#the engine rumbles - threads

[breathing-neon]

CLOSED STARTER

@sparklytimebun

Everything is just a little too loud today, the lights a little to bright. Saying Briar was a little overwhelmed was an understatement. There were a lot of things clogging his mind right now, but the most pressing thing at the current moment was how damn crowded this bubble tea place was at this moment of time.

They had come here for a small little treat for themselves with some of the spare yen they had, and to hopefully maybe get some studying in, but there were so many people that he was finding it a little hard to actually relax. They currently had their head resting on the table, nestled neatly in their folded arms and trying not to actually start crying from how overwhelmed they were, their cane leaning against their legs to keep it tucked out of the way.

Every once and a while, they would reach up to grab their cup, tucking it under their chest to get a drink of the boba without having to lift their head, before placing it back onto the table. He idly listened out at the people walking around him, ears twitching, just in case someone approached him. As much as he didn't want to talk to anyone he wasn't going to be rude, though he really hoped he'd be left be.

Unfortunately, it seems they're going to need to be social soon, the cafe IS pretty crowded...

[pucksandpower]

Just Not Home

Lewis Hamilton x race engineer!Reader

Summary: and I can go anywhere I want … anywhere I want, just not home

The Bahrain sun hovers low over the paddock, stretching long shadows across the asphalt. It’s the first day of preseason testing, and everything feels like a half-forgotten memory — almost familiar, but not quite.

Lewis stands by the Ferrari garage, his arms crossed over the crimson of his new uniform. The Prancing Horse on his chest gleams under the fluorescent lights, a betrayal written in gold thread. He looks down at his phone, scrolling idly, but you know it’s an act. He’s waiting.

So are you.

The Mercedes garage hums around you with the buzz of drills and the low rumble of the cars firing up. It’s your world. It’s been your world for over a decade. But not his anymore. Not after last season.

And then you see him.

He looks up at just the right — or wrong — moment. His gaze locks with yours, and for a second, everything around you dissolves into static. There’s no garage, no engineers, no cars. Just you and him, separated by too many steps and too much history.

You hesitate, then force your feet to move, weaving through the pit lane toward him. He doesn’t look away.

“Didn’t think you’d come over,” Lewis says when you’re close enough to hear. His voice is steady, calm, but his eyes betray him. They’re searching your face like they haven’t seen it a thousand times before.

“Didn’t think you’d want me to,” you reply.

He exhales sharply, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I always want you to.”

It’s too much, too soon. You look down, focusing on the grease smudges on your hands. “How’s it feel? Being in red.”

Lewis glances down at his suit as if he hasn’t already spent hours adjusting to the unfamiliar color. “Strange. Feels like wearing someone else’s skin.”

You nod, unsure of what to say. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, until he breaks it.

“Do you hate me?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“For leaving,” he clarifies. His tone is too casual, like he’s trying to keep it from hurting, but you know him too well. “Do you hate me for going to Ferrari?”

You laugh, short and humorless. “Hate you? No, Lewis. I don’t hate you. I just-” You pause, searching for the right words. “I don’t know what I feel. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” he repeats, rolling the word around like it tastes bitter. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

There’s another pause, filled with the distant roar of an engine.

“I miss you,” he says, quietly, like it’s a confession.

You look at him, really look at him. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, but his eyes — those damn eyes — are soft and full of something you can’t name.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that. Not here. Not now.”

“Why not?” He steps closer, closing the already narrow gap between you. “Why can’t I say it? It’s true.”

“Because it doesn’t change anything!” Your voice rises, drawing the attention of a few passing mechanics. You lower it again, swallowing hard. “It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and I’m there, and that’s how it’s going to be.”

“I didn’t want to leave,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly on the last word. “You think I wanted this?”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I had to.”

The words hang between you, heavy and unspoken for far too long.

“Had to?” You echo, your tone sharp. “No one made you, Lewis. No one put a gun to your head.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Bullshit.”

He flinches, just barely, and you immediately regret the harshness. But you don’t take it back.

“You could’ve stayed,” you continue, your voice trembling now. “You could’ve stayed, and we-” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “But you didn’t. You chose this. You chose them.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to walk away. But then he speaks, his voice low and raw.

“You think I wanted to leave the team? Leave you? I didn’t. But I don’t know. It’s like …” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now I can go anywhere I want. Anywhere. Just not-”

“Home,” you finish for him, and the word tastes bitter.

His eyes snap to yours, and there’s something raw there, something you’re not sure you’re ready to face. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just not home.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s too much, too honest, and you don’t know how to respond.

“Why are you telling me this now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I need you to know.” He looks at you, his eyes pleading. “I need you to know that it wasn’t about leaving you. It was about finding ... I don’t know. Something I’ve been chasing my whole life. But it’s not here either. I thought it would be, but it’s not.”

“Lewis,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks on the word. “I’m so sorry. For leaving. For not telling you sooner. For everything.”

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but it doesn’t help. His words are everywhere, wrapping around you like a net you can’t escape.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you admit.

“I don’t want you to say anything,” he replies. “I just ... I just wanted you to know.”

The silence between you is deafening, filled with all the things neither of you can say.

Finally, you look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you see it. The weight he’s been carrying, the regret etched into every line of his face.

“I don’t hate you,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods, swallowing hard. “I know.”

And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, you both step back. The gap between you widens, filling with everything that could have been and never will be.

“Good luck this season,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

“You too,” he replies.

And just like that, it’s over. You turn and walk back to the Mercedes garage, each step heavier than the last. You don’t look back.

Neither does he.

[paarksunghoon]

DEEP HONEY | SUNGHOON

SUMMARY: the last thing you want to do is interrupt sunghoon’s time with his friends, but your doting boyfriend has always said he’ll be there whenever you need him. when a shift at work leaves you hanging by a thread, he and his friends are there to patch your soul back up.

NOTES: felt some type of way and naturally i need a hug from sunghoon. best i can do is write about it.

PAIRING: sunghoon x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.6K

WARNINGS: angst, typical rough day stuff and typos, probably.

MASTERLIST

***

Your car comes to a complete halt when you situate yourself on the curb of Lee Heeseung’s apartment. The rumble of the pavement beneath your tires ceases to amplify the slight movement that naturally shakes your car seats and you sit in the driver’s side like you’re a zombie.

The muggy atmosphere from the heat attempting to displace the freezing air makes your skin feel sticky and gross as you turn your engine off. The overhead lights temporarily blind you as you stare ahead into the dark night and feel the tension building up in your body.

Your jaw clenches and your cheeks become warm with the sheer amount of frustration seeping into your bones. The cold sweat you harbor makes you feel hot and freezing at the same time. The coolness of your glass window does nothing to quell your body’s temperature.

The familiar two-story house beside you is where Heeseung lives. He rents the bottom property and has lived with Park Jongseong ever since you all collectively started the last year of university.

You don’t necessarily want to be here. Coming to Heeseung’s apartment because you feel like you might combust at any minute seems like an invasion of privacy. Your boyfriend Sunghoon had let you know that he was sleeping over at his friends’ apartment tonight and you had no qualms with the proposition. He deserved to have his time with his friends too. Although it seems that your mind has its own agenda and you find yourself in front of Heeseung’s place in no time.

You step out of the car and lock it. Your feet carry you around the hood and you step onto the hard sidewalk with a slight wobble. The air is chilling, throwing a stark shiver down your spine as you huddle in your arms for warmth. The jacket you have sprawled on the backseat looks at you with concern.

You’re a step away from ringing the doorbell but your finger hovers the white button as tears well up in your eyes. The feeling of desperation and burden weigh on your chest as you listen to the muffled laughter that comes from Heeseung’s living room. Sunghoon hadn’t seen his friends in a few weeks between classes, work, and you. The last thing you want to do is impede on his time with his friends when you’ve spent the better half of this month glued to his side.

But you can’t help it. Your nose feels like it could be burning from the cold and the weather forces you to ring Heeseung’s doorbell when it ripples through your shirt. You hear him padding to the front door and can make out his figure from the bottom, his shadow blocking the light from inside.

Heeseung opens it just slightly ajar to assess who’s standing outside his apartment at this late hour. When he opens it, seeing you standing in the cold with red eyes and no jacket makes him panic.

“Y/N?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

You think he might close the door with the look of confusion on his face but he opens it wider to allow you into his apartment. He shuts it quickly behind him and notices your chattering teeth, eyes softening at the sound when you look up at him. Heeseung watches your eyes begin to water and puts a hand on your upper back to soothe your emotions, but it makes you spill a few tears.

“I-I’m sorry for coming here,” you hiccup. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay, Y/N. You can always come over if you need something.”

You speak faster than you can think. “Today was so awful.”

Heeseung purses his lips and tells you to stay put. You watch him retreat into the living room and stare at the wall clock in front of you until you hear Heeseung say, “Hoon, your girl’s here.”

Sunghoon hears the worry in his friend’s voice because he stands up from the couch like he’s on a mission. With his eyebrows furrowed and heart beating in his chest, Sunghoon follows Heeseung to the front door and is immediately presented with you.

You look nothing like the happy-go-lucky girlfriend he said goodbye to before heading over to Heeseung’s. This morning, you’d woken up next to Sunghoon and he’d given you a tender kiss before heading to spend the day with his friends. Now, your eyes are swollen and your cheeks are stained with salty tears.

His heart plummets when he sees you standing in Heeseung’s doorway with no jacket on. You look helpless in a way he doesn’t see very often. Your knees buckle in your pants and the goosebumps on your arms are prominent to his eye.

Sunghoon wastes no time and envelopes you in a hug, pulling you into his chest until your face is situated in his neck.

“Baby?” he asks, feeling your hot breaths against his skin. “Talk to me. What happened? You’re so cold. Where’s your jacket? Did you bring one?”

His deep, honey-like voice that utter sweet concern only makes you cry harder. You try to keep your chokes and sobs as quiet as possible but the hiccups emitting from your throat make it impossible. You try to ignore the fact that Sunghoon’s friends can likely hear you weeping, instead focusing on your boyfriend’s warmth.

His arms encircle your body, one hand protectively around your waist and the other secured behind you. Sunghoon’s hands cup the back of your head and he strokes his fingers through your head lovingly.

“I had a bad day.” Your broken whispers makes Sunghoon’s heart sink even further. He pushes your hair out of the way and kisses your temple with plump lips.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Rethinking the events that led to your arrival at Heeseung’s place only fuels your tears and you shut your eyes, burying yourself further into your boyfriend’s neck.

Heeseung, helplessly standing around the corner, walks closer to tell him the two of you could use his bedroom. Sunghoon rubs the small of your back and slowly walks towards the room, guiding you inside without so much as a word spoken. Heeseung closes the door behind you two and Sunghoon immediately perches the two of you on the edge of his bed.

“My baby.” Sunghoon lifts your head and pushes the tears underneath your eyes away with the pads of his thumbs. “What’s got you upset, hm? Are you hurt?”

“No,” you choke. “I’m not hurt.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Sunghoon pulls you into his chest and further onto Heeseung’s bed when you give into him. He lets you cry against him, not caring that his shirt is becoming damp as the seconds pass by. His palm soothes the entirety of your back and he kisses the crown of your head, periodically squeezing you tighter when his heart breaks at the sound of your sobs.

“Life is so hard,” you say into his chest. “I feel overwhelmed and scared.”

“Scared of what, baby?”

“I don’t know. Everything? I had the worst shift at work today. A customer ordered a hot coffee but I made it iced by accident and instead of letting me remake it for her, she involved my manager and was making a scene in front of everybody there.”

“I’m sorry.” Sunghoon whispers against your temple and kisses it again. “That’s frustrating.”

“My manager tried to get her to leave but she was pushy. Usually I could handle that but I’m overwhelmed with school and my senior project that I just broke down when the manager sent me home.”

“Your manager doesn’t think you’re at fault, right?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Nothing like that. He said I looked like I needed some rest and told me to take the rest of the night off.”

“Thank God.” He squeezes you tighter. “I’m sorry you had such a bad day. You shouldn’t have to put up with mean people who get mad at you for making a small mistake.”

“Everybody is so fucking mean, Hoon.” You roughly push away the tears from your eyes with the heel of your palm. “I’m tired of everybody expecting so much from me. Between work, school, and my parents asking me what job I’ll have after graduating, it’s all too much.”

Sunghoon coos. “You’re so precious, you know that? You’re dealing with so much and you’re allowed to cry about it. I’m sorry everything is affecting you like this.”

“Sorry for ruining your boys night,” you sniffle. “I feel awful that I took you away from your friends.”

Your boyfriend shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. I’d come to you in a heartbeat if you called.”

His words only make you cry harder. Sunghoon is the perfect boyfriend. He dotes on you like you’re the only woman he’s ever loved in his entire life and lets you know how beautiful you are any chance he gets. He gets along with your friends and family, welcomes you into his own life, and makes you feel like you can achieve anything whether he’s in the picture or not.

