk up. You were sure many home cooked meals with Engie in his workshop were in your future.

“Come on, mate, let’s get em’ outta the cold, yeah?” Sniper suggested to Heavy, gesturing towards his van. Spy snorted.

“Please, you want to have our dear Chemist rest in zhat thing? The last thing zhey need is to be surrounded by piss and crocodile jerky.” he snarked, which drew a disgruntled sneer from Sniper.

“Oi! My van is perfectly clean, and its leagues bettah than your dinky lil’ car! You just wanna hog all their attention ‘cause you’re a needy, selfish buggah!” Sniper shot back.

Heavy sighed deeply as the two men started arguing, before looking down at you.

“Heavy thinks it would be best for leetle Chemist to ride with Engineer in his truck for now. Team is very excited you are alive, and this makes them act-” the two of you winced as Soldier started yelling again, “more like loud idiots than usual, да?”

“At this point, big guy, I’d welcome the noise.” You admitted, “It was… quiet here. And lonely.”

Heavy looked at you with a saddened expression. “How long were you alone for?”

“A… a day, I think. It was hard to tell, since there were no windows.” You glanced over in the direction the wolf had been flung. “Honestly, that might have been for the best, considering what was waiting out here for me and Miss Pauling when we finally got outside.”

“Was wolf, yes? Heavy could not see very well, but it looked like wolf.” The heavy weapons expert said as he started off towards Engineer’s truck.

“Yeah, it was a wolf. A rabid one. You guys showed up just in time. I was afraid it would get close enough to bite us.” You shivered, pulling your blanket in closer.

“Miss Pauling would not have allowed that. She is small woman, yes, but very fierce.” Heavy paused for a moment, looked over at Scout and Soldier, who were talking to Miss Pauling, then leaned in to whisper: “She is better shot than some of the team. Do not tell them I said this.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.” You winked as Heavy gently set you down in the passenger seat, careful not to jostle you. The seat was still warm from the heater, and you relished in it, almost not even noticing when Engineer slipped into the driver’s seat next to you.

“Buckle up, darl’.” He grinned, reaching to pull the seat belt over your chest.

“Thanks, Engie.” You returned his smile and lay back, resting your head against your seat belt.

As you got comfortable, you noticed that the truck had an extra few passengers. Pyro waved to you from the back as both Soldier and Scout climbed up into the bed. Both men looked visibly cold, but they stubbornly plonked themselves down, dead set on staying near you. Just in case.

Spy and Sniper finally stopped squabbling when they realized that you were no longer around to fight over, and both slunk back to their respective vehicles as Engineer started up his truck. Miss Pauling and Medic followed Spy, while Demo and Heavy trailed after Sniper. Knowing your team, there would be another fight the second you all stopped for gas or food, likely over who you should sit with for the rest of the drive back. Honestly, it was like being back in school, surrounded by a friend group of mentally ill lunatics who fought like spoiled dogs for your attention.

You wouldn’t change a thing. You were, after all, just as needy and clingy as the rest of them, and you knew you’d be even more desperate to be near someone all the time, afraid to be back in that horrid silence.

How wonderful for you, then, that you had 8 men, 1 woman, and 1 Pyro who would be more than happy to indulge you.

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vesearlee · 3 months ago

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──── 𝑺𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

Normally, when Caleb had to make it up to you, he had methods he had perfected; made tried and true over the span of time that stretched from childhood to adulthood. Only, this time, an accomplice was thrown into the mix to sweeten the deal, and it swayed you in his favour faster than you could comprehend the sudden, unique side kick.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── Caleb x F!Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ── 1.1k 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ── Fluff, kissing, apologetic Caleb 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ── HERE 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ── I saw a tiktok about a boyfriend bringing his girlfriend treats via a remote control car and went why not.

─── 𝑳𝑨𝑫𝑺 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ───

It was a slow, albeit ordinary day in Skyhaven — the sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling windows of Caleb’s living room brightened the room and dark accents to feel homely as you cosied up on the couch. A few blankets were piled in your lap and tucked underneath your fuzzy sock covered feet. The rustling sound of paper from your book was the only sound in the comfortable silence.

Your hoped-for company was tucked away in his study, pouring over a few documents sent to him that the Fleet classed as ‘urgent’ — the grumbled and muttered threats to his subordinates were enough to make you chuckle lightly.

Caleb only went once your hands squeezed his broad shoulders and forcibly turned him towards his office space. “Sooner you get done with paperwork, sooner you can come cuddle, ‘kay?”

“But–” He started, a small pout playing at his bottom lip as he looked over at you — it turned into a smirk while he watched your valiant efforts to make him move.

“No buts!” you grunted, shoving between his shoulder blades so he would move faster. “I’ll be on the couch waiting for you. So, hurry up, Colonel.”

His heavy footsteps echoed off of the walls of his study, and you heard him groan quietly as he sat at the desk chair, before the wheels scuffed over the floor. And from your place on the couch, you could hear the slight huffs of annoyance that left his lips, no matter how stifled they were.

While time passed, you contentedly watched the clouds go by, only occasionally distracted by the words on the pages of your book that lay flat and open in your lap.

So, when the sound of whirring gears and the robotic revs of a small engine reached your ears, you froze.

It was a familiar sound — a remote, Spitfire plane Caleb and you built when you were younger sounded almost identical, the tinny sound and imaginary battles he played out for your immersion echoed over the years to the present.

You glanced towards the hallway that led to the study, where Caleb should have been focusing on paperwork, nothing appeared amiss; no dancing shadows or the sound of slight shuffling from his clothes to reveal he was planning a surprise.

Furrowing your brow, you turned back to the window and grabbed your book to delve right back in.

It happened again, only this time, it was much closer than before.

You jumped, and the blanket bunched up on your thighs while you moved to sit up and investigate the source, when you finally found it. “What the–”

A model plane, the exact same one that you both built together years ago, was rolling around on the rug with such enthusiasm you could have sworn the pilot was attempting to recreate the feat of making donuts with a three-wheeled aircraft.

Behind the plane and trailing from the tail was a rope, and attached to the ends of the rope was a packet of sour candy. A sticky note in the shape of a heart was stuck onto the crinkling plastic with an apple sticker — the simple gesture made you arch a brow, and the words ‘for my girl’ stood out in red pen.

“Caleb!” you called, and the plane stopped moving. It sat facing away from you. “Are you–?”

The question was cut short by the sound of movement from the craft — it turned slowly around, its cargo now beside it. The small engine revved and the blade attached to the front spun with the sound. “Caleb?” you said quietly, bending to look closer at your robotic company. “Can you see me–?”

One loud rev was your answer, and the flaps on the wings moved up and down.

You grinned — somehow, Caleb had rigged a camera to the cockpit, and he was controlling it from his office. “And what’s this candy for?” Two revs this time, and the plane scooted over the rug to be by your feet. The spinning blade touched the very tip of your toe.

“Sorry, I don’t speak plane,” you laughed, staring down at the robot. “Maybe a certain pilot needs to come out of hiding, he can share the candy with me if he brings me some apple slices.”

The small plane whirred and hurtled backwards, and you tracked the movements as it pivoted and positively flew away, its little wheels somehow never leaving the ground. It disappeared around the corner of the hallway, no doubt headed straight back to the operator for its next mission.

You settled back into the cushions of the couch, and you placed the blankets back over your lap to await the plane’s next landing.

A few moments later, heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hallway, until Caleb appeared around the corner with the plane right behind. This time, it had taken flight — Caleb’s hand swayed back and forth to simulate the swerves and tricks a fighter pilot could only accomplish.

“Oh, there he is,” you teased. “Are you trying to make it up to me?”

“And if I was…” He continued forward, amethyst eyes darkened with playful tones of indigo. “What would you say?”

You hummed, and you shifted in place to face him, placing your elbow on the back of the couch and your chin on the palm of your hand. “If you were trying to make it up to me, I would say you’re only missing my apple slices.”

Caleb smirked. “Nothin’ else, huh?”

“Nope.” You grinned up at him as he came to a stop in front of you. “Well, if the Colonel has time for me now, I suppose I wouldn’t obje– Mmph!” Any further taunt you conjured was silenced by the feel of his lips on yours, and before you could reciprocate, he pulled back, his teeth only just letting go over your lower lip.

Puffs of warm air fanned over your mouth, and you whispered against his lips: “That’s not fair.”

“Whatever you say, baby.” Caleb rose and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, look.” The plane hovered behind his head for a second before it moved to the side to reveal a parcel fastened to its underside. A plate in the confines of what looked like an upside-down parachute, held the spoils of a few apples, sliced and plated to perfection. “It’s a mercy mission, see? My friend here softened the blow of my hasty return.”

Your hand reached for his wrist, and you yanked him forwards. “Wh–oa!” His tall frame collided with the couch cushions, and he landed with a grunt of surprise, sprawled against your side while the plane remained airborne. “Wha–?”

“Now you’ve made it up to me,” you stated proudly, smiling at his ruffled clothes and hair. “My big dummy.”

