"In Tokyo's underground, there are only two currencies that matter—respect and reputation. When someone threatens to take both, you don't just race them. You destroy them."
next | index | wc: 3.5k
↦author's note : Soooo here we fucking go. I've been obsessing over this story for months—I think we all know that lmaooo I think I posted the teaser like a couple months ago and I was devastated because it barely got 50 notes. But you know what, this was still in my head so I did write some drabbles—and I kind of shaped the prologue, which is what you're gonna read below hahaha. "But Kiki we just sent you 45 asks telling you to rest" AND I SAID SIKE??? No actually, I'm okay I promise! Usually writing different stories is what prevents me from burning out, because I get frustrated with the same storyline so it's like… I write something else and my brain goes 'yay thanks'. You know, ADHD—shiny new toy, mind dances to the music. Anyways, so. I love this. I love this because as always I get to experiment with different personalities and psychological backgrounds and what I fucking love about these two is the masks they wear and how opposite they are. He's cocky and arrogant, but in a different way FMU!jungkook is. She's determined and ambitious, always pushing for more, but still very distinct from all my other Y/N's because she's handling different situations (you'll see in later chapters). And Hachiroku and Jaque aren't just racing personas—they're escapes. And what makes this delicious is that they're running from opposite lives. One from privilege, one from struggle. Both finding freedom in the same five seconds at the starting line. And yes, the cars matter. They're not just vehicles; they're extensions of identity. The AE86 is legendary for a reason—not the most powerful, but perfectly balanced in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they're doing (sound familiar?). Meanwhile, the R34 Skyline is raw, unapologetic power held in check by someone who understands precisely when to unleash it. AS ALWAYS—READ THE AUTHOR INTRO AND TW listed in the index post. This is a must before reading this story. Fair warning: this isn't going to be a clean race. These characters are messy. They make decisions that will make you want to scream at them. They'll crash into each other's lives and leave debris everywhere, and the kind of attraction that feels like a guardrail giving way on a mountain pass. But that's the point, isn't it? The most interesting stories happen in the dangerous curves. So buckle up. We've got a long road ahead. Ready? Light's about to turn green.
Edit: prologue takes place 6 months before the main storyline!
Respect isn't given in Tokyo's underground—it's paid in cash or blood.
You roll the cherry lollipop against your teeth, counting seconds in your head like engine timing.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since you left Kalo and his overpriced Supra in your rearview on the Hakone downhill, his taillights disappearing around the corner while you took the perfect line through the hairpin that everyone else brakes too hard for.
It's nighttime at Daikoku.
You cross one leg over the other, letting your heeled boot dangle casually off the edge of your AE86's hood. The mini skirt wasn't a random choice. Neither was showing up without your racing gear.
Because tonight isn't about driving—it's about collecting.
"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."
You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.
"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."
"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."
You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.
The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.
Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.
"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"
You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"
"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"
"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."
Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."
"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."
"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"
"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."
The memory brings a slight smile to your face.
The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.
The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.
"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"
You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."
"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.
"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."
A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.
Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.
"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."
Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"
"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."
"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."
You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.
You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.
"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."
"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.
Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.
"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."
"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.
"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."
You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."
"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."
Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."
"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"
"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."
The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.
Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.
Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.
Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.
"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.
Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."
You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.
Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.
Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.
"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"
"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."
Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.
Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.
"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.
"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."
That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.
Hayato's record has stood for three years.
This guy has broken it in a month.
Who the fuck is this?
Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.
Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.
"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."
You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.
His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.
Or more specifically, on you.
He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.
"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.
You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."
But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.
You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.
You've never been the first to look away.
"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."
"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.
Just because you had to look back at Kenji.
"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."
You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.
"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."
Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.
"You want to find out, don't you?"
"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."
You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.
Kalo.
Your head snaps toward the source.
The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.
"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"
Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"
"He just mentioned Kalo."
Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"
No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.
"Excuse me," you say, already moving.
Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."
You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.
Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.
He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.
Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.
And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.
Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.
You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.
Not subtle about it at all.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.
One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.
You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"
He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.
Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.
"Why so serious, princesa?"
It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.
"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.
"And I asked you one too."