Being with him has made you feel safer than you have in a long time. His arms provide the kind of comfort you’ve always been seeking and despite the amount of frustration and sadness in your body, it seems to be melting away with every kiss Sunghoon puts on your forehead.

Heeseung knocks gently and opens the door just slightly. You feel silly being held like a baby in front of Sunghoon’s friends who you’ve met only once before. It was at Heeseung’s house that you first met the three guys Sunghoon is closest to after they made an effort to invite you over to a night at the local dive bar before coming back to watch a marathon of Marvel movies. Your love for Iron Man catapulted the start of your friendship with Heeseung in particular and Sunghoon was starting to love how well you fit into his life.

“It’s been a while and I wanted to check in. You doin’ okay?”

You sniffle and hold onto Sunghoon’s arm. “Bad day. Everybody sucks.”

Heeseung laughs. “Preaching to the choir.” You immediately realize you neglected to take your shoes off when entering the apartment and scold yourself for bringing dirt onto his hardwood floors.

“Shit,” you say, pulling your legs higher so they’re farther from the surface. “I’m so sorry Heeseung. I’m sorry for barging in.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Take them off, I’ll put them by the door.”

You oblige. Sunghoon holds you to balance your body as you hand each sneaker to Heeseung, who doesn’t look at you weirdly or scold you for interrupting his time with your boyfriend. Instead, he smiles at you and lets you know Jongseong and Sim Jaeyun, another one of Sunghoon’s friends that you met during the movie night, are outside and concerned for you.

“We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to,” Sunghoon tells you as Heeseung closes the door behind him for a second time. “But they really like you and I know they care about you.”

“I only met them once,” you hiccup, toying with the hem attached to the bottom of his shirt. “How could they possibly like me?”

Sunghoon laughs and kisses your cheek. “I talk about you all the time. I’m pretty sure they’re sick of hearing me talk about you and would rather hang out with you instead.”

“You do?”

He nods. “Mhm. I have the best girlfriend in the world, you know. They had a lot of fun getting to know you and were planning on inviting you to a barbecue Jongseong’s having next weekend.”

“Really?”

Your doe-like eyes makes Sunghoon’s heart melt. He nods and kisses your nose. “Yes, baby. They love you. Not as much as I do, but a close second.” Hearing you laugh makes him breathe easier.

“I still feel bad for ruining your guys’ night,” you say with a pout.

Sunghoon eases your mind and presses a tender kiss to your lips to displace said pout. “We’ve all been there. If you’re uncomfortable, we can go back to your place and sleep?”

You shake your head. “This is your night. I don’t want to interrupt and make things awkward.”

“Why don’t we at least get you some water. You don’t have to say anything but at least drink something so you’re not dehydrated.” You don’t want to get up and face the embarrassment of the other three boys seeing you cry, but you know Sunghoon is right. After all the crying you’ve done, you’re feeling parched.

You nod and stand from him, all while he still has one hand in yours. Moments like this make you appreciate Sunghoon even more than you already do. He’s willing to do anything for you at the drop of a hat and it gives you butterflies when you remember this handsome, generous man is your boyfriend.

Jongseong and Jaeyun look at you with concerned eyes when you meet them outside. You try to speak but your mouth keeps opening and closing as you find the words to say.

“I’m okay,” you tell them. “And I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

Jongseong hands you a glass of water. “Don’t sweat it, Y/N. Everyone has bad days.”

“Yeah, but you guys haven’t seen Hoon in forever and this was supposed to be your weekend.” Your sincere apology and the cracks in your voice make Jaeyun’s eyes water too.

“It’s alright,” he tells you sincerely. “We love hanging out with you. You should stay and we can watch movies. We were gonna do that anyway.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Jongseong and I want you to stay,” Heeseung says. The two of them nod. “You shouldn’t be alone when you feel like this.”

“Fuck,” you say, voice cracking to the point where it makes you laugh. The four boys laugh as well and feel the relief in the air around them. “You guys are too nice.”

“We were gonna order takeout too,” Jongseong says, pulling his phone out. “We were thinking maybe fried chicken but Hoon says you love Thai food. Why don’t we order stuff from the place around the block and eat it family style?”

“Oh, you don’t have to change it for me.”

Jongseong waves you off. “Nah. We all love Thai. Any excuse to eat it.”

“And don’t think about paying us back,” Jaeyun says with a genuine smile. “I’ll pay for it.”

“We’ll split it by four,” Heeseung adds.

Jongseong lets you put in your order and everybody else follows suit. Sunghoon has you tucked underneath his chin as the whole ordeal happens and kisses the side of your face every so often.

“Feel better?” He asks, mouth against your ear. His warm breath is comforting, as to remind you that he’ll always be there for you.

“Much better.” Your voice is no longer brittle from your cries. Sunghoon smiles.

“My sweet baby,” he coos. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

“What about when I’m not crying?”

“Still pretty.” He squishes your cheeks with his hands and pressed a kiss to your fattened lips. “Adorable, even.”

Jaeyun looks at the two of you and laughs. He can only hope that he’ll feel like that with someone someday. It compels him to say something.

“You guys are stupid cute.”

Sunghoon says nothing. He smiles at his friend and squeezes you tighter. Having him to lean back on makes you feel like you might be the luckiest girl in the world.

***

comments and reblogs would be appreciated! xx

[daryltwdixon]

Daryl x Reader fluff

prompt: "You can stop hugging me now." | "No, I don't think I can." @creativepromptsforwriting

Summary: Daryl returns from a long trip with something he found, quietly revealing that you’ve been on his mind all along. fluff. drabble.

a/n: just trying to get the writing juices flowing again, been feeling a little bit of a block so thought I'd try this prompt!

The sun hangs low, painting the woods over the fence of the watchtower in warm amber hues. You're peering through your binoculars as Alexandria stretches out behind you, quiet except for the occasional clatter of someone working on the fences. You have one earbud in, listening to your Walkman that's strapped to your hip. The tiny device is temperamental, but it still works, and it’s the one thread tying you to the world before everything fell apart. The music is just low enough that when you adjust your stance, scanning the perimeter again, a distant rumble draws your attention.

You lower the binoculars, squinting against the light until you spot it. The familiar shape of Daryl’s motorcycle cuts through the dusty road leading to the gates. A smile tugs at your lips as you turn to look over the railing down at the gate.

“Sasha,” you say, snagging your earbud out by the wire, “Daryl’s back. Open the gate.”

“Copy that,” she replies, composed and straight faced.

You watch as the gates roll open and Daryl rides in, the low growl of his engine fading as he kills the ignition. He swings off the bike, crossbow slung over his shoulder, and pauses, his eyes lifting to meet yours. Even from this distance, you catch the flicker of something in his gaze—relief, maybe, or something warmer.

“You just gonna stare, or you comin’ down?” he calls, his voice carrying easily in the still evening air.

You smile as you shout down at him, "I'm on duty!"

You watch as he shakes his head and makes his way over. Backpack in hand, he starts climbing the ladder to your perch. By the time he reaches the top, you’re already leaning against the railing, looping your ear buds up to put away. You really hope he can't see how your heart hammers in your ribs when he is near.

There’s something about him that always pulls at you, no matter how much you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the way he moves, like he’s part of the world but never tethered to it, or the way he notices things without ever calling attention to himself. It’s in the roughness of his voice, the quiet steadiness of his presence, and the flashes of something softer beneath all the grit. You’ve caught yourself watching him more times than you’d like to admit—how his hands move when he works on his bike, the way his brow furrows in thought, the rare curve of his lips when he smirks. And now, with him this close, the familiar tug in your chest feels undeniable.

“Got somethin’ for ya,” he announces when he reaches the top, his voice hoarse from not seeing people for days. He crouches down in front of you, awkwardly pulling something from his bag. A small, rectangular cassette tape catches the light as he holds it out.

Your breath catches when you see the cover. It’s your favorite artist, one you thought you’d never hear again.

“Figured....well, you’re always listenin’ to that thing,” he says, gesturing toward your Walkman. His voice is gruff, but there’s a nervous edge to it, like he’s not sure how you’ll react. “Saw it. Made me...made me think of ya.”

You take it from him, fingers brushing over the cracked plastic of the case, lingering on the edges as if holding it too tightly might make it disappear. Flipping it over, you see the album cover, worn but intact, its familiar image bringing an ache to your chest. Your thoughts stumble, scrambling for something to say, but all you can focus on is the fact that Daryl thought of you. 

He thought of you.

While he was out there, risking his neck for the group, scavenging scraps of the old world, searching for strangers who might one day be allies—he thought of you. The image of him out there, surrounded by danger at every turn, with walkers and worse waiting in the shadows, and still having a moment to think of you, makes your chest tighten. Despite the chaos, the noise, the relentless fight to survive, you were on his mind. Not just as another member of the group, but as someone he cared about enough to bring back this small, fragile piece of comfort.

The thought is overwhelming, pulling the air from your lungs, leaving you dizzy with the weight of it. Because in a world where everything is fleeting, Daryl Dixon thought of you.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re moving. Your arms wrap around his neck, catching him off guard. He stiffens, his hands coming up to hover over you, almost unsure if he should touch you. After a heartbeat of not letting go, you feel his voice vibrating in his chest.

“You can stop hugging me now,” he grumbles, though his voice wavers just enough to betray him.

You tighten your grip, pressing your cheek against the warmth of him, breathing in the smell of musk, of pine and leather and cigarettes--so uniquely Daryl, “No,” you whisper, the words soft but sure. “I don’t think I can.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, slowly, his hands settle on the small of your back, tentative but steady. The air between you shifts, quiet and charged, the unspoken things you’re both too afraid to say hanging in the space.

When you finally pull away, his cheeks are tinged pink, and he’s looking anywhere but at you.

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say, holding up the cassette tape like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever owned, "Seriously."

He shrugs, his eyes flickering to yours for just a second before dropping. “Ain’t nothin’.”

But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just a little, as he turns to climb back down the ladder, leaving you with the music, the sunset, and a heart pounding harder than it should.

[mingi-s-dimples]

Sports Car - S.MG

“You feel so perfect.. need to feel you again. Need you to ride me, baby.”   ~ inspired from one of his new post on Tate's song... + his fashion appearance for Off-White. enjoy ^^

pairing: mingi x fem!reader genre: 18+ summary: you're so eager to see mingi atap that you decided to wait for him in his car... and it gets steamy. wc: 3.7k warnings: needy desperate mingi, alcohol ingestion (slightly, he's just tipsy), car sex, semi public sex, neck grabbing, making out, biting, lots of touching, he's touchy af, fingering, he's loud, foreplay, lots of cum, one denied orgasm, multiple orgasms, overstim, unprotected (boo use protection irl!!), completely consensual, for sure forgot something, might edit later. author's note: yes atap is inspired from bm's song atap ^^ (after the after party). this is gonna become a damn series, to always write sth about them after a fashion show/appearance- oops. seonghwa fic coming later today and... it's SPICY. it's steamy.. it's a niche thing happening there-

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the member in any way.

The BMW is quiet except for the low hum of the engine, parked just far enough from the venue to stay hidden. The city is still alive in the distance, but here, wrapped in shadows, it's just you and the anticipation coiling in your stomach. You’ve been waiting, fingers tracing patterns on the leather seat, the faint scent of Mingi’s cologne still lingering from earlier. You knew he would come. He always does.  

And then, you see him.  

Mingi moves quickly, slipping out of the after-party unnoticed, his long strides purposeful. Even in the dim glow of the streetlights, he looks unreal—the Off-White jacket slightly open, his silver chain catching the light against the deep cleavage of his barely buttoned up jacket. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips a little red, and you can tell—he’s been drinking. Not enough to lose control, just enough to make his touches slower, his voice lower.  

The car door opens, and the second he slides into the passenger seat, the air shifts. Heat replaces the cool night air, thick and heavy. He exhales, head resting against the seat for a moment before turning to you. His gaze is dark, locked onto you with something dangerous simmering beneath the surface.  

“You’ve been waiting,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough around the edges.  

You tilt your head, meeting his stare. “Knew you wouldn’t last long without me.”  

His tongue swipes over his lower lip, and you catch the way his fingers flex against his thigh. He lets out a low chuckle, but there’s something restless in the way he looks at you—like he’s already lost the patience to talk.  

“You have no idea.”  

The space between you disappears in an instant. His hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you into a kiss that’s all heat and desperation. The taste of whiskey lingers on his tongue, mixing with the groan that rumbles in his chest when you press closer. His other hand moves without hesitation, sliding up your thigh, rings cool against your burning skin.  

The bass from the after-party still thrums faintly in the distance, but here, inside the car, there’s only the sound of your breaths mingling, the rustle of fabric, and the quiet, unspoken promise that you won’t be leaving this car anytime soon.

Mingi pulls back from the kiss, breath hot against your lips, his eyes clouded with something dark and heavy. For a moment, he just stares at you, chest rising and falling, before he suddenly moves—quick, impatient.  