Caleb sighed and shook his head. “Where were we–? That’s right.” The remote to the wall-mounted television floated towards you. “Can’t spoil our show for you, can I?”

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kunasthiast · 2 months ago

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jumpsuits and motors (1)

summary: when one visit to his usual mechanic changed his life for the better… or not? especially when the mechanic he had in mind to check his car wasn’t you – the one who is unbelievably unimpressed by who the fuck he is. and now, you’re on his mind 24/7 – right next to his narcissistic tendencies and thoughts of only him and his precious baby (his car).

pairings: sukuna x reader (female) genre/warnings: sukuna is an arrogant, cocky, bratty asshole, racer AU, mechanic AU, underground street car racing, reader’s a mechanic (currently studying engineering), fluff, future smut, attempt at humor word count: 3.2k All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

taglist is still open for those who wanna be added!

masterlist

part one > part two

The thrill of the chase. The pulse of adrenaline. The deafening roar of the crowd after every victory. This is what Sukuna lives for. This is what he’d die for.

And this weekend, he’s gonna risk it all.

As an undefeated underground street racer, Sukuna’s days revolve around training, fine-tuning his technique – or whatever else you call it – and making sure his car is in always in peak condition. Every week, without fail, he brings his baby to his shop – the only one he trusts.

This time, though, he’s not just racing anyone.

His opponent? Gojo Satoru. The cocky, loudmouthed idiot who’s been his biggest rival – and his biggest pain in the ass.

For months, Gojo’s been running his mouth about how he’s gonna take the win. Please, when he sees Sukuna, he never fails to mention it. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. And always with that damn smug smirk and a wink, just to piss him off.

“Who’s faster between you two?”

Sukuna’s response? Always the same: “Why even ask when you already know?”

And yet, Gojo never lets it slide.“Nah, I’d win.”

It takes a lot of everything in Sukuna not to punch this stupid idiot square in the jaw. And being the calm, cool, collected one (of course) Sukuna settles for flipping Gojo off instead. Yup, this pink-haired dude is highly confident he’ll win this coming race, maintaining his undefeated history and finally break off his rival’s win history.

This race? It’s his.

Easy, as always.

With one week to go, his red Audi R8 purrs down the highway, weaving through traffic effortlessly as he heads to his one and only favorite shop – the one place that keeps his car in top condition, no exceptions. He pulls into the garage, kills the engine and steps out – only to find the place empty.

Frowning, he tucks his keys into his pocket and crosses his arms. He knows he booked his baby's checkup. He’s fucking meticulous about this shit.

Just as his irritation bubbles over, a voice calls out from the pantry.

“Uh, we’re closed!”

Sukuna’s brow twitched. The fuck?

“What do you mean it’s closed? I have a scheduled appointment,” he shouts back, which by the way is very obviously annoyed.

Footsteps shuffled and a moment later, you walked into view, casually biting into a cinnamon roll. You’re in a navy-blue jumpsuit, the top half tied around your waist, revealing a black tank top clinging to your frame. And, your trusty 5-year old scuffed-up boots – clearly well-loved – to complete the look.

“Chill out, cutie,” you say between bites. “I definitely sent everyone a message this morning that we’re closed today. Maybe you just forgot to check your phone?” You continued chewing on your cinnamon roll – without missing a beat – even offered this pink-haired hottie your half-eaten cinnamon roll, “Hmm, this one’s good. Want some?”

Sukuna deadpan stared at you. Cutie? Yep, his irritation spikes. So does his curiosity. Because you? You’re fucking hot.

Ignoring your snack offer – he’s not a fan of sweets – he pulls out his phone. Sure enough, a message from the shop sits unread. This pulls out a groan from him. Shit. He really should’ve checked his phone before driving out here.

“Why are you even closed today?” He mutters, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “I need my car checked today.”

You take another bite, unfazed. “Suit yourself, I’ll just have all the rolls to myself. Dad’s out running errands. I’m the only one here.”

Sukuna’s barely listening now. He’s watching you. The way you’re leaning against the workbench, the grease stains on your arms, the way your jumpsuit sits low on your hips.

And – fuck.

Pink hair or not, he know he looks intimidating. People usually tread lightly around him. Even the mechanics here. Even his competitors. Even people who walk past by him on the streets.

But you? You’re standing there, eating a damn cinnamon roll, calling him cutie, and acting like you don’t know exactly who he is.

Not a fan of awkward situations, you continued chewing on your pastry and observing this hottie. He’s wearing a tight black shirt and gray sweatpants which clearly outlined his sexy, muscular physique. He has a cute fluff of pink hair, too, that’s surely something you didn’t expect for someone with an intimidating demeanor and face tattoos. You thought, he’s kinda cute and hot, why have you only seen him today?

Sukuna knows you’re gawking at him. He notices everyone looking at him. Every time.

Naturally, his lips curl into a smirk. “What, in love with me already?”

You snort mid-bite. “Please.”

Unbothered, you finished eating your damn cinnamon roll, then turn on your heel, walking back toward the pantry, clearly ignoring what he just said and replied back with, “You are kinda cute, though.”

Oh.

Sukuna blinks. That’s… not what he expected.

And, fuck, he likes this attitude of yours.

He follows you inside, eyes locked on your back. Who even are you, he thought and realized. “Wait a second. You’re Akira’s daughter?! I didn’t even know he had a daughter.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Uh, yeah? I work here, what else would I be doing here?” You reach into the small fridge with your ass clearly hanging in front of him, rummaging for another drink. “Soda or beer?”

“Soda. I’m driving,” he says, but he’s not thinking about the drink. He’s openly staring and thinking about the way you’re bent over, ass sticking out, completely unaware of the perverted thoughts running through his head.

He forces himself to look away, leaning against the wall as you toss him a can.

“What kinda work you do here, then?”

“Mechanic.” You went to the other side of the room to sit down at the table and pop open your drink to take a sip.

Sukuna nearly chokes as he’s sipping on his soda. “You’re a mechanic?!”

Arching an eyebrow, you were offended. “What, that hard to believe?”

He scoffs, eyeing you up and down. “Didn’t expect that. Why don’t you just check my car then?”

“Nope, I’m off duty!” You chuckled and winked. “Just wait for my dad.” You then grabbed your phone on the table and opened it to scroll through your messages, checking if you got any update from your dad on when he’ll be back. Yup, no updates.

You just sent a message to your dad to update him about the mysterious, sexy man’s presence in the garage. Yes, he’s very sexy.

You what time will u be back? pink haired boy’s here to see u says he got weekly car checkups & can’t miss it 9:02AM

“Anyway, who are you? What’s up with the weekly car check up?” You said, looking at him. He was eyeing the room idly and turned his eyes to you while taking another sip of his soda and raised his eyebrows, “You don’t know me?”

“Uh, should I?” You snorted, clearly finding his confident aura interesting.

“I’m the best street car racer in this city. Undefeated. Sukuna, King of the Tracks. Ring a bell?” Sukuna said as he fixes his stance and threw the soda can on the trash can near the fridge. He’s staring at you with a smoldering smirk.

“… Nope” You blinked. Yeah, you really don’t know him, heck, it’s your first time meeting him! You thought.

“Unbelievable! You work in a shop that caters to race cars, and you haven’t even heard of me? This has been my go-to shop ever since I’ve started like 5 years ago.” He said with a chortle and clearly showing his disbelief on his face, his smoldering smirk faltering into a teasing grin.

You gave him a light chuckle and shrugged your shoulders while flashing Sukuna a smile, “Sorry to burst your bubble, I haven’t had the time to keep up with local street-racing celebs. ‘Sides, fixing cars is more fun than racing them.”

He snorts at this. “Blasphemy.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘King of the Tracks.’ And, I just started this job a year ago.” You admitted with an emphasis on air quotes.

Sukuna feigns offense at this. But before he can argue, your phone buzzes – it’s a message from your dad.

Mecha Boss meeting’s running late be back in an hour don’t touch his car 9:05AM

You tch, yea yea not like i was gonna T^T 9:07AM

You sigh dramatically after sending your dad a text. “Dad’s gonna be back in an hour. He said he’ll check your baby by then.” You said to Sukuna with an eye roll as you close your phone.

“Why don’t you check it?” Sukuna perked up out of curiosity.

“I can’t trust myself with supercars, alright? Even dad.” Yes, you were sulking about it.

Sukuna watches you, amusement flickering in his gaze. “What, afraid of supercars?”

“Nope. Just extra careful. If I screw up, you could crash and die. Not something I wanna have on my conscience.” You ruffled your hair into a tousled mess thinking about the possible life and death consequences when you do touch a fucking supercar.

Sukuna chuckles at your animated response and gave you a fucking wink, “Damn. Didn’t know you cared so much about my safety, princess.”

This left you gaping at him with your eyes twitching, “The audacity –”

He laughs. Full, deep, cocky as hell.

“Don’cha worry, sweetheart, I got a pretty good track record of staying alive.” His voice was practically dripping with smugness, his eyes gleaming with that devil-may-care charm he wore so well.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your lips betrayed you, twitching upward. “Yeah, right, Mr. ‘Undefeated King of the Tracks’.” You threw in a set of air quotes for good measure.