He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.
"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"
The description is so accurate you almost smile.
Almost.
"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."
His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.
Smart.
Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.
"And how would you know about that?" you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder.
"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)
"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."
"I'm observant."
His eyes lock with yours.
"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."
Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.
Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.
"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.
"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"
"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."
"From a guy who isn't here."
He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.
"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.
"And you know that how?"
"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."
You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.
"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.
"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."
That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.
"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."
You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.
"I'll pay you double what he owes you."
The words stop you mid-step.
You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.
"Excuse me?"
Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.
They’re gleaning.
"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."
Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.
"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"
You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.
But he’s not done.
"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."
"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."
"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."
You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.
"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."
"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."
You narrow your eyes.
Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"
You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.
But.
Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.
Like he already knows your answer before you do.
And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.
"One race," you hear yourself say.
Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.
"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."
"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."
"If," you correct.
"When." He doesn't back down.
One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.
Hinoki.
"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."
"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"
The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.
"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."
He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."
From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.
Word travels fast in this world.
"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."
He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.
"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."
You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"
His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."
Death has a rhythm.
Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.
The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.
Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.
He's not even looking at the road.
Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.
Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.
You grip your steering wheel tighter.
Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.
"Ready!" Kenji shouts.
You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.
"Set!"
Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.
Winks.
What the fuck is his problem?
Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.
"GO!"
You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.
The Skyline stays even.
First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.
Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.
The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.
Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.
"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.
Should.
Doesn't.
The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.
Until the straightaway.
The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.
But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.
He passes you.
Not aggressively. Not dangerously.
Just... efficiently.
Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.
"No fucking way."
You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.
No guardrail. No room for error.
Normal people brake early here.
Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.
You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.
You exit the corner a car length behind him.
"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.
The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.
It's where precision matters more than power.
You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.
The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.
You know exactly how much space you need.
You dive for the gap.
For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.
Then he does something impossible.
Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.
The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.
You brake.
The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.
But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.
"What the actual—"
The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.
And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.
For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.
It's not enough.
The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.
The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.
You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.
The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.
You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.
Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.
Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.
His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.
And something stops the words in your throat.
He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.
When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.
Just... satisfaction.
Like he's found something he's been looking for.
His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.
"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.
You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.
✧ main story ✧ wc: 14,8k ✧ pairing: jimin x f!reader ✧ rating: 18+
✧ genre: latino!jimin, tokyo drift AU, street racing, rivals to lovers
🚦 rundown ;
"They say, in racing, everything gets decided the five seconds before the light turns green."
"Ready?" he murmurs.
"Jimin."
"Yeah?"
"Put it in"
His exhale shakes against your mouth.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay—”
He pushes in, inch by inch, the stretch of him filling you in a way that makes your mouth fall open and your nails find his shoulders and your brain go completely, catastrophically blank.
Because—
Oh.
Oh, that’s—
You’ve had sex before. You’ve had sex plenty of times. With Rei, in nice beds with nice sheets, and it was fine. It was always fine. Comfortable. Familiar.
This isn’t that.
This is your legs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper because your body wants more before your brain has finished processing enough.
He bottoms out.
Stills.
His forehead drops against yours. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your lips. His arms are shaking where they brace against the hood—that same tremor from before, except now he’s inside you and you can feel it everywhere.
“Tight,” he manages. “Hachi—you’re—fuck—”
You clench around him. Not on purpose. Involuntary. Your walls fluttering in these small, rhythmic contractions that you can’t control and didn’t know your body did.
His hips jerk. Forward. Half an inch deeper that shouldn’t be possible and a sound punches out of your chest—
“Ah—”
High. Thin. Needy in a way that makes your face burn because who made that noise. That wasn’t you. You don’t make noises like that. You’ve never made noises like that in your life. With Rei you were quiet. Controlled. Occasionally a soft exhale or a practiced moan timed to his rhythm because that’s what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Make the right sounds at the right times. Perform.
This isn’t performing.
This is your body making sounds without your permission because Park Jimin is inside you and your nervous system has apparently been asleep for years and just woke up screaming.