He pushes open the door and stumbles as he steps out, a quiet curse slipping from his lips as his legs struggle to keep up with his urgency. His balance wavers for a second, but he doesn’t stop. He rounds the car in long strides, fingers brushing through his already-messy hair, the dim glow of the streetlights casting shadows over the sharp angles of his face.  

Then, the driver’s side door swings open.  

Mingi barely gives you a second before his hand is reaching for you, fingers wrapping around your wrist as he pulls you out in one smooth, rather slow motion. The cool night air barely registers against your skin before he’s guiding you—toward the backseat, his grip firm but not rough.  

The second your back hits the seat, he follows.  

Mingi climbs in after you, body pressing close, his weight caging you in as he pulls the door shut behind him. His hands are everywhere—one braced against the seat beside your head, the other slipping down your waist, gripping, holding, grounding himself in you. The scent of him is overwhelming now, a mix of whiskey, expensive cologne, and something distinctly *him*.  

He exhales sharply, forehead nearly pressing against yours as he hovers over you. “Been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs, voice thick, slurred at the edges, but steady.  

His lips brush over yours, teasing, slow, his breath warm. His fingers tighten on your waist before sliding lower, fingertips dragging over your thigh, pushing fabric aside.  

“Shouldn’t have kept me waiting,” you whisper, smirking against his mouth.  

Mingi groans, low and deep, and then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, more desperate. The world outside the car fades, the city noise nothing but a distant hum. In here, there’s only him. Only the heat, the hunger, and the way his hands start to move with purpose.  

And he’s just getting started.

Your breath comes out shaky as Mingi’s lips drag along your jaw, slow and deliberate, his body pressing you deeper into the backseat. His hands are warm, gripping your waist, fingertips digging in like he’s trying to hold himself together. But you can feel it—he’s barely hanging on.  

“Mingi,” you murmur, voice softer than you intend. He hums against your skin, lips ghosting over your collarbone.  

“You’re drunk,” you say, a little firmer this time, fingers threading into his hair, tugging slightly to pull him back.  

He exhales a laugh, lifting his head, eyes dark and lidded as he looks at you. “Nuh-uh,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly. “I’m just tipsy, my love…” His lips curve, hands slipping lower, pressing against your thighs. “And I know exactly what I’m doing.”  

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles against your skin, and his gaze flickers down—watching the way your chest rises and falls, how your lips part just slightly.  

“I just…” He exhales, his thumb brushing over the hem of your blouse. “I want to make you feel good.” His voice is lower now, rougher, thick with want.  

His hands move with purpose as he starts undoing the buttons of your blouse, each one slipping through his fingers with ease. His touch is slow, almost teasing, until the fabric falls open, exposing more of your skin to the cool air. His gaze darkens, lingering, drinking you in like he’s been starving for this moment.  

His hands slide lower, pushing the fabric of your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. Then, with practiced ease, his fingers hook into your panties, tugging them to the side, baring you completely to him.  

Mingi stills for a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes flick up to meet yours, his expression unreadable—somewhere between awe and hunger.  

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost to himself. His fingers trail along your inner thigh, deliberate and slow, but he doesn’t push any further. Instead, he leans back slightly, his free hand moving to the waistband of his own pants.  

You watch, heat pooling low in your stomach as he unbuttons them, shoving them down just enough to free himself. His breathing is heavier now, but he doesn’t move to take you—not yet.  

Instead, he just watches you, his hands spreading your thighs a little wider, his touch slow, reverent.  

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice dripping with restraint. “I need a second to admire you.”

Mingi exhales sharply, his hands spreading you wider, his thumbs tracing slow, burning circles on your inner thighs. His gaze drops between your legs, and he groans, deep and low, when he sees just how ready you are for him.  

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, his fingers grazing over your slick heat but not pushing in. “You’ve been eagerly waiting for me, haven’t you?”  

Your breath catches in your throat, your hips instinctively shifting, searching for more. He smirks, dark and lazy, dragging his fingers through your wetness, spreading it, watching how you react.  

“So wet,” he murmurs, his voice husky with admiration. “All this for me?”  

You nod, barely able to form words, anticipation curling deep in your stomach. You needed this—you needed *him*. And he knew it.  

Mingi leans in, his lips brushing over yours, teasing, before finally capturing you in a kiss that’s all-consuming. It’s slow but desperate, his tongue slipping past your lips, tasting, claiming. One of his hands grips your waist, holding you still, while the other wraps around his cock, stroking himself as he presses his body closer to yours.  

He’s warm, hard, and aching against your thigh, his breaths turning uneven as he moves his hand up and down his length, slicking himself with his own arousal. His forehead presses against yours for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he exhales shakily.  

“You have no idea how bad I need you right now,” he groans, his voice wrecked, full of raw want.  

His hips roll slightly, the head of his cock brushing against your thigh, and he lets out a quiet curse under his breath. He’s holding back, fighting to pace himself, but you can feel it—the barely restrained desperation in the way his grip tightens on your waist, the way his kisses grow messier, more feverish.  

Mingi looks down at you, pupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen from kissing you so hard. His fingers tighten their grip on your thigh, spreading you even more beneath him.  

“I want to take my time,” he breathes, voice thick with need. “But I don’t know if I can.”

Mingi’s breathing is ragged, his forehead pressed against yours as he grips your thigh, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s barely holding himself together. His cock is hard and leaking against your thigh, his hips jerking slightly, desperate for relief.  

He tilts his head, lips brushing over yours as he murmurs, “Baby… do you want me to take my time?”  

His voice is low, almost strained, like he’s fighting every instinct in his body to slow down, to savor this. But you can feel the way he’s shaking, the way his body is screaming for more.  

You swallow hard, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs spreading wider beneath him as you whisper, “N-no… I need you.”  

That’s all it takes.  

Mingi growls against your lips, his control snapping as he slides his hand down between your legs. Two fingers push into you without warning, sinking deep, and your body jolts from the sudden stretch. He groans at how easily you take him, at how wet you are for him.  

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he mutters, pumping his fingers in and out of you, his pace relentless from the start. He curls them just right, dragging against that spot inside you that makes you whimper.

His lips crash onto yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp as he fucks you with his fingers, his palm pressing against your clit with every thrust. The wet sounds fill the car, mixing with the sharp breaths and the faint bass from the after-party still thumping outside.  

You’re trembling beneath him, gripping his biceps, but then—your hand moves.  

Boldly, you reach down, fingers wrapping around his cock, and the second you touch him, Mingi *breaks*.  

His hips jerk forward into your palm, a deep, guttural moan slipping into your mouth. His cock twitches in your grip, hot and heavy, and you stroke him slowly at first, teasing, your thumb gliding over the tip, smearing his arousal.  

“Shit,” he groans, kissing you harder, his tongue tangling with yours as his fingers fuck into you even faster. His hand is soaked, but he doesn’t slow down—if anything, it makes him move rougher, hungrier.  

Your hand tightens around his cock, stroking him in time with the way he’s working you open, and the way he *whimpers* into your mouth sends a rush of heat straight to your core.  

“Gonna make me lose my fucking mind,” he breathes, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he teeters on the edge of completely losing control.

Mingi is a mess above you, hips bucking into your hand as he groans against your lips, his fingers still working you open, still fucking into you with a pace that has you seeing stars. His cock twitches in your grip, hot and heavy, leaking against your fingers as you stroke him, your hand tightening just enough to make his breath stutter.  

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, his voice wrecked, his forehead pressing against yours. He’s trembling, trying to hold on, but you can feel how close he is, how desperate he’s getting.  

Your thumb drags over the tip, smearing his arousal, and when you squeeze—just slightly—his whole body tenses.  

“Shit—fuck” His moan is raw, needy, and then he’s gone, coming hard with a sharp gasp, his hips jerking into your grip. His cock pulses in your hand, thick ropes of cum spilling onto your stomach, hot and messy, as his head falls into the crook of your neck.  

But even as he’s coming undone, even as his body shudders from the force of his release, his fingers don’t stop.  

He’s still pumping into you, still curling them deep, his palm grinding against your clit with every movement. He moans against your skin, panting, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck as he fucks you through the pleasure, determined to drag you right over the edge with him.  

His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper as he pants, “Not done with you yet, baby.”

Mingi is still panting against your skin, his breath hot, his body still trembling from his release—but his fingers don’t stop. If anything, he moves with more purpose now, his palm pressing against your clit, his fingers curling deep, dragging you closer and closer to your own high.  

But then, he stills.  

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips slightly parted, his pupils blown wide, his expression caught between awe and raw desperation. His fingers slip from you, coated in your slick, and he groans at the sight, bringing them to his lips, sucking them clean without breaking eye contact.  

“Baby,” he breathes, voice thick, shaking. “I can’t hold back anymore.”  

His hands slide to your thighs, spreading you open beneath him as he settles between your legs. His cock is still hard, still aching, rubbing against your slick folds, teasing, torturing.  

“I need you,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers threading through yours as he pins your hands beside your head. “Need to feel you. Need to fill you up.”  

You whimper, body arching into him, legs wrapping around his waist as you pull him closer. “Mingi, please…”  

That’s all it takes.  

Mingi exhales shakily, guiding himself to your entrance, and then he’s pushing in—slow, deep, inch by inch, stretching you open in a way that steals the breath from your lungs. He curses under his breath, burying his face in your neck, his body tensing as he finally, *finally* sinks all the way in.  

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice almost broken, like he’s never felt anything better than this.  

He stays still for a moment, breathing you in, letting you adjust. His hands squeeze yours, grounding himself, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, your cheek, your lips.  

And then, he moves.  

His thrusts are slow, deep, deliberate—like he wants to feel every inch of you, like he wants you to feel every inch of him. He moans softly against your lips, swallowing your gasps, rolling his hips in a way that makes pleasure spark up your spine.  

“You feel so perfect,” he whispers, kissing you between every word. “So warm. So tight. Fuck, I love you.”  

His hands release yours, trailing down to your waist, gripping you, holding you close as he thrusts into you, his body pressing flush against yours. There’s nothing rough, nothing rushed—just slow, intoxicating pleasure, his lips never leaving yours, his body moving in perfect rhythm with yours.  

His fingers slip between your bodies, finding your clit, circling it gently, making you gasp against his lips. “Gonna make you cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, his voice full of love, of need. “Wanna feel you squeeze me. Wanna fill you up while you’re falling apart around me.”  

And the way he’s moving, the way he’s touching you—it’s only a matter of time before you do exactly that.

Your body trembles beneath him, every slow, deliberate thrust pushing you closer to the edge. His fingers work your clit in lazy, teasing circles—just enough to make you whimper, just enough to keep you right there, dangling, desperate.  

“Mingi,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.  

He groans at the sound of his name, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot, uneven. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers, his hips rolling deeper, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over. “Cum for me. Wanna feel you. Wanna feel you soak me.”  

You don’t stand a chance.  

The pleasure crashes over you all at once, your body tensing, your back arching as you gasp his name. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him, milking him, and Mingi moans—low and wrecked—his movements stuttering as he fucks you through it, his pace still deep, still consuming.  

“Fuck,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips, his body trembling against you. “Fuck, you feel—shit, you feel so good.”  

His voice is ragged, desperate, full of nothing but pure need. His lips find yours in a messy kiss, all tongue and panting breaths, as his hips snap forward, faster now, sloppier, chasing his own release.  

“I love you,” he murmurs between kisses, his words slurred with pleasure. “I love you so fucking much.”  

And then he’s gone—his body tensing, his breath catching, his cock twitching inside you as he spills deep, his moans muffled against your lips. His hips jerk forward once, twice, his grip on you tightening as he groans your name like a prayer.  

For a moment, he just stays there, buried deep, his body still shaking.  

Then, with a soft chuckle, you run your fingers through his damp hair, watching the way his dazed eyes blink open to meet yours. “You’re always like this when you’re tipsy,” you tease, voice soft, amused.  

Mingi grins, breathless, nuzzling into your neck. “Like what?”  

“So needy,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his temple. “So in love.”  

He groans, burying his face in your skin. “Because I *am* in love. And I *am* needy.” He exhales shakily, squeezing you closer. 

And just like that, he’s kissing you again—slower now, sweeter. Like he’s trying to prove just how much he means it.

Your breathing is still uneven, your body still trembling from your last orgasm, but Mingi isn’t done with you. Not even close.  

He shifts, his strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you with him as he moves and leans on the backseat. The leather squeaks under his weight as he sits down, legs spread, hands already guiding you onto his lap. His eyes are heavy with need, lips parted as he watches you settle above him.  

“Come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with something almost desperate.  

You straddle him, your knees sinking into the seat on either side of his hips. His cock is still hard, still leaking, pressed between your bodies, smearing slick across your skin. His hands grip your waist, dragging you forward until your chest is flush against his, his forehead pressing to yours.  

“You feel so perfect,” he breathes, his fingers digging into your skin. “Need to feel you again. Need you to ride me, baby.”  

His hands slide down to your ass, helping you lift yourself just enough for him to position himself at your entrance. And then, with one slow, deliberate push, he’s inside you again—stretching you, filling you, making you feel completely, utterly his.  