That earned another laugh from him, a rich sound that made something in your chest tighten – not that you’d admit it. “Yeah, I think it’s better you don’t touch my car,” he finally conceded, grinning like he’d just let you win.

As his laughter faded, you shook your head, more amused than you wanted to be. Cocky, arrogant, insufferably confident – but there was something about him. Something magnetic.

“Alright,” you replied with a playful smirk, letting the subject of his car checkup drop – for now. “I'll make sure to steer clear of your precious baby.”

Sukuna leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you like he was trying to figure something out. “You know,” he said, his voice dripping lower, more thoughtful now, “I didn't expect to find someone like you here.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious about what he meant. “Someone like me?”

His smirk softened just a fraction, turning into something more curious. “Yeah. Someone who's not impressed by the usual flashy cars and racing scene.” His gaze flickered over you, assessing. "You're different. Refreshing, even."

Sukuna's words lingered in the air, and you found yourself drawn to the genuine curiosity in his eyes. There was a playful edge to his demeanor that you couldn't ignore.

“Refreshing, huh?” you echoed as you met his gaze with a coy smile playing on your lips. “Well, I'll take that as a compliment, coming from the 'King of the Tracks' himself. I just like fixing cars and stuff.”

Sukuna lets out a low chuckle, a hint of admiration shining in his eyes. “Trust me, it's not a title I give out lightly,” he mused, voice laced with something undeniably flirtatious. “But you? You're in a league of your own.”

Rolling your eyes and waved him off. “Flattery��s cute and all, but that’s really a bold claim coming from you.” You then remembered that you brought your knapsack today and looked for it. As you see it, you pulled it out and fished around inside for your laptop.

You had plans. To study.

Technically.

Your dad had given you some actual race data to review, but instead, you booted up Stardew Valley. See, your mom had made a deal with your dad – if you studied for your upcoming final exam this week (which starts tomorrow, by the way) while you’re at the shop today, you could tag along to the race this weekend.

And in your genius brain, you figured that optimizing a fully automated farm system was basically the same as learning resource management and problem solving.

Flawless logic.

You set up shop on the counter, flipping open your laptop. The familiar pixelated graphics greeted you, and within seconds, you were deep into harvesting your cranberries, managing your sprinklers, and planning the most efficient layout for your barn upgrades and eventual greenhouse.

Sukuna, who had been watching you with mild curiosity over your abrupt attention of not remembering he’s there, suddenly leaned over your shoulder.

“The hell is that?”

You didn’t look up, too focused on getting a perfect harvest cycle before the in-game day reset. “My farm.”

He blinked. “Your what?”

“My farm, pretty boy,” you repeated, exasperated. “I need to get my wine production up and running before winter hits. This is serious business.”

There was a long pause. Then a raucous laughter.

You scowled as Sukuna actually doubled over, gripping the edge of the counter for support as he wheezed.

“Wait – wait,” he gasped between laughs, “you, the grease-covered, ‘I’d rather fix cars than race them’ mechanic, are sitting here, running a farm?”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

He snorted.

You clicked your tongue, eyes still glued to the screen. “It’s called being efficient, sweetheart. I don’t just fix cars, I build sustainable economies.” And please, your kegs weren’t gonna make themselves.

That earned you a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t peg you for a nerd.”

You finally looked up, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d give a shit about a farming sim.”

“I don’t,” he shot back. “I just find it hilarious that someone who refuses to touch a supercar has no problem running an entire pixel farm like a fucking tycoon.” He leaned in closer, tilting his head as he studied your screen. “So what, you just… plant stuff?”

“Plant, harvest, sell, reinvest,” you corrected. “It’s all about strategy.”

Sukuna narrowed his eyes at you. “That sound suspiciously like racing.”

You gave him a deadpan stare. “How in the hell is this like racing?”

He crossed his arms, clearly enjoying himself. “Think about it. You plan your route, optimize your car’s performance, anticipate obstacles, and time everything perfectly to get the best results. What’s the difference?”

“… Shit.” You blinked. He had a point. A stupidly good one. Looking back, your logic is actually flawless. Just sounded stupid coming from him. It’s actually a good thing you’re playing instead of studying those boring race data. You’re subconsciously learning how to strategize better.

Sukuna grinned, clearly reveling in the fact that he just blew your mind. “So basically, you’re a racer. Just… in a really fucking nerdy way.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Don’t make me rethink my entire existence, pretty boy.”

“Nah, I like this.” He drummed his fingers against the counter. “I show up for a routine car check, and instead, I find a grease-streaked mechanic-slash-secret gaming strategist who doesn’t give a damn about street racing but somehow thinks running a fake-ass farm is the height of excitement.”

You shot him a playful glare for that. “You say that like you’re not just as obsessed with your car.”

“Difference is,” Sukuna leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief, “I drive my baby at over 320 kilometers an hour. You just sit here clicking shit.”

You dramatically gasped, placing a hand over your heart. “How dare you insult my empire?”

His laughter was deep, amused, and annoyingly really nice to listen to. “I’ll give you credit, though. You’ve got a different way of thinking. Kinda refreshing.”

You just puffed your cheeks at this, continuing to play. And when you were at the Stardrop Saloon to talk with some of the villagers, disaster struck.

Sukuna, who is currently grinning like a damn idiot, reached over and hit a random key on your keyboard. And you accidentally gifted your one and only iridium bar to Shane.

You gasped. Audibly.

A horrified silence filled the garage.

On-screen, Shane – the absolute waste of space that he was – sneered and said, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Oh no, your precious, valuable, hard-earned iridium.

Gone. Given to Shane.

FUCK.

You snapped your head towards Sukuna with murder in your eyes. He looked between you and the screen, struggling not to laugh, “…Did I just –”

“YOU –” you pointed at him, voice audibly shaking with rage. “Do you have any idea how rare iridium is? Any idea what you just did?!”

Sukuna, looking way too entertained by your reaction, leaned against the counter, smirking down at you. “Damn, sweetheart. Didn’t think you’d get this worked up over a little farming game.”

“Little farming game,” you inhaled sharply, then exhaled like you were about to commit violence. “You’re fucking paying for this.”

He just grinned. “Yeah? What, you gonna make me till your soil? Water your plants?”

Thank heavens you were in the pantry and playing on the counter. And the knife holder was on the counter. Yep, you grab one and threw a knife at him.

Sukuna barely dodged, the fucking knife clattering onto the floor behind him. He whistled, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Shit, you’re serious.”

“DEAD serious,” you seethed. “You didn’t just give iridium bars to Shane, Sukuna.” Yeah, he definitely wasn’t expecting that the first time you’ll call him by his name was when you want him dead.

He just leaned in, still smirking. “Pretty sure I just did. Whoever that is.”

And you really, really want to strangle him. But then, he moved. One moment he was lounging against the counter like an asshole. The next, he had you trapped against it, hands braced on either side of you, effectively caging you in.

Your breath hitched, totally not expecting this one. And, please, you’re still mad.

His grin turned dangerous, voice dripping low. “You gonna make me pay, princess?”

Your brain short-circuited with how close he is right now to your face. You can practically smell his cologne and feel his heat and that smug, unbearable confidence. His words sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but look up to him (mind you, he is a tall ass handsome man).

Your fingers twitched at your sides, itching to either shove him away or – God forbid – grab onto his shirt and yank him even closer. You weren’t quire sure which impulse was stronger, but judging by the way his smirk deepened, Sukuna knew exactly the effect he was having on you.

“You gonna keep staring, sweetheart, or are you actually gonna do something about it?” His voice was all smoke and embers, teasing and taunting, like he wanted to see how far he could push you before you snapped.

And, you were this close to snapping.

Your hands shot out, fast enough that he might have flinched if he wasn’t so damn arrogant. Instead of shoving him, you grabbed the collar of his shirt. His smirk widened, but it faltered when you yanked him even closer, lips nearly brushing his ear.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” you whispered.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “Oh, I like the sound of that. And that’s exactly why it’s fun.”

a/n: i don't even know what came over me to write this story. i just know that i put everything what i love here – from a cocky Sukuna to a bratty Reader. and then there's stardew and motorsports. so i hope you'll enjoy this one lol ^^

taglist: @xylov @junitries @bloomtatsuki @maeamora9 @gojoscumslut @onlypickless @domainofmarie

#sukuna #sukuna x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #sukuna x you #jjk sukuna #au sukuna #jjk x you #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x oc #jjk x y/n

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sillygoose067 · 5 days ago

Text

Wrong Bag, Right Time

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You’re already regretting your decision to book the late-night flight by the time you step off the plane. Your brain is a thick fog, your legs are stiff, and your eyes are burning from a barely-there nap sandwiched between two chatty seatmates. The fluorescent airport lights feel like a personal attack as you shuffle through the terminal, clutching your carry-on and weaving through a sea of bleary-eyed travelers.