He starts to move, slow at first. Long pulls that drag the length of him against your walls—out until just the tip remains, then back in, deep, bottoming out with a controlled roll of his hips that makes the 86’s suspension creak beneath you.
“You feel—” His voice is wrecked. Shattered at the seams. “—Hachi, you feel increíble—”
He thrusts again. Deeper. The angle shifts and the head of his cock drags against something inside you that makes your legs lock tight around his waist.
“Oh—oh god—”
Too loud. Way too loud.
Your hand flies to your own mouth—
He catches your wrist. Pulls it away.
“Don’t.” His eyes find yours. Dark, focused, that laser-lock intensity he gets behind the wheel. “I told you. I want to hear you.”
“I’m being—nnh—loud—”
“Good.” He thrusts. “Be loud.”
“People will—ah—”
“Nobody’s coming back here, Hachi.”
Another thrust. Harder. Your back slides against the hood and he pulls you back by the hips, flush against him.
“And even if they did—” His mouth finds your ear. “—you’d still be making those sounds. Porque me encantan.” (Because I love them.)
➜ Coming: When we hit the WP vote goal. <3
Don’t forget to vote ⭐️ last chapter on wattpad!
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"The thing about living a double life is that eventually, the lines blur. And when they do, you realize one of those lives was never really yours to begin with."
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↦author's note: Hi. Hello. Yes. It's me again. Back on my bullshit. (╯□_□) Welcome to the fic where I apparently decided that "you know what would go crazy? If Jimin was Latino, dangerously charming, emotionally layered, and casually obliterated me with a phone call to his baby brother." So here we are. This story is set in Tokyo's underground street racing scene because I have exactly two moods: high-octane chaos and identity crisis. And guess what? This fic is both. We're following a Y/N who is not the typical "relatable girly with a shit job and a dream." No. This Y/N has money. Like money money. Corporate-heiress-pressure-cooker-money. Unrelatable? Maybe. But I wanted to explore what it means to be trapped even when you "have it all." Because sometimes your prison has marble floors and a driver's license with your dad's last name on it. And then there's Jimin. Who, yes, is Latino in this one. Because the power. The flavor. The emotional complexity. Because I couldn't stop thinking about the boy who speaks different languages depending on who's listening and smokes like it's the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. And because I desperately wanted to give him a backstory that feels lived in—messy family dynamics, financial trauma, and protectiveness so sharp it's basically a character flaw. (Also, his pet names are lethal. Just sayin'.) This fic is about duality. Public image versus private life. Corporate obligation versus personal freedom. The daughter and the driver. The mechanic and the monster you have to be to survive in a world built for people who look like your father. Jimin and Y/N exist in parallel—each of them double-lifing through their days, hiding parts of themselves behind steering wheels and sarcasm. And I'm obsessed with the way their masks crack in front of each other. ALSO. Yes, Jimin speaks a lot of Spanish here. And I did include translations in parentheses where it matters to the narrative. For short expressions or filler phrases that don't really add anything to the dialogue (like "ay, pues" or "nah, hermano"), I either left them be or translated them only if it shifted the tone/context. If you're wondering "what did he just say," trust me—if it's important, it's already translated. And if it's not important, it's flavor, not plot. You're safe. You don't need Duolingo. (But like… maybe you want it after this fic. I won't judge.) This chapter ended up… long. Because I love suffering and also because I have zero restraint when it comes to character psychology, apparently. So if you're here for racing scenes and sexual tension and moral ambiguity and emotional repression in leather jackets? Buckle up. We're going full throttle from here. Edit: reminder that chapter 1 takes place 6 months after the prologue!
The Hayashi legacy weighs forty-seven million yen per quarter, and tonight it feels like every yen is sitting on your chest.
You walk out of the conference room with that smile still glued to your face—the one you've perfected over more than twenty years of being the perfect daughter, the ideal heiress, the future of Hayashi Motors Corporation.
Each step brings you closer outdoors. Each step means a flick of your kitten heels against the marble floor of the corporate building. Each step means freedom.
"Excellent points during the quarterly review, Y/N-san," your father had said, pride gleaming in his eyes as the board members filed out. "Your suggestions for the new electric vehicle division show remarkable foresight."