Mingi groans, his head falling back against the seat, his hands gripping your waist so tightly it almost burns. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice barely more than a whimper. “You take me so well, baby. You’re perfect—so fucking perfect.”  

You moan, rolling your hips experimentally, gasping at the way he presses so deep, the way he fills every inch of you. He hisses through his teeth, his hands guiding your movements, helping you find a slow, intoxicating rhythm.  

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his fingers splaying across your lower back, his lips tracing lazy kisses along your jaw. “Just like that. Ride me nice and slow, baby. Wanna feel you.”  

And fuck, you do.  

You rock against him, every movement sending pleasure sparking through your veins. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and intense, his lips slightly parted as he watches you—watches the way you gasp for him, the way your brows furrow when he thrusts up to meet you.  

His hands never stop moving—roaming your back, gripping your hips, dragging you closer. One slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles that make you tremble in his arms.  

“You feel so good,” he groans, his voice wrecked. “So warm. So tight around me.” He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “Love you so much, baby. Love you so fucking much.”  

Your hands tangle in his hair, your lips finding his in a desperate kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, swallowing your moans, his hips pressing up into you with every roll of your own. It’s slow, deep—less frantic than before but just as consuming, if not more.  

You can feel yourself getting close again, the pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, your legs shaking as you cling to him. “Mingi—”  

“I know, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft, reverent. “I know. Let go for me. Cum for me again.”  

His thumb presses down just right, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you, and then—  

You break.  

Your body tenses, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you moan his name. He groans at the feeling, at the way you squeeze him, his grip on you tightening as he fucks you through it.  

And then he’s right behind you.  

Mingi curses under his breath, his movements turning desperate, his hips stuttering as his own release overtakes him. He moans your name, his hands gripping your hips as he cums inside you, filling you up just like he said he would.  

For a long moment, the only sound in the car is the sound of your breathing—heavy, uneven, tangled together like your bodies.  

And with the way he’s still holding you—his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go—you know he means every word.

𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒: @blossomnet ♡ @illusionnet ♡ @mirohs-aurora-society ♡

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @strawberry-mingi @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @memorabxlia @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @peachy-bell26 @tahiraax1 @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @atzlordz @chai0tea @miyaluvvsyou @lezleeferguson-120 @sopematesxx @joyfulcadence @puppytruther

[orangeblossomsintheair]

DON’T BE A STRANGER | CS55

summary : faceless driver + secretly royalty carlos sainz w leclerc!reader

wc : 2k

an : ring ding ding ding- its me again >:)) what an amazing week this has been on the website, thxx everyone. i mostly just wrote this so the idea could stop bludgeoning me

The faceless driver of Ferrari steps onto the paddock like a rumor, all sharp lines and shadows, the prickle of something not quite real. They call him Sainz, only Sainz, as if a single name could hold the weight of everything unknown.

His helmet never comes off.

Never.

Not on the podium, not in interviews, not in moments of victory or failure.

A flawless red shell.

And the rumors?

They twist through the paddock like smoke from an invisible fire, impossible to pin down but inescapable all the same. Louder than the engines sometimes, they cling to the corners of conversations, the edges of glances, until the air is thick with questions no one can answer.

After all, the motorsports world is small, excruciatingly tight-knit, and talent doesn’t spring from nowhere. It has roots. And roots, as everyone in the paddock knows, have a way of surfacing when you dig deep enough.

Surely, he belongs to someone.

People don’t just rise to the pinnacle of Formula 1 without a trail to follow, without whispers of their origin. There are always breadcrumbs: the karting academy, the private sponsors, the family connections that weave a web so tight it’s impossible to escape.

And yet, with Sainz, the web feels intentionally erased.

Which is why the theories have grown, wild and unruly, feeding on the silence Ferrari so fiercely maintains.

Some say he’s royalty.

“Think about it,” one engineer murmured late one evening over drinks at the hospitality tent. “It makes sense. Why else would Ferrari go to such lengths to protect him? Royals love their secrets.”

“Royals?” The mechanic across from him snorted into his beer. “You’ve been reading too many tabloids. Royals don’t hide. They thrive on attention.”

“Not if they’ve got something to lose.”

“Like what? A throne?”

The first engineer leaned back, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why not? Formula 1’s full of money, right? What’s the difference between a billionaire’s kid and a prince? Nothing. Except one of them has a crown.”

The argument has traction, though. The idea that Sainz is an heir to a European throne, Spanish, most likely, has fueled countless debates, forums, and conspiracy threads.

“Think about it,” fans say online, dissecting every detail like forensic scientists. “A prince could afford the best. He’d have access to elite training, connections, and anonymity if he wanted it. He’d be untouchable.”

And yet, skeptics roll their eyes at the notion. “If he were a prince,” they argue, “you think Ferrari wouldn’t plaster that all over their marketing? A royal in the red? They’d be printing posters and selling merch faster than the car hits 200 miles an hour.”

It’s a fair point. Ferrari doesn’t just protect Sainz, they shield him, encase him in layers of secrecy that feel deliberate, almost sacred.

Why? That’s the question that eats at everyone.

They defend him like he’s the crown jewel of Maranello, and when it comes to Ferrari, you don’t defend just anyone like that. The Scuderia doesn’t go to bat for drivers like they go to bat for Sainz.

Why would Ferrari, a team known for its relentless media machine, its flair for drama, its love of spectacle, choose to keep someone like Sainz hidden?

Why fight tooth and nail to keep his helmet on, even when the FIA itself came knocking?

The fight with the FIA was the turning point.

It started with whispers, rumblings that the governing body was “concerned” about Sainz’s anonymity. Drivers, after all, are public figures. Fans deserve transparency, or so the FIA claimed. There were rumors of mandatory press appearances without helmets, of new regulations aimed squarely at pulling Sainz into the light.

Ferrari’s response was swift, brutal, and uncompromising.

“The helmet stays on,” Luca, Ferrari’s head of PR, told the press during a heated exchange after qualifying in Monaco. His tone brooked no argument. “His performance speaks for itself. His identity is irrelevant.”

When pressed further, Luca leaned into the microphone, his voice like steel. “We protect our drivers. Always. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the board in Maranello.”

Behind closed doors, it was said that Ferrari’s lawyers were already drafting lawsuits before the FIA even made their first official statement. Confidential documents circulated among team principals hinted at Ferrari’s threat to pull out of the championship entirely if Sainz’s privacy was breached.

“They’d never leave,” Toto Wolff scoffed during a press conference. “Ferrari is Formula 1.”

But the threat worked.

The FIA backed down, releasing a carefully worded statement about “respecting driver boundaries” and “valuing individual choices.” And just like that, Sainz’s helmet remained firmly in place, untouchable once more.

It was the kind of move that convinced everyone that Sainz wasn’t just another driver. Ferrari doesn’t go to war for nobodies. They don’t risk their reputation, their legacy, for just anyone.

“He must be someone important,” a junior driver muttered once, staring at Sainz’s car as it glided into the garage. “You don’t get that kind of protection unless you’re…”

“Unless you’re what?”

The driver hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

But here’s the thing: it’s never enough.

The rumors spread, and with them, the obsession. The more they try to pin him down, the more he slips through their fingers. It’s the perfect magic trick. Sainz isn’t just a driver.

He’s a myth, an idea, a story unfolding with every lap.

He is both the question and the answer.

—-

The paddock is a sensory overload: cameras flashing, fans yelling, mechanics rushing around like their lives depend on it. The heat and humidity press down on you like a second skin.

You weave through the chaos, dodging a camera crew and a gaggle of reporters, the noise too loud, the air too thick.

All you want is a quiet place to breathe.

You pull your phone out and fire off a quick text to Charles. Where are you?

The reply comes almost instantly. Driver’s room. Come here.

Relief washes over you.

Finally, somewhere away from all this madness.

You know the layout of the Ferrari paddock well enough to navigate without issue, your access pass swinging from your neck giving you clearance to move unbothered.

You round a corner and spot a door, slightly ajar, with a sign you swear reads “Leclerc.” Close enough. Without thinking, you push it open and step inside.

It’s quieter in here, the noise from outside muffled by thick walls. You let out a breath, already feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. But as you glance around, something feels… off.

This isn’t Charles’s room.

The walls are too clean, the floor too pristine. There’s no sign of your brother’s clutter: no jacket thrown over a chair, no half-finished water bottle on the counter. Instead, everything is painfully organized, the space clinical in its perfection. And the overwhelming Ferrari red, too much of it, everywhere, makes your stomach twist.

Before you can retreat, you hear footsteps. Sharp. Purposeful. Coming right toward you.

Your pulse spikes. You freeze, too startled to even turn around. When the figure emerges, it’s not Charles, or a mechanic, or anyone you recognize.

It’s a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a kind of quiet intensity that instantly sets you on edge. He’s already pulling a balaclava over his head, but not quickly enough, you catch a glimpse of his sharp jawline, his piercing dark eyes. He stops when he sees you, his body going rigid like a predator caught off guard.

His voice slices through the silence, sharp and low. “Who the fuck are you?”

You flinch, your throat dry as you scramble to explain. “I- uh- this is-”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, cutting you off. His accent is Spanish, his tone icy. “How did you even get in?”

Your brain short-circuits. The balaclava, his tense posture, the way he’s blocking the door—it all screams danger.

Your fingers move before your brain catches up, fumbling for your phone.

“I- uh- just stay right there!” you stammer, raising the phone like it’s a shield. “I’m recording this! You’re not gonna- uh- get away with- whatever you’re doing!”

The man’s eyes narrow. For a moment, he just stares at you, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then, with terrifying speed, he lunges forward and snatches the phone out of your hand.

“Are you serious?” he growls, holding your phone up like it’s a toy. His voice drips with disdain. “You barge into my space, and now you’re trying to record me? Do you even know who I am?”

“No! Do you know who I am?” you snap back, panic making your voice louder than you intended. “You’re the creep in my brother’s driver room! I should be suing you!”

He pauses, his head tilting slightly, confusion flashing across his face. “Your brother?”

“Yes, my brother!” you shout, emboldened by your growing irritation. “Charles Leclerc? Ring a bell?”

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place- amusement? Annoyance?

“Leclerc,” he repeats, almost like he’s tasting the name.

“Yes! And he’s going to be so pissed when he finds out- ”

“This isn’t his room.”

His words are slow, deliberate, and laced with sarcasm. They hit you like a bucket of cold water.

You blink, your bravado evaporating. “What?”

He gestures lazily toward the door. “The name on the sign. Read it.”

Your stomach churns as you turn to look. There, in bold letters, is a name that definitely isn’t “Leclerc.”

Sainz.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, the realization crashing down on you.

“Anything else you want to accuse me of?”

You stammer out a garbled apology, your face burning with embarrassment. “I- uh- thought- I mean- oh god, I���m so sorry- ”

“You thought,” Sainz interrupts, his voice flat, “so now I’m the creep in your brother’s room? Really?”

Your tongue feels like lead. Every molecule of bravery evaporates under the weight of his piercing stare. “I didn’t- I mean, I-”

He sighs, glancing at the phone in his hand. “Did you take any photos?”

“What?” you squeak.

“Photos.” His tone sharpens, patience wearing thin. “Did you take any?”

“No!” you exclaim, horrified by the implication. “Why would I-”

“Because if you did,” he cuts you off, leaning in slightly, “I’ll sue you.”

You take an involuntary step back. “Sue me? For what?”

“For trespassing,” he replies coolly. “For invading my privacy. For whatever the hell I decide to call it. Take your pick.”

“I didn’t even know this was your room!” you blurt out, frustration bubbling over. “I wasn’t trying to invade anything! And you’re the one wearing a balaclava like some kind of-”

“Like some kind of what?” he challenges, his eyes narrowing.

“Like some kind of criminal!” you fire back, your voice rising in pitch.

For a moment, the tension hangs thick in the air. His lips twitch, almost like he’s trying not to laugh, but his gaze stays icy.

“I wear this because I’m a driver,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining it to a child. “Not because I’m robbing a bank.”

You press your lips together, mortified and furious at the same time. “Look,” you say, holding out your hand for your phone, “this was a mistake. I didn’t mean to walk in here, and I didn’t take any photos. Can I just have my phone back so I can leave?”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before finally handing it over. “If I find out you lied,” he warns, “I will sue.”

“Noted,” you mutter, clutching your phone like it’s your lifeline.

You spin on your heel, desperate to escape this nightmare, but his voice stops you just as you reach the door.

“And maybe next time,” he calls after you, “learn how to read a sign.”

You don’t turn back. You can’t. Your face is burning, your heart is racing, and the humiliation is seared into your memory forever.

[breathing-neon]

Oh-- Briar's ear flicks, the satyr glancing up and over towards-- oh jeez she's tall. It takes him an. Embarrassingly long few moments to realize the question was directed towards him, Briar sitting up to better address her.

"I uh... Yeah I think...?" He did feel lighter just sitting here in front of it... "...It's a pretty nice fountain..."