You follow the signs to the baggage claim, your body moving on autopilot, ears still ringing from the jet engines and the tinny airline announcements. You lean against a cool, steel column, rolling your shoulders back as you wait for the belt to start rumbling. Around you, people are already gathering, faces drawn and eyes darting every few seconds as the carousel creaks to life.

Bags start thudding onto the belt, one after another — a parade of black, navy, and occasionally neon roller bags that look like they’ve been through multiple rounds of airport roulette. You squint, eyes scanning the blur of luggage as it slowly snakes its way around the conveyor.

Your suitcase is black, a standard roller bag with a scuffed corner and a strip of faded, decorative tape around the handle — a last-minute attempt to make it easier to spot in the chaos. When you finally catch sight of it, you push through the small crowd, reaching for the handle just as a kid with a Spider-Man backpack nearly trips over his own shoes, forcing you to dodge sideways to avoid a collision.

You grab the suitcase and wrestle it off the belt, feeling the reassuring weight of your overpacked essentials as the wheels clatter onto the tile. It’s a little heavier than you remember, but then again, you crammed it full of work documents, laptop accessories, and enough backup phone chargers to power a small tech convention.

Dragging it toward the exit, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the glossy airport windows — hair mussed, eyes smudged with exhaustion, and your blouse slightly wrinkled from a restless sleep against the plane window. You sigh, mentally promising yourself a long, hot shower the second you get to your hotel.

The shuttle to the car rental lot is packed, every inch of space claimed by tourists and business travelers with the same dazed expressions you’re sure you’re wearing. You brace yourself against a pole, your suitcase tucked between your knees as the bus lurches into motion, bumping over the uneven tarmac.

By the time you reach your hotel, you’re practically running on fumes, dragging your suitcase through the lobby and into the elevator with a series of clumsy, exhausted jerks. You fish out your key card, nearly dropping it twice before you manage to swipe it through the reader and stumble into your room.

Your heels come off first, clattering to the floor with a dull thud as you toss your bag onto the bed. You flick on the bedside lamp, the warm glow instantly making the small space feel a little less sterile.

The water from the shower is scalding, and you let it beat down on your shoulders, eyes closed as the steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and making the tiles beneath your feet slick. You let yourself stand there longer than necessary, feeling the tension slowly drain from your muscles, the ache in your lower back gradually easing.

Wrapped in a thick hotel towel, you shuffle back into the main room, hair dripping onto the carpet as you flip open your suitcase, ready to dig out your comfiest, most threadbare shirt and collapse into bed.

But when you peel back the top layer of clothing, your fingers don’t hit neatly folded blouses or the sensible, corporate slacks you’d meticulously packed. Instead, you pull out a rumpled Led Zeppelin tee, its soft, well-worn fabric clearly belonging to someone who’s spent years living in it.

You blink, holding it up, the faded graphic stretching across the front like a relic from another lifetime. Confused, you dig deeper, pulling out a small mountain of band tees, a denim jacket with fraying patches sewn into the sleeves, and a battered leather notebook, its cover creased and edges worn.

Your pulse quickens as you flip through the pages, finding half-finished sketches, messy notes in looping cursive, and the occasional smudge of ink where someone clearly wrote in a hurry. There’s a faint, musky scent clinging to the pages, a mix of worn leather and old cologne.

“Wait...” you murmur, setting the notebook aside as you reach for a thick stack of papers wedged against the side of the case. It’s a printed script, the title bold at the top and someone’s lines heavily highlighted in yellow.

You glance back at the open suitcase, your mind racing, heart thudding against your ribs as you fish out a small, laminated luggage tag tangled in the zipper. It flips over in your hand, the plastic cool and slightly warped from years of travel.

“L.P.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” You sink onto the edge of the bed, the towel slipping from your shoulders as you stare at the mismatched pile of someone else’s life spread across your hotel sheets.

---

Across town, Lewis Pullman hauls his suitcase up the narrow stairwell to his apartment, one hand gripping the railing as he leans into the climb, every muscle in his legs protesting the final stretch. He fumbles for his keys, and finally shoulders his way inside, the familiar, comforting chaos of his one-bedroom coming into focus as he kicks the door shut behind him.

He toes off his boots, letting them fall wherever they land, and drags the suitcase into his cramped living room, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch. The streetlights outside cast thin, golden strips across the walls, and his refrigerator hums steadily in the otherwise silent space.

He flips open the suitcase, too tired to even think about organizing, and reaches blindly for a clean shirt. Instead, his hand lands on something stiff and sharply pressed.

Lewis frowns, pulling out a neatly folded stack of dress shirts, their collars crisp and perfectly creased. He blinks, eyebrows knitting together as he digs deeper, pulling out tailored slacks and a leather-bound planner with a small, discreet logo embossed on the corner.

“What the...” He flips the planner open, eyes skimming over tightly packed meeting notes, detailed itineraries, and a color-coded calendar that looks like the work of someone who genuinely enjoys spreadsheets.

He reaches for a thick, intimidating-looking folder marked “Confidential” in bold letters, his heart sinking further as he flips it open to reveal a stack of professionally printed documents.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He lets the folder drop onto the floor, running a hand through his already messy hair as he stares at the unfamiliar contents of what is very clearly not his suitcase.

Somewhere out there, someone is currently rifling through his tangle of band tees, scribbled notes, and, worst of all, his heavily highlighted script for a new gig he'd just scored.

---

You stare at the suitcase spread open on your hotel bed, the pile of band tees and creased notebook sitting there like a physical reminder of the chaos your life has just become. You should do something — call the airline, maybe, or at least try to figure out who this L.P. is before their missing luggage becomes your permanent problem.

But you’re exhausted. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones, turning your thoughts into molasses and making even the simplest task feel monumental.

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, rubbing your eyes and glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It’s already pushing 1 a.m., and the idea of trying to navigate a customer service call right now feels like a special kind of hell.

“Alright, fine,” you mutter to the empty room, tossing the vintage tees back into the suitcase and flipping the lid closed. You’ll deal with it in the morning, when your brain is at least somewhat functional. For now, you just need sleep.

You crawl into bed, still vaguely damp from the shower, and tug the covers up to your chin. The mattress is firmer than you’d like, the pillow a little too thin, but it doesn’t take long for the steady hum of the hotel air conditioning to lull you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

Across town, Lewis drops onto his couch, head thudding against the worn armrest as he stares up at the cracked ceiling. The folder of mysterious corporate documents is still sitting on the coffee table, its thick, embossed cover practically daring him to open it again.

He considers getting up, maybe flipping through the papers for a hint about who his mystery bag-swapping stranger might be, but the thought alone makes his eyes feel heavier. He’s not exactly equipped for a late-night detective mission right now, not with the remnants of jet lag still clinging to his brain like a wet blanket.

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles, kicking his feet up onto the armrest and letting his eyes drift shut. He’ll deal with it in the morning, when his brain isn’t actively trying to shut down.

---

The next morning comes far too quickly. You wake to the sharp, insistent chime of your phone alarm, the sound cutting through your foggy consciousness like a knife. You groan, slapping at your phone until it goes blessedly silent, and roll onto your back, staring up at the bland, popcorn-textured ceiling.

It takes a moment for the events of the previous night to come rushing back — the wrong suitcase, the unfamiliar band tees, the mysterious L.P. luggage tag. You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes and trying to shake the lingering cobwebs from your brain.

First things first: your own suitcase. You’d had the foresight to slip an Apple AirTag into one of the side pockets before your flight, a small, paranoid part of you always worrying about exactly this kind of mix-up.

You grab your phone, opening the Find My app with a flick of your thumb, but the screen just loads into a frustratingly empty map, the little green dot stubbornly refusing to show up. Too far away, probably. You grit your teeth, already regretting not springing for the upgraded model with the longer range.

You tap the call icon and put the phone to your ear, bouncing your knee as it rings.

“Thank you for calling Apple Support. Please hold while we connect you to the next available representative.”

You resist the urge to groan, your fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the hotel comforter as the tinny hold music crackles in your ear.

---

Across town, Lewis is having his own version of a chaotic morning. He’s halfway through his second cup of coffee, hair still damp from a hurried shower, as he flips through the stack of neatly printed documents that had been sitting in what he thought was his suitcase.

Every page is packed with dense, professional text — contracts, meeting agendas, and what looks like a series of legal documents with a name scrawled at the bottom in neat, looping handwriting.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, leaning back against the kitchen counter as he taps the name into his phone’s search bar.

Results flood the screen, a frustratingly long list of people with the same name scattered across LinkedIn profiles, news articles, and random blog posts. He scrolls through the first few pages, trying to find anything that might match the person he accidentally luggage-swapped with, but it’s like looking for a needle in a very, very crowded haystack.

He blows out a breath, tossing his phone onto the counter and rubbing the back of his neck. His manager is going to kill him when they find out about this. Still, he can’t exactly let a stranger hold on to his scribbled notes and half-finished script forever.

“Alright, screw it,” he says, grabbing his phone again and pulling up his manager’s contact.

“Sam, hey, I’ve got a situation,” he says as soon as the line connects, pacing a tight circle in his small kitchen. “No, it’s not like last time. I just... I might have swapped bags with someone at the airport, and I have no idea who they are, but they’ve got my script. And my stuff. All my stuff.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, the kind that usually means Sam is resisting the urge to throw his phone against the nearest wall.

“Okay,” Sam finally says, his voice a carefully measured calm. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to take the bag you’ve got and head back to the airport. There’s a decent chance the other person will do the same once they realize they’ve got the wrong bag.”

Lewis sighs, glancing at the stack of neatly folded dress shirts and leather-bound planner sitting innocently on his counter.

“Yeah, alright,” he mutters, grabbing his keys off the hook by the door. “I’m on my way.”

---

Meanwhile, your Apple Support call finally connects, a cheery voice on the other end promising to walk you through the steps to locate your missing suitcase. You glance over at the still-open bag on the bed, the crumpled script catching your eye.

Maybe it’s time to finally figure out who the hell L.P. is. You grab the thick stack of papers, flipping to the cover page and skimming the title. Your eyes widen as the name Lewis Pullman jumps out at you, the pieces suddenly falling into place.

Lewis Pullman. The actor. Bill Pullman’s son.

You stare at the script in your hands, heart thudding in your chest as the full weight of your accidental heist hits you.

“Oh, no,” you mutter, sinking back onto the bed. “What have I done?”

---

Lewis taps his fingers against the steering wheel, jaw tight as he stares at the congested freeway ahead. The morning sun glares off the windshields around him, turning the LA traffic into a slow, blinding crawl. He glances at the passenger seat, where your neatly packed suitcase sits like a silent accusation, the crisp corners and tasteful leather trim a stark contrast to the chaos he’s used to.

By the time he finally reaches LAX, the nerves in his stomach have twisted into a full-on knot. He parks and hauls the suitcase through the labyrinth of terminals, the weight of his mistake pressing down on his shoulders.

The airport is buzzing with activity, the steady thrum of engines and the chaotic clatter of luggage creating a backdrop of controlled chaos as he heads for the airline counter.

The attendant at the lost and found desk looks up, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow as Lewis approaches, his suitcase clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

“Hi, I... I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” he says, his voice coming out a little more strained than he intended. He sets your suitcase on the counter, running a hand through his hair as he tries to sound less like a sleep-deprived mess. “This isn’t mine. I’m hoping the person who has mine will come looking for theirs, too.”

The attendant nods, typing something into the computer and giving him a weary, knowing smile — the kind that says this isn’t the first time someone’s stumbled in with the wrong bag and a panicked expression.

“Just leave it here,” she says, slapping a tag on the handle and sliding it onto the cart behind her. “If the other person comes by, we’ll let them know you dropped it off.”

Lewis hesitates, fingers still wrapped around the handle, his brain fighting a ridiculous urge to hold onto the bag a little longer. He gives it a final, reluctant nudge, watching as the cart wheels it away and disappears into the maze of behind-the-scenes airport chaos.

With a deep, tired sigh, he turns and heads back to his car, hands shoved into his pockets as the sounds of the bustling terminal fade behind him.

---

Meanwhile, back in your hotel room, you’ve entered the frantic, mildly horrifying phase of a full-on internet spiral. Your laptop is balanced precariously on the edge of the bed, multiple tabs open on Lewis Pullman.

You grab your phone, pacing the small stretch of carpet between the bed and the window as you pull up his IMDb page, half-hoping there’ll be a contact button you can just click to resolve this mess. But of course, there isn’t. The closest you get is a list of his past projects and a handful of magazine interviews that all seem to paint him as the down-to-earth, quietly intense type.

Finally, after what feels like a small eternity of frantic googling, you stumble across what you think might be his manager’s number, tucked away on an obscure industry listing. You dial it, hands shaking a little as the line rings, each passing second making your pulse thud harder against your ribs.

Voicemail.

You hang up, your breath coming out in a short, frustrated huff as you toss your phone onto the bed. You’re tempted to try again, maybe leave a message this time, but something about the whole situation already feels too much like a scene from a bad rom-com, and you’re not sure you can handle the embarrassment of leaving a rambling, half-panicked voicemail for a guy you’ve never even met.

Finally, you decide to cut your losses and head back to the airport, clutching Lewis’s battered suitcase like a lifeline as you weave through the bustling lobby and make a beeline for the lost and found desk.

An attendant is sitting there, her expression unimpressed as she types away at her computer. You clear your throat, shifting your weight nervously as you set the bag on the counter.

“Hi, I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I just... I just want to leave this here, in case they come looking for it. It’s got a lot of their stuff in it, and I’m, um, really hoping mine is still somewhere in the system.”

The attendant glances at you over the top of her computer, her expression a mix of boredom and mild curiosity. She slaps a tag onto the handle of the suitcase and adds it to the same cart Lewis’s bag disappeared on earlier.

“We’ll call you if we find anything,” she says, already turning back to her screen.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you scribble your name and number on the form she slides your way. It feels weirdly final, like you’re closing the book on a strange, mildly mortifying chapter of your life.

---

A few weeks pass, and the whole suitcase fiasco slowly slips into the background noise of your daily routine — a bizarre, slightly embarrassing story you’ll probably share with friends over drinks someday.

But then, just as you’re starting to convince yourself that you’ll never see your meticulously packed suitcase again, your phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?” you say, balancing your phone against your shoulder as you fumble with your laptop.

“Hi, this is LAX Lost and Found. We’ve located your suitcase. You can come pick it up anytime this evening.”

---

You arrive at the counter a little breathless, the memory of your original suitcase still a fresh sting as you approach. But just as you step up to the desk, another figure rushes up beside you, his sneakers squeaking against the polished tile.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up my suitcase —” you both start, your voices overlapping in a messy, tangled echo.

You glance at each other, both of you wide-eyed and a little winded, and then immediately look away, the awkward tension settling like a heavy fog. He’s tall, a little scruffy around the edges, his hair tousled like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. There’s a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes, like he’s trying to place you, but then he quickly looks down, rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s suddenly aware of how tightly the air feels around you both.

The attendant rolls her eyes, bending to grab two identical suitcases from the back, her movements sharp with barely disguised exasperation.

“Here,” she says, shoving both bags onto the counter with a loud thunk. “I assume you two know which is which this time?”

You and Lewis both reach for your respective bags, pausing to double-check the scuffs and ID tags, even unzipping the top a few inches just to be sure.

When you both exhale in relief, catching each other’s eye for a split second, his mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, like he’s trying to catch the right words before they slip away.

“Uh, hey,” he starts, one hand gripping the handle of his suitcase, the other half-raised in a tentative gesture. “I, uh... just wanted to say thanks for, you know, bringing my stuff back. I know that, uh, it probably... wasn’t the most convenient thing.” He lets out a little breathy chuckle, eyes dropping to his shoes for a second. “I mean, I’m not sure what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”

You let out a small, relieved laugh, the lingering tension breaking like the first crack of a smile after a long, awkward silence.

“No, it’s fine. I... kinda panicked when I realized what I had. Almost didn’t want to touch anything, but, uh... yeah.” You bite your lip, feeling a little of the same nervous energy radiating off him.

He nods, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like he’s working up the nerve for something.

“So, uh...” he hesitates, his gaze flicking back up to yours, the corners of his mouth twitching in a hesitant, lopsided grin. “Maybe we could, I dunno, grab a coffee sometime? Or, uh, dinner, if that’s... less weird?”

You blink, a little caught off guard by the sudden offer, but the earnest, slightly flustered look on his face makes it hard not to smile.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding before you can second-guess yourself. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“Cool, cool,” he says quickly, letting out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a silent cheer. He fumbles for his phone, nearly dropping it as he tries to unlock it with one hand, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Uh, here, just... give me your number and I’ll... yeah.”

You chuckle, tapping your info into his phone as he watches, his eyes crinkling at the edges when you hand it back.

“Alright, well... I’ll text you,” he says, stepping back with a little half-wave. “Thanks again. Seriously.”

You nod, your heart doing an odd little flip as you watch him turn and weave back into the airport crowd, his suitcase rolling behind him, the wheels clattering against the polished floor.

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theonottsbxtch · 5 months ago

Text

DONT WANNA BE SAVED | MV1

an: mafia!max i DO want to be saved, please do not mix me up with the main character she's just a bit silly. also single dad!max hmu, yeah? i hope you're aware of how much googling i had to do this for request because i know NOTHING about dressage.

wc: 6.2k

The rhythmic crunch of gravel under the tyres was the only sound that cut through the quiet tension in the air. Max Verstappen drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his sharp jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to venturing into parts of town that didn’t know his name, but for his little girl, he’d do anything—even if it meant swallowing his pride and knocking on the door of a horse trainer who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The GPS barked at him, announcing the final turn. Max squinted through the windscreen at the small, unassuming ranch sprawled out in the middle of nowhere. The place looked sturdy but unpolished, a far cry from the grand estates he usually associated with trainers who were supposedly “the best.” He cut the engine and stepped out, the crisp bite of the afternoon wind tugging at the tailored lapels of his suit.