He pulls his cane onto his lap, so he isn't taking up so much room.

Saying Briar was exhausted and confused was an understatement... They don't know how they ended up on this elevator, but it's been 93 floors of the strangest things they've ever seen, not to mention they've maybe eaten a little too many sweets over the course of this ride. They don't think they're in danger, but they should check... If they even have their blood sugar monitor on them... Augh...

They peer out the elevator cautiously, a habit they picked up despite knowing what was cued up. They barely hear what the other stranger with them says before he disappears into a nearby door, the little ghost that was with them staring with disbelief.

Briar, meanwhile, stumbles out towards the fountain, and just flops down in front of it, deciding to take this moment to rest their aching legs, cane left on the ground next to them for them to grab if need be.

They don't quite realize that they're not alone in here.

@breathing-neon

For once, her office and day was... Quiet. Little to do but work at updating numbers on things, and watching out for him. When the Regretevator's doors open, she barely pays any mind, sparing only a moment to look- Ah, there he is. And early, too. She nods as he slips into the living quarters, throwing the other guest a quick glare. She hadn't forgotten about that one.

But! That's someone that's... New. Entirely. She looks down to the other, standing up. Not every day someone drops themselves into her office quite like that.. This one likely wasn't going to be returning with the other, once the Regretevator left. Which meant plenty of time to talk, and question. Which...

"Looks like the fountain has absolved you of your burdens. You feeling better now?"

Best start with something that isn't particularly ominous, shall we?

[jaylalolz]

❛ 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

SUMMARY, ❝ say you’re all mine , touch me under street lights ❞ all she does is sit pretty on his famous leather seats.

A/N, love writing stuff based on songs!! request a song for me to write in my inbox

WARNINGS, none

The road stretched endlessly ahead of them, illuminated only by the flicker of passing streetlights and the glow of the dashboard. Nicholas had one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on her thigh. His fingers curled, gentle yet firm, tracing soft patterns against her bare skin. The car roared beneath them, the engine purring in harmony with the wild energy in the air.

She leaned back in the passenger seat, head tilted towards the open window, feeling the rush of wind through her hair. It tangled in the breeze, flying like threads of silk as she let out a carefree laugh, closing her eyes and soaking in the freedom of it all. The night was alive -wild, reckless, and entirely theirs.

Nicholas glanced over, his jaw tight, eyes dark with desire as he watched her lose herself in the moment. "You're something else, you know that?" His voice was low, rumbling over the sound of the tires skimming the asphalt. He gave her thigh a light squeeze, making her heart race even faster than the car they were speeding down the road in.

Her lips curled into a teasing smile as she turned back to him, eyes dancing with excitement. "Am I now?" She lifted a brow, her head dipping just enough to catch his gaze fully.

"Yeah," he replied, voice rough with emotion she couldn't quite name.

"Come here."

She blinked, heart stuttering for a beat, then let out a soft laugh. "What?"

His hand on her thigh moved, sliding upwards, coaxing her. "Sit on my lap. Come on."

The request sent a thrill through her. It was so dangerous, so impossible. But Nicholas—he wasn't the type to ask twice. Without hesitation, she unbuckled her seatbelt and shifted in her seat, glancing around the road, almost expecting someone to see. But it was just them, the night, and the open road. She climbed over, carefully maneuvering her way onto his lap, legs draped over his, her back pressed against his chest. She could feel the hard line of his body, the heat of him beneath her.

He laughed, the sound deep and approving. "Good girl."

His arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her as he kept his other hand on the wheel. The car barely wavered, as if this kind of recklessness was second nature to him. The wind whipped against their faces, but she didn't care. It was wild, exhilarating, every nerve in her body alive with the danger and the thrill of it all.

Her hands instinctively clung to his shoulders, and she leaned back, resting against him fully now. The heat between them was undeniable. She could feel his breath on her neck, his lips grazing her ear. "Kiss me," he murmured, the command clear and burning in her chest.

She turned her head, her lips finding his in an instant. The kiss was feverish, intense, like neither of them could get close enough, deep enough. The taste of him made her feel dizzy, lost in the rush of sensation. His hand left the wheel for a moment, cupping her face, pulling her even deeper into the kiss. It felt as though the world had stopped around them, the car forgotten, the speed irrelevant. It was just the two of them, caught up in a moment that was both dangerous and beautiful.

The car swerved slightly, pulling them back into the present, but neither of them broke apart. His hand returned to the wheel, fingers gripping tightly as they continued racing down the road, lost in each other.

She pulled away for just a moment, breathing hard, a wicked grin on her lips. "You're insane, you know that?"

He smirked, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "You love it."

And she did.

[bearforcecaptions]

Evan stumbled into the bathroom, yawning, scratching the back of his neck. Another sleepy morning, another forgettable day. He barely even opened his eyes as he flicked the light on, letting the harsh fluorescent hum fill the small, dingy room. The mirror, streaked with old water stains, reflected back his pale, slight frame — but something made him blink.

Hard.

The man in the mirror wasn’t him.

At least, not exactly.

The figure standing where he should have been was a giant of a man — thick with muscle, dense with a heavy forest of chest hair, his beard sprawling past his collarbones. His arms bulged with cords of strength, veins thick and prominent. His hair was cropped short on the sides, a little longer on top, styled into a sharp, effortless look of rugged dominance. His face was weathered, mid-30s maybe — mature, confident — a few faint creases at the eyes that spoke of experience, but no weakness.

Evan’s breath hitched. He reached toward the glass. The man in the mirror mimicked him perfectly, hand rising.

Then the mirror spoke.

"You’ve always been this way, not Evan..." the voice rumbled, rich and commanding. "Your name is Eric."

The name hit him like a strike to the chest — wrong and right at the same time. Evan opened his mouth to object, but the sound dissolved on his tongue. Eric. Of course. It sounded natural. Strong. Familiar.

The voice continued, sliding through him like a slow, irresistible current. "Eric Steele. Born to be bigger. Born to be more."

A shiver ran through him as his body responded first. His shoulders pulled wider with a low, grinding stretch. His arms grew thick and heavy with muscle, veins webbing across them like rivers of molten iron. His chest swelled forward, two massive plates of strength, dusted with thick, dark hair that spread greedily over his pecs, arms, down into a heavy trail across his abs.

His beard surged outward, black and coarse, blanketing his jawline, framing a face that hardened into something fierce and commanding. His hair tightened into a neatly rugged cut — short, faded sides, a dense, heavy top that made him look even more powerful.

"You're not some nobody stuck in an office," the voice whispered, "You're a self-made man. Owner of Steele Ironworks. A real empire."

Images flooded his mind: rows of weightlifters clanging plates, men cheering as he benched impossible weight, his name on the wall in bold steel letters. The life of a small, invisible man disintegrated, forgotten.

The mirror shimmered, and his surroundings changed with it. The bathroom stretched larger, walls of black slate and chrome fixtures gleaming under industrial lights. The sink morphed into a thick slab of stone, sturdy enough for a man like him. The old, peeling door frame widened, as if recognizing it needed to accommodate his size.

"You're thirty-five years old now. In your prime. Built by work, sweat, and respect."

He watched his reflection age up, subtly but surely — fine lines creasing at the corners of his intense, dark eyes, a faint peppering of gray starting at the temples and threading into his thick beard. It didn't make him look older; it made him look formidable.

He flexed an arm absentmindedly, marveling at the tight coil of muscle swelling under his skin, at the thick mat of body hair running across his chest and thick thighs. His calves, once narrow and weak, were now broad and heavy, like stone pillars.

"Your hobbies, your life — it's all built around power," the mirror coaxed. "Iron. Brotherhood. Competition. Triumph."

And it was true. He remembered the heavy smell of the gym, the roaring engines of his motorcycle, the brothers he'd fought and laughed with. The empty hobbies of Evan — gaming, Netflix binges, scrolling social media — vanished, slipping from his brain like a bad dream.

He grinned, flashing perfect, strong teeth. Eric Steele. The name felt natural, like a second skin — no, like the only skin he'd ever worn.

The mirror stilled.

The man inside it no longer whispered, no longer coaxed. He simply stood, a reflection now, matching him perfectly. Matching Eric Steele.

There was no Evan. There had never been.

Eric ran a thick hand through his beard, feeling its heavy texture, admiring the way it framed his sharp jawline. His hand traced the curve of his powerful chest, the trail of hair down his torso, the sheer dense mass of himself. He was pride made flesh.

Without another thought, Eric turned from the mirror, his wide shoulders brushing the frame as he passed through the doorway into the rest of his reality — a world he didn't know had ever been different.

Behind him, the mirror stayed still.

Silent.

Waiting.

[librababe99]

In the Shadows of Gotham

cw: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, smut, Bruce Wayne x Girlfriend!Reader, fingering, p in v,  oral (f! receiving), overstimulation, body worship word count: 3.1K Summary: Bruce Wayne, the man who lives in the shadows of Gotham, the protector and savior of the city, has only one true weakness—you. After a long night of crime-fighting, Bruce returns home to indulge in your presence.

A/N: This is my first time writing for Bruce and I've had a few ideas swirling around for some time...I was ready to get something out! Happy reading <3

(Main masterlist) | (DC Masterlist) | (Marvel Masterlist)

The weight of Gotham’s night clung to the man you loved. Shadows danced through the large windows of Wayne Manor, wrapping their cold tendrils around the walls of the lavish bedroom where you lay waiting. The clock on the bedside table ticked past 3 AM, a constant reminder that Bruce was still out there, somewhere in the darkness, risking his life for the city that never slept.

You had grown used to the late nights, the endless hours of waiting, but tonight felt different. There was a heaviness in the air, thick with anticipation. You had caught glimpses of it over the last few days—how the tension seemed to coil around Bruce’s muscles like a bowstring, how his eyes darkened with an unspoken need whenever they settled on you. You could feel it building, the way you felt the storm brewing over Gotham before it broke the sky open.

The low, familiar sound of the Batmobile’s engine pulling into the hidden cave beneath the manor jolted you out of your thoughts. Bruce was home.

The idea made your heart race with a blend of excitement and nervousness. He had been so distant lately, his focus entirely on Gotham’s latest wave of crime. But tonight, as you lay in bed, waiting for him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to change.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing tall in the shadows of the room. Bruce Wayne. The man, the myth, the enigma wrapped in darkness. He shed the Bat like an old skin, letting it fall away as he stepped toward you. His broad shoulders were still encased in the black of his suit, but his cowl was off, revealing the intense blue of his eyes that locked onto you.

"You're awake," he said, his voice low and rough from the night's exertions.

"I couldn't sleep." Your voice was soft, inviting.

Bruce stood at the edge of the bed, towering over you. His gaze roamed over your form, lingering on the way your body was partially hidden beneath the sheets, but exposed enough to draw his attention. You felt the burn of his eyes on you like a physical touch, and heat bloomed in your core.

"You should rest," he murmured, though his voice was threaded with something darker, something deeper.

"I was waiting for you," you replied, sitting up slightly, the sheet slipping further down your chest, revealing the curve of your breasts.

His eyes darkened further, and a low growl of approval rumbled in his chest. "You shouldn't have to wait."

"But I want to," you whispered, your voice a breathy invitation. "I always wait for you, Bruce."

His control snapped like a taut wire. In a heartbeat, he was crawling onto the bed, moving with a predator's grace. He loomed over you, one hand coming up to cradle your face with surprising gentleness, while the other slid beneath the sheets, brushing over the softness of your skin.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he rasped, his lips inches from yours. "How hard it is to come back here night after night and not just...devour you."

"Then don't hold back," you breathed, leaning into his touch. "I want you, Bruce. All of you."

His lips crashed against yours in a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. It was desperate, needy, filled with all the pent-up emotion he'd kept locked away behind the mask he wore for Gotham. His tongue slid against yours, and you moaned into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair.

The hand that had been caressing your face moved down to grip your hip, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh, and it sent a wave of heat pooling between your legs.

But Bruce didn’t move to undress you right away. Instead, he pulled back, staring down at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

"I need to touch you," he said, his voice rough with desire. "All of you. I need to remind myself that you're here. That you're real."

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as he slowly peeled the sheet away from your body, exposing your naked form to his hungry gaze. His eyes roamed over every inch of you, as if he was memorizing the way you looked, committing it to memory in case he never got another chance.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with awe.

You flushed under his praise, your body trembling with anticipation as he lowered himself down beside you. His large hands, rough from years of fighting, slid over your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He started at your collarbone, his fingers tracing the delicate line of your neck before dipping lower to cup your breasts. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and you gasped, arching into his touch.

He took his time, worshipping every inch of you with his hands, his mouth following the path his fingers had blazed. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breast, the soft swell of your stomach. Each touch, each kiss, was slow, deliberate, as if he was savoring the taste of you, the feel of your skin beneath his lips.

You were lost in the sensation, your body humming with pleasure. But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

“Bruce,” you whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets as his mouth trailed lower, kissing along the inside of your thighs. “Please...”