The barn doors creaked open, and she emerged.

She was nothing like he expected. For someone with a reputation of being the finest dressage instructor on this side of the country, she didn’t look the part. Her hair was loosely tied back, strands falling into her face as she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve. Her boots were scuffed, her hands calloused, and there was a streak of dirt smeared across her cheek. Yet, the confidence in the way she moved was unmistakable—deliberate, purposeful, like she could size him up in a heartbeat and decide exactly how much of her time he deserved.

Max straightened as she approached, his usual commanding air faltering under her cool, appraising gaze. “Mr Verstappen?” she asked, voice calm and low, though there was a slight arch to her brow as she clocked his expensive suit against the rustic backdrop.

“That’s right,” he replied, recovering quickly. “I called about my daughter, Stella.”

“I remember.” Her tone was unreadable as she wiped her hands on her jeans and extended one to him. He hesitated a second too long before shaking it. Firm grip. No nonsense.

“She’s serious about competing,” Max continued, trying to soften the edge in his voice. “I’ve been told you’re the best, and I don’t settle for less when it comes to her.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, almost like a smile, but not quite. “Dressage isn’t about settling or not settling,” she said. “It’s about discipline, patience, and trust. None of which can be bought.”

Max’s jaw ticked at the subtle dig, but he didn’t rise to it. He was here for Stella, not to flex his ego. “You’ll have all the resources you need,” he said instead. “Money isn’t an issue.”

Her eyes flicked to him, sharp as a blade. “Good. Because if your daughter’s going to train with me, I’m going to need more than that.” She turned abruptly, gesturing for him to follow her towards the barn. “I’ll meet Stella, and we’ll go from there. But just so we’re clear—I don’t babysit, and I don’t do miracles.”

Max trailed behind her, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. She was bold, he’d give her that. Most people were too afraid to speak to him like that. Maybe she really was the best.

His shoes crunched against the gravel as he followed her into the barn. The earthy scent of hay and leather mingled with the faint sweetness of horses, instantly grounding the space. Inside, sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting golden streaks across the straw-scattered floor. A bay mare in one of the stables tossed her head, her ears twitching at the sound of their footsteps.

She leaned against the edge of the stall, absently running her fingers along the edge of the wood. “How old is Stella?” she asked, her voice carrying the clipped efficiency of someone who didn’t waste time on niceties.

“Nine,” Max said, stepping closer. “She’s ridden before, but it’s always been a hobby. Now, she’s ready to take it seriously.”

“Is she?” she asked, glancing at him.

Max frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, is she ready? Or are you?” She crossed her arms, leaning her weight casually against the stable door.

His nostrils flared, but he bit back his instinctive retort. People didn’t question him—not in his world. But this was different. For Stella, he’d let his temper take a back seat. “Stella’s the one who asked. She’s determined, and I support her in whatever she wants.”

For the first time, her expression softened, just slightly. “Good. A lot of parents want this more than the kids. It shows in the way they push them, and that pressure never works. Horses aren’t machines. They pick up on that tension, and it ruins the trust.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure he liked being lectured. “Trust, discipline, patience,” he said, his voice taking on a dry edge. “I got it.”

Her lips twitched again, and this time he was certain it was a smile, however faint. “You don’t strike me as the patient type.”

Max chuckled, low and sharp. “You’d be surprised. I know when to wait. I also know when to act.”

Something flickered in her gaze at that, but she didn’t let it linger. Instead, she straightened and pushed open the stable door, letting the mare step out. The horse was sleek and graceful, her muscles shifting smoothly under her polished coat.

“This is Luna,” she said, patting the mare’s neck. “She’s my best. If Stella wants to learn, she’ll start with her.”

“Stella doesn’t have her own horse yet,” Max admitted, studying the animal.

“Good. That makes it easier. Luna’s a good judge of character. If Stella’s nervous, Luna will know. And if Luna doesn’t trust her...” She shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.

Max raised an eyebrow. “What happens then?”

“She doesn’t ride,” she said simply.

He appreciated her bluntness, even if it grated at him. She wasn’t someone he could charm or intimidate, and oddly, that made him more intrigued.

As if sensing his thoughts, she brushed past him, leading Luna to a bridle rack. “Bring Stella by tomorrow. I’ll see what we’re working with.”

“And what about you?” Max asked, his voice dropping slightly, almost testing.

She turned, brow furrowing. “What about me?”

“You seem to have high expectations,” he said. “If Stella’s the one being judged, does that mean you’ve already made up your mind about me?”

Her gaze lingered on him, steady and unflinching. “You’re not the one I’m here to teach, Mr Verstappen. But if you’re asking...” She paused, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “I’ve met plenty of men like you. You don’t scare me.”

Max tilted his head, his mouth pulling into a slow, deliberate grin. “Plenty of men like me? Somehow, I doubt that.”

The month following his first meeting with her passed in a blur of early mornings, long afternoons, and the kind of quiet determination that Max had to admit impressed him. Stella had taken to the training better than he could have hoped, and her instructor—well, she’d more than lived up to her reputation.

She was tough but fair, demanding excellence without suffocating his daughter’s enthusiasm. Max had watched every session from the sidelines, arms crossed, keeping a respectful distance but always observing. And more than once, he found his attention drifting—not to Stella, but to her instructor.

There was something about her. A kind of grit that didn’t falter, even when she was teaching patience to a headstrong nine-year-old. Her quiet confidence didn’t demand attention; it commanded it. Max had seen plenty of people fake authority, but she wore it like second skin.

He liked that.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to see her a month later, in a completely different world.

The pounding bass hit him first, reverberating through his chest as he pushed through the crowd. The club was dimly lit, alive with movement—people dancing, drinks clinking, laughter rising over the music. It wasn’t his usual scene, but a meeting had brought him here, one of those backroom negotiations that needed the anonymity of chaos.

He’d wrapped up the deal without trouble, but as he made his way back to the main floor, something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.

There she was, behind the bar.

Her hair was down, loose waves brushing her shoulders, and she wasn’t in scuffed boots or faded jeans anymore. Instead, she wore a fitted black top and a skater skirt, a thin chain glinting at her neck under the neon lights. She moved with an easy rhythm, pouring drinks and flashing quick smiles to the patrons leaning against the bar.

For a moment, Max thought he’d imagined it. But then she turned slightly, catching his profile out of the corner of her eye, and froze.

Her eyes widened for just a second—barely noticeable—but enough for him to catch it. She recovered quickly, though, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow as if to say, What are you doing here?

Max didn’t answer her unspoken question. Instead, he made his way to the bar, sliding between two drunken men slouched over their cocktails. He rested his elbows on the polished surface, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

“Mr Verstappen,” she said finally, leaning forward slightly. Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of something else in her expression—annoyance, maybe, or surprise. “Didn’t think this was your kind of place.”

“It’s not,” he admitted, letting his eyes roam the bottles behind her before settling back on her face. “But it seems I’m full of surprises tonight.”

She snorted softly, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. She placed it in front of him, her smirk sharp. “You look like you need this more than a whiskey.”

Max chuckled, low and rough. “Not here for a drink. Just curious.” He tilted his head, studying her. “Didn’t peg you for the nightlife type.”

“Didn’t think you were paying that much attention,” she shot back, wiping her hands on a bar towel.

“More than you realise,” Max murmured. He wasn’t sure if she caught the softness in his tone over the thumping music, but her eyes narrowed slightly, her posture stiffening.

“I could say the same about you,” she replied, shifting her weight. “What’s the boss of half the city doing in a place like this?”

“Business,” he said simply, straightening. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

She leaned closer, resting her hands on the bar. “You’re full of questions tonight, aren’t you?”

“Just one.” His voice dipped, his gaze unwavering. “Why are you here?”

She rolled her eyes, breaking the tension with a dry laugh. “It’s called having bills to pay, Verstappen. Not all of us have cash to burn. This keeps the lights on when teaching doesn’t.”

Max didn’t miss the edge to her words, and he wondered, not for the first time, just how much she kept buried beneath that sharp exterior. She didn’t need saving—that much was obvious—but the thought of her working this job, with the late hours and the leering patrons, stirred something primal in him.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Long enough,” she said, shrugging. “And I’m good at it. Don’t look so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked.” He paused, letting the moment hang between them. “But I’m not exactly thrilled, either.”

Her expression hardened slightly, and she straightened, putting more distance between them. “Don’t start with that ‘I know what’s best’ routine. I get enough of that already.”

Max raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. “No routine. Just... noticing things.”

“Noticed enough, then?” she asked, turning away to serve another customer.

For the first time in a long time, Max found himself on uneven ground. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed, frustrated, or just intrigued. But one thing was certain: she had a way of staying in his head, and it was starting to feel less like an annoyance and more like an inevitability.

As she moved down the bar, he lingered, watching her work. No, she didn’t need saving. But the urge to shield her from this world, to pull her away from the late nights and the reckless strangers, was already starting to claw its way to the surface.

And Max Verstappen wasn’t the kind of man to ignore an instinct like that.

For weeks after the encounter at the club, Max couldn’t shake the image of her behind the bar. It wasn’t just the stark contrast to her usual self—confident, commanding, utterly at home in the arena—but the way it gnawed at something deep inside him.

She didn’t belong in that place, surrounded by cheap cologne and drunken hands reaching for more than drinks. The thought of her dealing with that night after night twisted in his gut like a blade.

It wasn’t just about Stella anymore. He’d grown to respect her over the past month—the way she pushed his daughter without breaking her spirit, the way she handled herself with a quiet strength that most people in his world didn’t have.

That respect, though, was starting to blur into something more. And Max wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He finally brought it up on a crisp Friday morning, just after Stella’s session. The three of them stood by the paddock, Luna grazing lazily a few feet away. Stella was laughing at something, her cheeks flushed from the chill and the effort she’d put into the lesson. Max felt a swell of pride watching her, but his gaze kept drifting back to her instructor.

When Stella wandered off to grab a snack from the car, he seized the moment.

“You’ve been doing good work with her,” he began, his voice low and steady.

She gave him a side glance, adjusting the bridle she was holding. “Thanks.”

“You know,” he continued, his tone carefully casual, “I’ve been thinking about your rate.”

Her hands froze for a split second before she turned to face him fully. “My rate?”

He nodded. “You’re worth more than what I’m paying you. A lot more. I’d like to fix that.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring immediately. “Fix it, huh?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’re not charging enough for the kind of work you do. I’m doubling it.”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “And what’s this really about, Max? Feeling generous all of a sudden?”

“It’s not generosity,” he said, his jaw tightening. “It’s fairness.”

Her laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Fairness. Right. Is that what you call pity now?”

His brows shot up. “Pity? You think I pity you?”

“What else am I supposed to think? You see me working a second job and suddenly decide to play knight in shining armour?” She shook her head, a hard edge to her voice. “Keep your money, Verstappen. I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity!” His voice rose slightly, and she blinked at the rare flash of frustration. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Is it a sin,” he said, his voice quieter now, “that I want to make sure you’ve got a roof over your head?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed and leaned against the paddock fence. “You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it,” she muttered.

“What do you want from me?” Max asked, spreading his hands. “You work yourself to the bone here, and then you go to that—” He stopped himself, his voice tight. “That place. And you think I’m just supposed to ignore it? Pretend I don’t care?”

Her lips quirked into a smirk, though there was little humour in it. “Careful, Max. You’re starting to sound like a softie.”

He barked a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re raising a nine-year-old daughter on your own. And her closest friends are her unofficial uncles in the mafia.”

Her brows shot up, and for a moment, her lips twitched like she was fighting the urge to laugh. “That right?”

“That’s right,” he said, his tone lighter now, but his eyes still serious. “And maybe I don’t want to see someone else I—” He stopped, catching himself before he said too much. “Someone I respect running herself ragged.”

She studied him, her gaze softer now, but still guarded. “Max, I’m fine. Really. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, and I don’t need anyone swooping in to do it for me.”

“I know you don’t need it,” he said quietly. “But maybe I need to do it anyway.”

The honesty in his voice left her momentarily speechless. She glanced away, focusing on the horizon. “You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Maybe,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But I don’t give up easily. Ask Stella.”

“Trust me, I’ve noticed,” she said, shaking her head. “Fine. If you’re so desperate to throw your money around, I’ll let you pay me more. But only because you’ll keep bugging me if I don’t.”

“That’s probably true,” he said with a shrug.

“But,” she added, pointing a finger at him, “if you start thinking this means I owe you something, I will kick you off this property.”

Max grinned, the tension between them easing slightly. “Noted.”

For now, it was enough. But as she walked away, her shoulders straight and her head held high, Max couldn’t help but think that his concern for her was starting to go beyond what he could justify as simple admiration.

And that thought both thrilled and terrified him.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it started happening—the subtle shift from guarded respect to something warmer, more playful. At first, he’d chalked it up to her stubborn streak. She never missed an opportunity to challenge him, whether it was a pointed remark about his suit and tie being out of place at the barn or her light jabs at his overprotective tendencies.

But as the weeks went on, those jabs started to feel less like walls and more like invitations.

It began innocently enough. One morning, Max showed up to Stella’s session with two coffees in hand—one black, the way he liked it, and one sweet and milky, based on an educated guess.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her as she adjusted a saddle.

She glanced at the cup and then back at him, one eyebrow raised. “What’s this?”

“Coffee,” he replied dryly.

Her lips twitched. “I can see that. What I mean is, why are you giving it to me?”

“Because it’s cold, and I’m not completely heartless,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She took the cup, sniffed it cautiously, then sipped. Her eyes lit up for a brief second before narrowing. “Let me guess—someone else made this choice for you, didn’t they? No way you guessed right on your own.”

He grinned. “You caught me. Stella might have mentioned you have a sweet tooth.”

“Mm-hmm.” She set the cup on a nearby ledge, her expression neutral. “Thanks, Verstappen. I’ll try not to read too much into it.”

“You do that,” he said, but his smirk lingered for the rest of the morning.

It was then a Wednesday afternoon, and Max had just arrived at the barn when he caught her pulling a boot from a deep puddle of mud.

“You look like you’re having fun,” he said, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed.

She shot him a look, her nose scrunching. “Don’t start. This is your daughter’s fault, by the way. She decided Luna needed a little adventure off the trail.”

“She’s nine,” Max said, his tone mock-defensive. “You can’t hold her responsible for everything.”

She stomped her now-filthy boot back into place and gave him a pointed once-over. “No, but I can hold you responsible. You’re the one who raised her.”

Max laughed, loud and genuine, and it startled her for a second. She recovered quickly, shaking her head as she brushed past him. “You’re lucky I like Stella.”

“Lucky, huh?” he called after her. “I’ll take that as a win.”

The following week Max was standing at the edge of the paddock, watching Stella trot a clean figure-eight, when he felt her step up beside him.

“She’s getting better,” she said, her voice low and even.

“She’s got a good teacher,” Max replied, not looking away from the horse and rider.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her roll her eyes. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Verstappen.”

“Wasn’t trying to flatter,” he said, turning to face her fully. “Just stating facts.”

She squinted at him, clearly suspicious. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“Maybe,” he said, his smirk returning. “Or maybe it’s just that you’re finally starting to warm up to me.”

She snorted. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But her lips curved into a reluctant smile, and Max couldn’t help but feel like he’d scored a small victory.

By the fourth week, the playful banter had become a regular part of their routine. It was after Stella’s lesson, with the late afternoon sun casting golden light over the barn, that Max finally decided to push the boundary just a little further.

“So,” he said casually, leaning against the fence as she packed away the gear. “What do you do for fun? When you’re not working two jobs and pretending you don’t like my coffee.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Why do you care?”

“Call it curiosity,” he said, shrugging. “Or maybe I’m trying to figure out if you’re even capable of fun.”

She laughed, tossing a saddle pad into the tack room. “I’m plenty capable, thank you very much. I just don’t have a lot of time for it.”

“That’s a shame,” Max said, his voice dropping slightly. “Maybe you should make time.”

She paused, turning to face him fully. Her expression was wary, but there was a flicker of something else—something that made his pulse quicken. “And what would I do with all this hypothetical free time?”

“Well,” he said, stepping closer, his tone careful but deliberate, “you could start by letting me buy you dinner.”

Her eyes widened, just a fraction, before she masked her surprise with a smirk. “Dinner, huh? Is this another one of your attempts to ‘make sure I’ve got a roof over my head’?”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “No. This is me asking you to spend time with me. No strings, no pity money. Just dinner.”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the bridle she’d been holding. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his voice softening. “Unless, of course, you’re too scared.”

That did it. Her chin lifted, and her smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “Scared? Of you? Not likely.”

“Good,” Max said, his own smile widening. “How about Friday night?”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Alright, Verstappen. You’ve got yourself a deal. But don’t think this means I’m going easy on Stella.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his chest lighter than it had been in weeks.

As she turned to finish her work, Max couldn’t help but feel like he’d just won the most important negotiation of his life.

Leading up to that Friday night, Max had been on edge all day, and he didn’t know why.

Everything had been going smoothly—Stella’s training, his business, even his tentative plans for dinner. But there was a gnawing unease in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t shake. He’d checked his phone more times than he cared to admit, waiting for a text from her confirming their meeting, but the screen stayed stubbornly blank.

By the time the sun started setting, his patience ran out. Max grabbed his keys and headed for his car, his gut screaming at him to go now.

When he pulled up outside her small cottage, the sight of her truck with its tailgate open and half-packed belongings hit him like a punch to the chest.

He stepped out of the car, his brows furrowing as he called out, “What’s going on?”

She looked up sharply, startled. For a split second, he saw something in her eyes—panic, maybe, or guilt—but she masked it quickly, busying herself with stuffing a duffel bag into the truck bed.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice tight. “Just... handling some stuff.”

Max crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, his tone sharp. “Don’t lie to me. What’s going on?”