He groaned against your skin, his breath hot as he kissed his way closer to where you needed him most. “Patience, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me take my time with you.”

You whimpered again, your body aching with need, but you knew better than to rush him. Bruce was a man who controlled every aspect of his life with iron discipline, and that control extended to the bedroom. He liked to draw things out, to savor the slow build of pleasure until you were trembling on the edge of release.

And that’s exactly what he did.

His mouth finally found your core, and you cried out as he dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, teasing you with featherlight touches. He hummed against you, the sound vibrating through your entire body as he tasted you. His tongue circled your clit, drawing tight, controlled patterns that had you gasping for air.

Your hands flew to his hair, gripping the dark strands tightly as he continued to torment you with his mouth. He licked and sucked, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault on your clit. You could feel the orgasm building, a tight coil of pleasure winding in your belly.

“Bruce,” you gasped, your hips bucking against his face. “I’m so close...please...”

He groaned again, his grip on your thighs tightening as he increased the pressure of his tongue, pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel the heat building, could feel yourself teetering on the brink of release.

And then he stopped.

You cried out in frustration as he pulled back, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Bruce, please...I need...”

“I know what you need,” he growled, crawling back up your body. His eyes were dark with lust, his pupils blown wide as he hovered over you. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you could protest, he was kissing you again, his mouth hot and insistent against yours. You could taste yourself on his lips, the salty sweetness of your arousal mixed with the raw, masculine flavor of him. It was intoxicating, and you couldn’t get enough.

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your slick entrance and slipping inside you. You moaned into his mouth, your body arching off the bed as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right to hit that sweet spot deep inside you.

“Bruce,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his back. “Please...I need...”

“You’ll get what you need,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. “But first, I want to feel you come around my fingers. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you clenched around his fingers as the coil of pleasure in your belly tightened once more. He added a third finger, stretching you in a way that was just on the edge of too much, but it felt so good that you couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat.

His thumb brushed over your clit, and that was all it took to send you tumbling over the edge. Your body seized, and you cried out as the orgasm crashed through you, your walls clenching around his fingers in waves of pleasure.

Bruce groaned, watching you with a look of pure, unadulterated lust as you fell apart beneath him. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “That’s my girl.”

You were still trembling from the aftershocks when he pulled his fingers out of you, his lips crashing against yours once more. You could taste yourself on his tongue, the tang of your release mixing with the roughness of his kiss.

Bruce pulled back, his chest heaving as he looked down at you, his eyes darker than the Gotham night. His hands were still on your trembling thighs, holding you open for him, and the way he gazed at you was as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. There was something primal in his expression, a need so deep it made your pulse race all over again.

"You're stunning when you come," he said in a low, gravelly voice, the sound vibrating deep in your chest. His fingers trailed up your thigh, teasingly grazing your oversensitive folds, and you whimpered at the sensation. You were still throbbing from your first orgasm, and even the slightest touch made you shiver with both pleasure and overstimulation.

But Bruce had other plans for you tonight. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I’m not finished with you yet, sweetheart.”

A thrill shot through you at his words. You could feel the weight of his desire pressing against your thigh, hard and insistent, but instead of giving in to his own need, Bruce seemed intent on worshiping you, on drawing out every ounce of pleasure he could. You had seen him like this before—focused, deliberate, a man on a mission. Only now, his mission was you.

You bit your lip as he kissed down your neck again, his lips and tongue tracing the path of your earlier shudders. He was slow, methodical, savoring the way your body responded to him. Your skin was hypersensitive after your release, and every kiss, every brush of his rough hands, sent sparks of sensation through you.

“Bruce…,” you breathed, unsure whether you were begging for more or asking for mercy.

His lips curled into a smirk against your skin. “Too much?” he asked softly, though there was a teasing note in his voice. His hand slid back between your legs, his fingers lightly tracing your swollen, soaked folds. "Or maybe... not enough?"

The ache between your thighs reignited at his touch, and you moaned softly, your body arching toward him. You were caught between the lingering sensitivity of your first climax and the overwhelming desire for more. The pleasure had barely faded, and already, you felt it building again. Bruce's fingers dipped inside you once more, stroking you with a maddening slowness that made you squirm beneath him.

"I want to feel you come again," he said, his voice rough with need. "I want to see how many times I can make you fall apart for me tonight."

His words, dark and delicious, sent a new wave of heat pooling in your belly. You could feel the tension returning, the slow, insistent pulse of pleasure building as Bruce continued to work his fingers inside you, his thumb brushing over your clit in rhythmic circles. You clenched around him, your body already betraying you, already chasing the high of release again.

He was relentless, patient, his fingers curling against that sweet spot deep inside you, his thumb rubbing circles around your oversensitive clit. You could barely think, barely breathe as the pleasure built higher and higher, threatening to overwhelm you. You had never been so close to overstimulation before, and it was both too much and not enough all at once.

“Bruce—please, I—I can’t…” You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“You can,” he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You will.”

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, his fingers moving faster inside you, and the coil of pleasure in your belly tightened so quickly you couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat. You were trembling, shaking with the intensity of it, your entire body on the verge of shattering under his touch.

Then, without warning, the orgasm hit you again, harder than before. Your vision blurred, your entire body arching off the bed as the pleasure exploded through you, wave after wave crashing over you. You cried out his name, your voice hoarse with the force of your release, and Bruce groaned in response, watching you fall apart beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Let go, sweetheart.”

Your body trembled with the aftershocks, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Bruce’s fingers slipped out of you, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, at the loss of his touch. But he wasn’t finished.

He kissed you again, his lips soft but insistent, and you melted into him, still shaking from the force of your second orgasm. His body pressed against yours, his hardness unmistakable as he settled between your legs. You could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, and it sent a fresh wave of desire coursing through you.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck. “But I need more. I need to be inside you.”

You moaned softly, your body still thrumming with overstimulation, but the thought of him filling you, of him finally giving in to his own desire, made the ache between your thighs flare with renewed intensity.

"Please," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. "I want you, Bruce. I need you."

He groaned at your words, his resolve crumbling as he reached down to line himself up with your entrance. He was thick, hard, and the moment the tip of him pressed against your slick heat, you gasped, your body arching toward him in anticipation.

Slowly, agonizingly, Bruce pushed inside you, stretching you in a way that had your toes curling in pleasure. You moaned softly, your hands gripping his biceps as he filled you completely, inch by inch. It was almost too much after everything he had already put you through, but the pleasure far outweighed the pain.

“God, you feel so good,” he growled, his breath hot against your neck as he finally bottomed out inside you. “So fucking tight. So perfect.”

He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feel of him, but you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles trembled with restraint. He was holding himself back for you, trying not to overwhelm you too soon, but you didn’t want restraint anymore.

"Bruce," you whimpered, rolling your hips against him, urging him to move. "Please…"

That single word broke him.

With a deep, primal groan, Bruce began to thrust into you, slow at first but with a growing intensity that had you gasping for air. Every stroke sent a shock of pleasure through you, your oversensitive body responding to him in ways you hadn’t thought possible. Each time he bottomed out, the head of his cock pressed against that sweet spot inside you, and the pleasure radiated outward, overwhelming you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your back arching off the bed as you moaned his name over and over again. He was relentless, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force, each thrust driving you higher and higher toward that precipice you had already tumbled over twice tonight.

"Look at me," Bruce growled, his hand gripping your jaw, tilting your head so that your eyes met his. His gaze was intense, filled with heat and adoration, and the sight of him above you, so consumed by his need for you, made your heart race. "I want to see you come for me again."

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. The tight coil of pleasure in your belly unraveled, and your orgasm hit you like a freight train. You cried out his name, your walls clenching around him, milking him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

Bruce groaned, his hips stuttering as your release triggered his own. With a deep, guttural moan, he buried himself inside you, his body trembling as he spilled into you. His thrusts slowed, becoming more erratic as he rode out his orgasm, until finally, he collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat and sated.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the sound of your ragged breaths mingling together. Bruce’s weight was comforting on top of you, grounding you as your mind slowly returned to your body. He didn’t pull out right away, staying inside you, still hard enough to keep you full as he kissed your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice rough but filled with something softer, something tender.

You smiled up at him, your hand sliding up to cup his face. "So are you."

Bruce let out a soft chuckle, his lips brushing against yours in a lazy, languid kiss. “I think I might’ve broken you,” he teased, his thumb tracing the curve of your swollen lips.

“You did,” you admitted with a breathless laugh. “In the best possible way.”

He rolled over onto his back, taking you with him so that you were lying on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and you let out a contented sigh as you snuggled into the warmth of his body.

“I could stay like this forever,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest, just above his heart.

Bruce smiled softly, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. “So could I.”

For a while, the two of you simply lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten. There was no crime, no shadows. There was only the two of you, tangled together in the aftermath of your shared pleasure, basking in the warmth of your love.

[tojisun]

um your ghostgaz blurb but also ghost letting gaz tip his head back onto his shoulder and squeezing at his base when he’s inside you so you can have a break from gaz humping your cunt until you both go dumb (and so simon can hear him keen out that ‘ah, right there, rightthere-‘ again)

AHHHHHHHHHHH YEA YEA !!! holy shit this is some good fuckin soup!!

“shh, pretty, ‘ve got you,” simon grunts in kyle’s ear, his words rumbling deeply.

it is a shared moment between the two of them, one that you’re once again a spectator of, but you don’t mind. not when you get a glimpse of kyle’s demeanour breaking for a quiet splintering in the hands of simon.

kyle bucks in his hold, trying to fuck into the tight fist of simon or into the warm press of your cunt, you don’t know, but it has simon tutting before forcing kyle to stop again. kyle keens, desperate for his orgasm, but god are you thankful for the break.

they had you for hours, either taking turns or taking you at the same time, and it has your body aching, pussy all sore and legs a trembling mush. simon massages at your thigh in placation, choosing to relay his affection through touch because this is still a scene—the one that the three of you easily fall into; the one where you are made to be used, often as a vessel to reflecr the guys’ love for each other, like you exist only for their mutual pleasure and not your own.

(objectification kink, the engine search bar had put out as a result of your question from when you were first included into their fold.

there were social media threads and official bdsm websites that expounded on the matter but you understood enough. it was pretty self explanatory, you thought, and, in the silence of your room, you trembled in excitement.

anticipation coursed through you in pinching waves, uncontainable as you waited for the weekend to come.)

so you lay there, watching with hunger as simon pressed his murmured kisses on kyle’s neck, his voice too quiet for you to pick up. but whatever simon is saying has kyle writhing, his body trembling, until he’s collapsing into simon’s chest, head tipped up for a breathy keen. you gasp out at the sound, your pussy squeezing at his cock for a moment, and kyle begins to weep.

simon rumbles a pleasured grunt, snarling something close to, “s’good f’me,” then his fist begins moving, bumping against your sore folds, then back up to the remaining shaft of kyle’s cock.

you blink, feeling saliva pool underneath your tongue as your desire peaks, bloating at the image they make—kyle, writhing and moaning, and simon jerking your lover so he can finally cum—

in you.

“almost—si—!” kyle screams, gasping at his heightening euphoria.

“good,” simon murmurs, slow and sensual, and his face all flushed. “cum f’me, baby. go on.”

you see the moment kyle’s orgasm razes him. his body locks up, his eyes are blown wide, and his jaw drops for a soundless moan. god, you know the feeling—that explosion of ecstasy that almost feels too surreal; like you’ve been ripped from your body and thrusted up into nirvana.

then, something warm trickles into you, spurting on the cushions of your walls. you cry, your exhausted body protesting at being pumped full again—they haven’t even let you squeeze out simon’s spill—and you swear you feel your stomach bulging. making room for kyle’s release.

it—

it shouldn’t turn you on but it does, and simon snaps his eyes back to you like he knows just what exactly is running in your head.

he grins, something that is a little too mean, and you realize that while kyle is done, simon has yet to get his fill.

fuck.

[breathing-neon]

[CLOSED STARTER FOR JUSTLOVERSREVENGE]

@justloversrevenge

Early afternoon in Eden was often one of the slower times of day, people in work, or in classes, or if you were really lucky, sleeping in late. The Medical district was always very busy no matter what time of day, someone was always getting injured somewhere, but there was always lulls.

Briar was very familiar with the Medical district. Being someone of poor health, and a diabetic to boot, he was in and out often, though today he was here for a class. Was being the key word. As he was idly at the bus stop, watching the flicker of the holo-ticker while waiting for his ride home, a sizable black car rolled to a stop in front of him, the low hum of the hover being cut off as it landed. An undistinguished man leaned out and asked if they were a doctor, and when they tried to answer that they were just a student, said it was good enough, practically grabbing them by the scruff and pulling them into the car.

Needless to say, this was probably one of the most terrifying moments of their life, but quickly, they were filled in on why they were needed.

A strange man was found and apprehended in the district bordering the Medical one, a man who seemingly showed signs of Florescent sickness. They needed a diagnosis to figure out what to do with him.

Briar was... Uneasy that they picked a student for that diagnosis but... At least he was very familiar with that sickness.

They don't know what building they're lead into, their vision mostly obscured by the man practically carrying them inside, though it was dark, and nondescript.

Their hooves echo on the tile, the room otherwise empty, leaving plenty of space for the sound to reverberate. A metal door stood in front of them, the dark dressed man moving forward to unlock it.

"You have as much time as you need to come to your conclusions. The patient is mostly passive, but did put up a small bit of a fight upon capture, keep on your toes." The man said simply, opening the door and gesturing for Briar to enter.

The room was just as dark as the rest of the building, but a faint white glow could be seen from the doorway. They... really didn't have any other choice so, donning a medical mask, they entered.

The room was just as sparse, a table and couple chairs, and a surface against the far wall with a few medical supplies scattered across the top, their ears folding down at the sight... It's a good thing they were just coming back from a class then...

"...Hello...?" They call out to the stranger. They know where he is, there was no way NOT to know but... They'd rather he allow himself to be known.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗗𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗜 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 - sixteen max vertsappen x  fem! driver! reader ( fluff ) series summary , a journey back to the p1 pedestal, buckle up

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests )

QUALIFYING Saturday August 24 2024 — Zandvoort, Netherlands

Zandvoort was burning orange.

The dunes were loud with love, the grandstands trembling beneath the stomps of Max’s people. Smoke flares painted the air with devotion—every shade of tangerine, fire, and sun. This was his kingdom. His crown.

And he was sitting on the edge of the bed, helmet off, elbows on knees, staring down at his hands like they’d betrayed him.

P2.

Not a disaster. Not even bad. But not what they came for.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the quiet storm swirling under his skin. He hadn’t said much since the race ended. Not since the checkered flag waved over Lando’s McLaren. The roar had dulled. The crowd, stunned. No one had known how to process it.

But you knew Max.

You knew that to him, home wasn’t just a race—it was sacred. A shrine to every fight he’d ever won, every corner he’d ever mastered.

"Hey," you whispered, nudging your knee against his. "You’re allowed to feel this."

He sighed, eyes still fixed on the floor. "I could’ve had him. Just—made the wrong call on a corner. That’s on me."

You shook your head, catching his chin gently between your fingers. "No. It’s racing. Sometimes, the strategy gods are just petty."

A ghost of a smile flickered. Not quite enough to chase the shadows out, but close.

"You’ve won this race three times," you said, voice soft but strong. "You gave them something to believe in. You still do. A streak doesn’t define you. One race doesn’t unmake a legacy."

He leaned into your touch without realizing, the silence wrapping around the both of you like a second skin. Outside, the noise had softened into twilight. The city glowing warm beneath the weight of orange hope.

RACE DAY Saturday August 25 2024 — Zandvoort, Netherlands

You sat in your RB cockpit, engine rumbling beneath you like thunder caged in carbon fiber. Max was just ahead, starting P2. You were P3. Lando sat on pole, twitchy in the orange McLaren.

One light. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Then none.

Lights out. And away they go.

Max launched like a bullet, wheels screaming, slicing into Turn 1 just behind Lando. You darted into the inside line, defending hard against Carlos who tried to lunge late. Tires kissed tarmac. Rubber burned.

“Nice start, Yn. You’re P3, holding strong.”

The first few laps were electric — Max tailing Lando, staying within DRS, breathing down the McLaren’s neck. You hovered a second behind, the gap a thread, ready to snap shut.

Lap 7.

Your race engineer crackled into your ear: “Yn, hold Lando up if you can. Max needs clean air. Don’t let the McLaren through.”

“Copy,” you grit out. You knew the game. You weren’t here to play pretty — you were here to protect your person.

You pushed harder, cutting through corners like a scalpel, tightening the gap. Lando’s rear wing danced in front of you. You lunged at Turn 3. He covered. Barely.

Lap 9.

You faked a dive into Turn 1 and watched him twitch in his mirrors. He was fast — annoyingly fast — but now he had to watch both sides.

Max took advantage, gapping by seven-tenths.

“Good job, Yn,” Max’s voice buzzed through a shared channel. Tired, clipped. Focused. But grateful.

You smiled under your helmet. “Don’t let it go to waste.”

Lap 15. — Lando clipped the kerb, almost wide — you dove into Turn 4, side-by-side — but the McLaren clawed back with brutal top speed down the straight. You tucked behind him, tires screaming, balance teetering on the edge.

The pit wall called you off. “Fall back a bit, Yn. Cool the tires. Save for later.”

You obeyed, but reluctantly. Lando peeled off you like a shadow shaken loose.

Lap 21. — Max was still leading. Barely. You were P3, 1.2 seconds behind.

“Box now, box now.”

Lap 23. — Max dove into the pits. The Red Bull crew worked like choreography — sub-two seconds. Clean.

You stayed out another lap, holding P2 for that brief shimmer of time.

“Lando in the pits. Copy that.”

Lap 24. — You boxed too. A slow rear left cost you two seconds. You screamed inside your helmet, but swallowed it. Got back on track.

When the pit cycle reset . . . 

Max P1. Lando P2. You P3. But the McLaren was close. Too close.

Lap 35. — The DRS opened — you saw the flash of silver in your mirrors, then Lando’s McLaren surged past you like a bullet. He didn’t even fight you.

He was going for Max.

You watched, helpless, as the papaya blur caught Max by Turn 10. DRS again. Max defended left. Lando dove right. Clean. Ruthless.

Lap 38. — McLaren led the Dutch GP.

You tried to chase — you really did. But now Max was trying to stay with Lando, and you were trying to stay with Max, and it felt like sand slipping through your fingers.

Lap 48. — No more pit stops. No more tricks. Unless Lando made a mistake . . .this race was his.

But Lando didn’t make mistakes.

The checkered flag waved. Lando crossed the line first. Max second. Still a podium. Still a roar from the crowd. But not the fairytale ending.

You met him at parc fermé. Max’s smile for the cameras was there — just barely. His hands trembled as he lifted the trophy on the podium, and you saw it. The cracks.

You found Lando first. Hugged him, grinning wide. “You drove like a menace. Proud of you, mate.”

Then you turned, pulled Max into a hug, whispered against his cheek, “You’re still their king. You just didn’t wear the crown today.”

Later, in his driver’s room, the silence felt like a scream. Max sat hunched on the bench, hands clasped between his knees, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. He wasn’t moving — just breathing, slow and shallow. You stood behind him, fingers tracing soft, slow circles between his shoulder blades, grounding him in the only way you knew how.

And then—

The door slammed open.

Jos.

His presence hit the room like a storm, sharp and cutting.

His voice followed, barking in Dutch, fast and furious:

“Wat een schande. Eén auto, Max. Eén verdomde auto en je liet hem gaan.” [What a disgrace. One car, Max. One fucking car and you let him go]

Max flinched like he’d been struck. That told you everything you needed to know.

Jos kept going, voice climbing, bitter with disappointment:

“Je had die overwinning. Maar nee, vakantie met dat meisje. Had je maar meer getraind.” [You had that win. But no, vacation with that girl. You should’ve trained harder]

Max didn’t lift his head. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense.

You stepped in front of him.

“Get out.”

Jos blinked, scoffing. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, stupid girl.”

You didn’t hesitate. You peeled your race suit halfway down, tying the sleeves around your waist with slow, deliberate defiance. The fireproofs clung to your skin like armor. You looked him dead in the eye.

“A stupid girl wouldn’t punch you in the face,” you said, voice like flint. “But I will.”

Jos took a step forward, incredulous. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Someone who loves him.” Your voice trembled, just once — but it didn’t break. “Someone who doesn’t tear him down when he’s already bleeding.”

Behind you, Max’s voice cracked the air — soft, broken:

“Stop. Please.”

You spun immediately, dropping to your knees in front of him. He grabbed for you blindly, hands fisting the fabric at your waist, forehead pressing to your chest. He shook in your arms, shoulders rising and falling with quiet sobs muffled against your body.

You held him.

Your eyes, over his trembling back, locked on Jos again. The rage in you was glowing white-hot, molten.

You didn’t have to say it. He knew. You did this to him.

Jos looked between the two of you. Then, for once, he said nothing. Just turned around and walked out, the door hissing shut behind him.

Max didn’t let go for a long time.

And you didn’t ask him to.

The hotel room was dim, the walls still echoing with the aftermath of Zandvoort. Of losing. Of expectations that never quite made it past the finish line.

Max wasn’t sad anymore. No—sadness had passed like a storm.

Now, he was angry.

At himself. At the strategy. At the track. At every tiny thing that stacked up into a second-place finish when he’d promised everyone gold.

You didn’t want him turning that anger inward, letting it rot inside his chest like it always did. Not at himself. Not at Lando. Not at the team.

So you did what you knew would work.

You made him hate the car (which was probably not the best idea).

“Fucking RB20,” you muttered against his lips, biting at them softly. “Didn’t deserve you today.”

Max growled something sharp and Dutch under his breath, teeth gritting as he pressed into you. Rough. Needy. Lost in that tangled haze of frustration and want.

You were both half out of your clothes, half gasping, skin on skin in the dark hotel suite. Max swore again, louder this time, his voice raw.

You kissed him to quiet it. “Shhh,” you whispered against his mouth, soft and slow. “Don’t let it win, Max. You’re not mad at you. You’re mad at the car. Let it stay that way.”

He buried his face in your neck, breath shuddering.

Then— His phone rang.

Both of you froze.

He was still inside you, motionless. One hand braced on the headboard, the other fumbling for the device.

Lando.

Max hesitated, chest rising and falling.

You raised a brow, lips parted. “Are you seriously—?”

He answered.

“What?” Max snapped, voice thick, slightly out of breath.

There was silence. Then something low, something familiar, Lando's voice on speaker just faint enough for you to catch pieces.

“ . . . I know it hurts, mate. But it was clean. You know that. You fought hard.”

Max didn’t reply.

“ . . . You’re still the bar. I just hit it today.”

Max let out a breath — long and slow, the edge dulling in real-time. He closed his eyes. The tension in his shoulders dropped like a stone falling through water.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I know.”

He hung up.

Neither of you moved for a second. The air in the room had shifted — sharp corners now softened. The storm had passed.

You tucked his hair back from his forehead, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Feeling better, champ?”

Max let his head fall into the crook of your neck, arms wrapping around you completely. “You and Lando both ruined my rage boner.”

You snorted. “Good. That thing needed to chill.”

Later, after the night had burned down into gentle embers and Max had changed into one of his oversized Red Bull hoodies, Leila came padding back into the hotel suite.

She’d spent the evening with Killian, drawing and eating room service desserts until her little stomach hurt. But now her eyes were sleepy and shining, clinging to her favorite plushie and rubbing one eye with her tiny fist.

“Can I come in now?” she asked, standing at the door in her socks like a polite little guest.

You nodded and opened your arms. “Always, baby.”

She scampered in and flopped dramatically on the couch beside Max, nestling between the two of you like she belonged there. Which—she did. She always had.

Max scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Hey, koekje. Wanna help me solve this thing?”

Leila blinked at the small puzzle he held up — one of those wooden ones shaped like a box that twisted and turned in secret ways.

She nodded, already reaching for it with sticky fingers. “I’m gonna solve it before you do,” she declared.

“Oh, really?” Max teased, poking her side. “You think you can beat me? I’ve got three world championships.”

“I have unicorn stickers,” she shot back confidently, which honestly, might’ve been more powerful.

You sat back quietly, watching them twist the puzzle around together, Max’s brows furrowed in fake seriousness while Leila giggled every time it clicked the wrong way. His hands were gentle, his voice soft. No sharp edges. No bitter words.

Just calm.

Just Max, finally calm.

You leaned against the armrest, one leg tucked under you, and just . . . watched. Letting the moment soak in. Letting yourself breathe. Letting your heart settle.

Because that anger from earlier? The storm, the shouting, the heartbreak of losing his home race?

It was gone now.

And this—this was the version of Max you loved most.

Not the fighter. Not the legend.

But the man who let a six-year-old sit in his lap and beat him at solving a puzzle.

You smiled, soft and warm and full. Because he was okay now.

Because he had you. And he had her.

And for tonight . . . that was everything.

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice. 

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply. 

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause. 

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 

“Kiss me again, then.” 

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him. 

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   

“Lie back.”  

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

[shybluebirdninja]

Bloodheat

Summary: His rough, feral mouth trails lower, and suddenly every vow you made to your husband burns away in the heat of Logan's desire.

Pairing            : Logan Howlett x Fem!Human-reader

Note                : Infidelity and cheating, cunnilingus, smut

The night air is thick, the kind that wraps around you like a heavy blanket, sticky and humid. The rumble of Logan's beat-up truck is the only sound cutting through the silence as he pulls off the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The cabin of the truck feels too small, too intimate, and your heart pounds louder than it should. You know this is wrong—so wrong—but fuck, the second Logan's hand brushes your thigh, all that guilt slips away like water through your fingers.