“I’m not lying,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It’s none of your business, Max.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” he shot back, grabbing the edge of the truck bed. “We had plans tonight, and now I find you packing up your life like you’re running from something. Talk to me.”

She let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through her hair. “Look, it’s complicated, alright? I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You might not,” Max said, his voice lowering, “but I’m not leaving until you give me one.”

For a moment, she stood there, glaring at him like she was debating whether to push him away or tell him to mind his own business. But then something in her resolve cracked.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You want to know? I screwed up when I was younger. Got mixed up with the wrong people—the Tifosi. And now they’ve decided it’s payback time.”

The name hit Max like a freight train. The Tifosi were no joke. Ruthless, calculating, and vindictive, they didn’t let debts slide, no matter how old.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and concern.

“Because it’s not your problem,” she said, her tone sharp. “I don’t need you swooping in to play hero, Max. I’ve handled worse.”

“That’s not the point!” His voice rose, frustration bleeding into his words. “You should’ve told me. I could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “Fixed it? Made it all go away? Newsflash, Verstappen: not everything is yours to control. I don’t need to be saved!”

Max’s jaw clenched as her words sank in. He took a step back, his hands gripping the edge of the truck bed so tightly his knuckles turned white. Then, without a word, he grabbed the duffel bag she’d just loaded and yanked it back out.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, her voice rising.

“You’re not running,” he said firmly, throwing the bag into the back of his car. “You’re coming with me.”

“The hell I am!” She stepped forward, trying to grab the bag, but Max blocked her, his voice like steel.

“Yes, you are. My daughter needs an instructor, and I’m not letting her down because of some silly little debt.”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief, anger flashing across her face. “Silly little debt? Are you out of your mind? You know who they are!”

“I do,” Max said, his tone calm but unyielding. “And I know how to deal with them.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand plenty,” he cut her off, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one who’s had the Tifosi breathing down their neck? You think I don’t know what it’s like to owe them?”

Her eyes widened, her anger faltering for the first time.

“I’ve dealt with them before,” Max continued, his voice softer now but no less determined. “And I’m still standing. You don’t have to do this alone.”

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to process his words. Finally, she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers, “I don’t let people I care about get crushed by this life. And whether you like it or not, I care about you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Then she turned away, her shoulders tense. “Max, this is a mistake. You don’t need to get involved.”

“It’s not a mistake,” he said firmly. “And you’re coming with me, whether you like it or not. End of discussion.”

Before she could argue, he grabbed the rest of her bags, loading them into his car with a finality that left no room for debate.

She stood there, torn between fury and something she didn’t want to name, as Max closed the trunk and opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said, his voice steady but not unkind.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, with a resigned sigh, she walked toward the car and slid into the passenger seat.

As Max got behind the wheel, he glanced at her, his expression softening just enough to show her he meant what he’d said.

“You’re not alone in this,” he murmured.

She didn’t respond, but the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly told him she’d heard him loud and clear.

The ride back to Max’s estate was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires. She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Max glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to say something, to fill the tense quiet with words that might reassure her, but he knew better. She wasn’t the type to be soothed by platitudes, and besides, she’d made it clear she didn’t want his help.

Too bad, he thought grimly. She was getting it whether she wanted it or not.

When they pulled into his driveway, the sprawling estate loomed in the moonlight, its imposing structure a sharp contrast to her modest cottage. Max stepped out of the car and rounded to the trunk without a word, hauling her bags out with practiced ease.

“Where’s the rest?” he asked as she stepped out of the car.

“The rest of what?” she said, her tone clipped.

“Your horses.”

She blinked, taken aback. “They’re still at the barn. I wasn’t planning on leaving them.”

Max pulled his phone from his pocket, already dialling. “They’ll be here by morning.”

“Wait—what?” she sputtered, her voice rising. “You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He spoke briefly into the phone, his words curt and to the point. When he hung up, he turned back to her, his expression calm but firm. “They’ll be transported safely. You’ll have stalls for them here.”

She stared at him, her frustration clear. “You don’t get to make decisions for me, Max.”

He shrugged, hefting one of her bags onto his shoulder. “I just did.”

The house was quiet as they entered, the kind of silence that spoke of thick walls and careful security. Max led her through the spacious halls, his steps sure and unhurried despite the tension in the air.

He stopped at a door on the second floor and pushed it open, revealing a neatly furnished room with warm, neutral tones.

“This is yours,” he said, setting her bags down near the bed.

She glanced around, taking in the plush rug, the antique dresser, and the large window overlooking the grounds. “It’s... nice,” she admitted reluctantly.

“It’ll do,” he said with a faint smirk.

He gestured for her to follow him down the hall, stopping at another door. This time, he knocked lightly before opening it.

Stella’s room was a whirlwind of bright colours and cheerful chaos. Posters of horses adorned the walls, and the bed was covered in a tangle of blankets and stuffed animals.

Stella looked up from where she was brushing her hair, her face lighting up when she saw her instructor. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, bounding over. “Are you having a sleepover?!”

She laughed softly, some of the tension easing from her posture. “Something like that, kiddo.”

“This is so cool!” Stella said, practically vibrating with excitement. “Wait till I tell Uncle Oz—oh, can Uncle Ozzy meet you in the morning? She’ll be so happy!”

Max chuckled, ruffling Stella’s hair. “Alright, alright. You can tell Oscar in the morning. Let her rest she’s just got here. And if anything happens, you call Uncle Lan. Got it?”

Stella nodded solemnly, her big eyes darting between her father and her instructor. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just for a bit,” Max said, his voice gentle.

She pouted but didn’t argue, which made Max’s heart twist a little. He glanced at her instructor, who was watching the exchange with a quiet intensity.

When they stepped back into the hallway, she turned to him, arms crossed. “Where are you going?”

“Business,” he said simply, heading toward the stairs.

She followed him, her tone sharp. “You mean the Tifosi.”

Max paused, turning to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held an edge of steel. “I said I’d handle it.”

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” he said firmly. “They made it my business the second they came after you.”

She stared at him, her emotions warring between gratitude and frustration. Finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Max’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “I’ve been told.”

And with that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the grand staircase as she stood there, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and something she couldn’t quite name.

The clock read just past midnight as Max pulled into the driveway, the quiet rumble of his car breaking the stillness of the night. The meeting with the Tifosi had gone as expected—tense, with more threats than he cared to count—but he’d made his position clear. They wouldn’t touch her. Not if they wanted to keep breathing.

He stepped inside the house, letting out a breath as the familiar warmth of home washed over him. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he moved through the quiet halls. When he reached the living room, the sight before him stopped him in his tracks.

There they were: his daughter curled up on the sofa, her small frame nestled against the armrest, and next to her, her instructor. The TV flickered softly, showing clips of a younger, brighter version of the woman beside his daughter.

He stood there for a moment, watching as the faint strains of applause and commentary played from the screen. The sight of her expertly guiding a horse through intricate dressage routines stirred something in him. But it was the way she slept now, her head tilted back, her features softened in the glow of the TV, that made his chest ache.

Max stepped closer, careful not to wake them. Stella’s head rested against the woman’s arm, her little hand clutching a stuffed horse. Max smiled faintly, his heart swelling as he reached down to scoop his daughter up.

Stella stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again. “Daddy?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Shh,” Max whispered, kissing her temple. “Just putting you to bed, sweetheart.”

She sighed contentedly, already slipping back into sleep as he carried her upstairs. After tucking her in, he noticed her water bottle was empty and picked it up to fill it in the kitchen.

When Max made his way to the kitchen, he found Lando leaning against the counter, tidying up a canister of cocoa powder.

“Lando?” Max said, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

Lando turned, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Emergency call.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

“Your kid called me in a panic because you’re apparently out of hot chocolate powder. Thought the world was ending.” Lando chuckled, placing the canister in its rightful spot. “I brought some over, but they knocked out before I could even make it.”

Max let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Lando waved a hand dismissively. “No big deal. I live for the drama. Besides, it’s Stella. She’s got me wrapped around her finger.”

Max smiled, grateful for his friend’s unwavering presence. “Get home. You’ve done enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando said, grabbing his coat. “Good luck with her, though.” He gestured vaguely toward the living room with a knowing look before heading out.

Filling up the water bottle and putting it back in its place Max returned to the living room, finding her still sound asleep on the sofa. The TV had switched to a dim, idle screen, and her breathing was soft and even.

He crouched down beside her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. For someone so fierce and guarded, she looked almost fragile like this. Vulnerable.

Without a second thought, he slipped his arms under her, lifting her gently. She stirred, her head naturally finding its place against his chest.

“Max?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“It’s me,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into him. “Thank you,” she whispered, barely audible.

His heart twisted at the simple words, and he tightened his hold on her instinctively.

“Always,” he said softly, carrying her upstairs.

When he reached his room, he laid her down carefully on the bed, pulling the blankets over her. She murmured something incoherent, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Max stood there for a moment, watching her as she drifted back into deep sleep. The weight of the night’s events pressed on him, but so did the warmth of knowing she was safe, here in his home, with his family.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like he wasn’t just protecting someone—it felt like he was building something

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday

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