You glance over at him, his jaw set, eyes focused on the dark road ahead. There's something raw about Logan—something feral. His beard’s a little rougher tonight, and those strong hands gripping the wheel send a shiver down your spine. There’s no room for doubt, not anymore. You knew what you were doing when you climbed into his truck. You knew this wasn’t just a casual drive.

His voice breaks the silence, low and gravely, sending heat straight between your legs. “You wanna keep playin' house with him, or you gonna admit you’re already mine?”

That damn voice. It’s like whiskey and smoke, rich and dangerous. You don’t answer, but your body does, leaning closer, like it’s instinctual, like it’s always been him. Logan’s hand drifts higher on your thigh, his fingers rough and calloused, and you can’t stop the soft gasp that slips out.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and pulls the truck to a stop. The engine cuts off, leaving only the heavy sound of your breathing in the cab. His eyes meet yours, that familiar heat simmering just beneath the surface. “You got somethin’ to say, darlin’?”

You bite your lip, torn between the voice in your head telling you to run and the heat pooling low in your belly, making your skin buzz with anticipation. “Logan, this—” You try to speak, but he cuts you off with a rough, demanding kiss.

It’s not gentle. Nothing about Logan ever is. His lips crash into yours, a fierce hunger behind every move. His hands are everywhere at once, sliding over your waist, gripping your hips. It’s wild, untamed, and fuck, it’s everything you’ve been craving for weeks.

The guilt melts away, replaced by that electric fire he ignites in you every time he gets close. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers threading through his thick, dark hair, tugging him closer. You can feel the low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulls you onto his lap, his big hands sliding under your shirt, calloused fingers rough against your bare skin. Every nerve in your body is alive, buzzing with need.

Logan’s mouth moves from your lips to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone. He bites down just enough to leave a mark, and you gasp, arching into him. “Fuckin’ missed you,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick with need.

Your hands fumble with the button on his jeans, desperate, but Logan grabs your wrists, holding them still. “Not yet,” he growls, his eyes dark and dangerous, pupils blown wide. “I got plans for you first.”

Before you can process his words, he’s sliding you off his lap, pushing you back onto the worn leather seat. His hands are on your jeans, undoing the button and yanking them down in one smooth motion. The air hits your skin, cool against the heat radiating from your body, but that’s the last thing on your mind when Logan settles between your legs, pulling you closer with that trademark Wolverine smirk on his lips.

He spreads your thighs wide, eyes locked on yours, and the way he’s looking at you—like he’s about to devour you whole—sends a shiver of anticipation through you. There’s nothing rushed about the way he leans in, taking his sweet time, letting you feel every second of his lips ghosting over your skin. “You taste so fuckin’ good, y’know that?”

Your breath hitches as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, so close to where you want him, but not close enough. “Logan, please…” The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, need dripping from every syllable.

He grins against your skin, rough and teasing. “Beggin’ already?” He lets out a low chuckle, then finally—finally—his mouth is on you. His tongue flicks out, slow and torturous, and your back arches off the seat as pleasure floods your body. It’s like he’s claiming you with every lick, every pull of his lips around your clit, and it’s so fucking good you can’t think straight.

His beard is rough against your inner thighs, rubbing deliciously against your skin as he works you over with his mouth. You can’t stop the soft moans escaping your lips, can’t stop your fingers from tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. Logan groans against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your whole body.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips bucking up against his mouth, but Logan grips your thighs, holding you down with that impossible strength of his. His tongue moves faster now, flicking and sucking, and the tension inside you coils tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

It’s too much, too good. “Logan, I—” You can’t get the words out, and he knows exactly what you need. He sucks hard on your clit, and that’s it—you’re gone, your whole body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

The pleasure hits you like a freight train, intense and overwhelming, and you feel yourself gush, the slick wetness covering Logan’s mouth and beard. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, drinking up every drop like he’s starving for it, his growls vibrating against your sensitive skin. You whimper, overstimulated, but he just smirks, beard soaked and glistening in the dim light of the truck.

“Damn, you taste even better when you’re comin’ all over my face,” he growls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s far from done. He leans back, eyes raking over your still-trembling body, and the hunger in his gaze makes your breath catch. “Think you got another one in you, darlin’? 'Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

You can only nod, the words lost somewhere between the lingering pleasure and the heat building inside you all over again. Logan’s already got you addicted, and you know you’ll never be able to go back.

[nashusglasses]

re: my Twitter thread on mechanic!sylus AU and mc who doesn’t give a fuck about their ugly beater car. happy main story day @ sylus mains!!!!! warning: lots of car lingo, too much flirting, sylus loving hot and nonchalant mc. 1.7k wc

divider by thecutestgrotto

You pull up to the open garage door, roll down the front passenger window to yell out, "Am I good to come in?" He's stunlocked into nodding assent. This is the ugliest fucking car he's ever seen.

Old Man Abernathy comes to Sylus' garage every five thousand kilometres driven on his Surveyor. It's still a tank at almost 18-years-old, no visible tarnish on the baby blue paint. The only pressing issue Sylus has only ever seen him come in for was a transmission failure two years ago. Abernathy is, by default, Sylus' favourite customer. A car taken care of will take care of you.

Today is a simple oil change. They talk about gas prices, the newest crossover SUV that Byora is releasing next year (they both agree the engine is way too overkill for a such a practically-built car). When Abernathy slaps Sylus's hand with four $20 bills, he asks: "Do you have availability later today?"

Sylus takes the money, wipes his dirty hands with an already-stained rag. "I have a break between 3 to 5."

"I have a niece," Abernathy starts. He slips his fraying wallet into his back pocket, rounding the front of his car to the driver's door. "I've been pestering her to get her oil changed too but she's too busy with work. Today's her day off."

"Tell her she can stop by, then." Then he takes one of the bills Abernathy gave him, pinched between two fingers for easy taking, reaching over the hood of the car. "Here. Referral bonus."

Abernathy just shakes his head, then tells him his niece's name. "I'll call her to come over at 3:30, then." He looks down at the bill Sylus still keeps outstretched toward him, face wrinkled in what Sylus can only assume is an expression of sympathy. "Trust me. You should keep it."

Sylus doesn't understand his parting words until you show up two hours later.

The first thing he notices isn't even your car, it's the sound of it. He's convinced for one millisecond that it's a straight piped Civic. Tuned for maximized volume, zero efficiency, just the loud, droning rumble that disturbs everything and everyone around you for the sake of insane street cred.

You pull up to the open garage door, roll down the front passenger window to yell out, "Am I good to come in?"

He's stunlocked into nodding assent. This is the ugliest fucking car he's ever seen.

It's a super compact two-seater Scorpio, and from the look of the headlights he guesses it's the 2032 model, red all over with orange trims. Your bumper is ziptied to the front end, and when you pull in even further all his guesses of a straight pipe turn into dust when he sees your muffler is literally just… gone. There's a sticker above the car logo that says if you come any closer I'll fart on you. The paint on your fender is bruised off with a tacky duct tape job.

Well. At the very least you have a tank of a car, too. Even if the outside looks like it's in active decay, old Scorpios like yours hold well enough into 300k mileage.

The only good thing he can glean from your presence as you come out of the car is your inherited timeliness from your uncle. That, and the fact that you are not at all what he'd imagined you'd look like. Old Man Abernathy is wan, lungs shot to hell with tar from excess smoke, sporting the pot belly of pot bellies. You're bouncing with life, your pretty smile dimming only because you notice he's just ogling at your car. Sylus is trying to come up with a greeting. He really is.

He's just—he's just never seen such an ugly fucking car.

"I take it Uncle told you Ladybug only needed an oil change." Sylus doesn't miss how you say only. Like you knew your shit-for-nothing car definitely need more than just an oil change, but you either 1) don't have the cash for it, or 2) don't really care for it.

Sylus finally stops staring at your bumper, gearing straight into work mode. "Ladybug," he repeats.

You nod. "My car."

Right. Red and round and seasoned. "Make yourself comfortable there," he says, gesturing to a worn faux-leather seat right next to his toolkit. He makes his way to the driver's door, opens it with way too much force, and cringes at the awful creaking sound it makes. "I would offer the pretty lady coffee, but I'm out of coffee beans."

You raise an eyebrow at his very obvious attempt of flirting—you might have a terrible sense for car maintenance, but you are, admittedly, very cute, and he's never been one to lessen sweet talk even if the present circumstances suggested otherwise—and take a seat. "That's too bad. I was hoping the handsome mechanic would offer me something to pass the time."

Sylus is glad you didn't take his goggling to heart, but he also didn't think you'd go toe for toe so quickly. He hides his smile behind the wheel as he bends over to pull at the hood release lever inside.

The hood pops. It sounds like a tiny explosion.

"You buy this secondhand?" He goes to wrench the hood up. It's a typical sight: dried leaves wedged randomly into metal, too much dust, some rusting on the screws. The terminals on your battery are green with corrosion. And of course, there's no built-in prop. Sylus has to walk past you to get his own. You smell like laundry, minty gum, a welcome freshness in the stale grey of his garage.

"Yeah. Bought it from my sister-in-law when she started her family." He feels your eyes on him when he comes back to prop the hood up. He flexes unconsciously, suddenly very thankful he's wearing a clean tank top. Probably sweatstained but he hopes it adds to the allure. "Why? Is it that obvious?"

Sylus pulls at the oil dipstick (which, thankfully, you still have, and he would have been deeply concerned if you'd somehow lost it, which he thinks, a little meanly, that it is well within your range to do something like that). The oil's a little past the low marker, and the colour suggests some coolant leakage. He's secretly relieved. He's most definitely seen worse.

"I don't usually see bumpers held by zipties on cars people bought from the dealership." In other words, it's perfectly normal to see someone with a beater car be a little more careless with it. A curved license plate from hitting a pole, scratches near the rear lights from a near-miss with a truck.

"I guess," you sigh. "I just—I'm always so busy with work. I needed a car that'd get me from point A to point B."

Sylus hums. Next: fixing your car to the lift after putting the dipstick back and closing the hood. Ladybug ascends (flies?) with a press of a button, suspended in the air by large metal arms for Sylus to inspect the bottom. "And would I be correct to assume Ladybug does the job perfectly for you?"

You nod. "She hasn't failed me yet."

"Keyword being yet," he teases. "Are you sure you're only here for an oil change?"

Suddenly you're very interested in his rack of tools on the wall. A subtle refusal to match the gaze he levels you with, and he can't tell if it's an act of shyness or denial. "You're just good at selling your service."

Sylus slides his oil reservoir under the drain plug, unscrews it with a wrench. He watches the oil drip heavy. Sylus wants to say, I don't want to be held liable for letting you leave my garage in a death machine, but very cordially responds with, "What if I just want you to stay a little longer?"

"Then you're good at selling your service and being a flirt," you answer. Then you laugh, and Sylus thinks he wants to hear that sound forever. "I know Ladybug is… worn-out."

"That is an understatement."

"But as long as I'm keeping up with regular maintenance, then what's the point of shelling out money on things that don't really matter?"

Now it's his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Your uncle had to convince you to come see me."

"And I listened. Thank you for taking me in, by the way."

"You're welcome." His hands are automatic, a handbook for knuckles. Filter replaced, sealed, wiped down with his rag, oil drum pushed out of the way. "How long is your typical braking distance?"

You take a beat. You watch as Ladybug comes down the lift, now. "Long enough," you murmur.

Sylus is about to rub a tired hand down his face, then remembers there's sticky oil on it. "So a brake pad check next."

"She's fine," you insist, and Sylus really can't help the incredulous look he gives you. You give in to the concern, and add: "Really. Thank you though."

He's the last person to argue with a client about what they're paying for, but he has this weirdly extreme urge to keep you here. Your casual indifference to the terrible state of your car is hilarious at best, concerning at worst. What kind of person would he be if his favourite customer's referral was left feeling unsatisfied? His business acumen would fly out the window. Ran over to filth on the concrete by a little ugly tank named Ladybug.

"Tell you what," Sylus says as he pops the hood again, gets the oil jug ready to pour. "Come back and I'll change your brake pads for free."

"That's not—"

"And I won't charge you for today, either."

You shut up. You don't say anything until Sylus has finished closing the oil cap, set all his tools aside. When he turns back around, you're looking at him like he's hung all the stars in the sky, and he has the scary feeling that he'd do it all for you in a heartbeat.

"Good to go," he says, and like he feared, you start rifling through your wallet to pay him. "I already told you—"

You shake your head fast in disbelief, exactly the same way your uncle did. "That's asking too much of you."

"Nonsense. I've already offered you an alternative way of paying. And…" He crosses his arms. Makes special note of the way you immediately notice the hardness of muscle. "I still owe you that cup of coffee."

There it is. Easy bait. You squint your eyes at the challenge, let his proposition marinate in dead silence.

Then you stick your hand out and finally say, "Deal," and Sylus's lungs expand in… relief? Excitement? You look gorgeous when you're satisfied. Your hand, soft in his callous. "I'll text you."

He doesn't dare wipe the feeling of you away until you and Ladybug rev off into the evening.