You'd nodded. Smiled. Thanked him for his confidence in your vision.
You hadn’t mentioned that you'd spent the last three hours fantasizing about ramming your pen through the mahogany table when Nakamura-san had questioned your engineering credentials for the fifteenth fucking time.
Or that when board member Sato had asked if you thought you were ‘ready for such responsibility at your age,’ you'd wanted to remind him that you've been rebuilding engines since you were sixteen and probably know more about automotive dynamics than his entire golf club combined.
But Hayashi daughters don't lose their composure. Hayashi daughters smile politely and prove themselves through results, not outbursts.
Hayashi daughters are perfect.
The elevator ride down is not—because it feels endless.
Forty-three floors of suffocating corporate air, each ding marking another level between you and the person you actually want to be.
Your reflection stares back from the polished steel doors—black Armani blazer, pearl earrings, hair pulled back in a sleek chignon that your mother's stylist spent an hour perfecting this morning.
You look exactly like what you are: the face of Japan's automotive future, groomed and polished to perfection.
But perfection means nothing to you if it doesn’t come in four fucking wheels.
The parking garage is a different world.
Darker. Quieter. Real.
Your steps quicken as you approach the sleek Mercedes S-Class—the car that screams ‘responsible heiress who makes sound financial decisions.’ The one you drive to corporate events, family dinners, any place where appearances matter more than what's under the hood.
But tonight, appearances can go fuck themselves.
You slide into the driver's seat and immediately feel the weight pressing down on your shoulders, your chest, behind your fucking eyes.
Three hours of quarterly projections, market analysis, and thinly veiled suggestions that maybe you should consider ‘sharing leadership responsibilities’ with a more experienced male colleague.
Three hours of nodding along while grown men who've never held a wrench explained automotive engineering concepts you learned before you could legally drive.
Your hands shake as you grip the steering wheel.
It all cracks.
Your forehead drops forward, hitting the leather with a soft thud, and your fingers tangle in your hair—fuck that stupid chignon anyways.
A shaky exhale escapes your lips, then another, and for just a moment in the darkness of underground parking level B3, you let yourself feel the exhaustion that's been building for months.
The quarterly reviews are getting more intense. The board meetings more demanding. The expectations heavier.
Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you just... stopped. Stopped smiling through the condescension. Stopped proving yourself to men who measure your worth in profit margins rather than skill. Stopped pretending that sitting in conference rooms talking about market demographics is what gets your blood pumping.
But that's not an option.
The Hayashi name doesn't get to quit.
You take three deep breaths—in through your nose, out through your mouth, the way you know how to control adrenaline spikes.
Center yourself. Focus on what matters.
Tonight, what matters is speed.
You reach into the back seat for the gym bag you strategically placed there this morning.
Inside: worn jeans, a black tank top, your racing jacket with the faded sponsor patches, and the fingerless gloves that have seen more action than your corporate wardrobe ever will.
And really, changing clothes in a car? Not ideal.
Luckily for you, it requires a specific kind of coordination you've perfected over the years.
Blazer off, carefully hung to avoid wrinkles—because if your mother sees it tomorrow morning looking anything less than pristine, there will be questions.
Pearl earrings removed and tucked into the center console.
Hair tie pulled free, letting your hair fall to your shoulders in a way that feels like salvation.
Of course, the transformation is more than cosmetic.
As you pull on the jeans, you can feel your breathing slow. Tank top over your head, and your shoulders relax for the first time in hours. The racing jacket slides on immediately, and when you zip it up, you're not a Hayashi, no automotive heiress, no board meeting survivor.
You’re just… you.
And that you knows where she’s going tonight.
The underground parking garage has a service exit that most people don't know about. You discovered it during your rebellious teenage years, when you first started sneaking out to watch street races from highway overpasses.
Now it's your escape route—a way to slip from one world into another without anyone noticing the transition.
Your real car is waiting three blocks away in a rented garage space that doesn't appear on any family financial records.
Your beautiful, sweet AE86.
Black and white paint scheme that earned you some stupid ‘panda’ nickname.
But it doesn’t matter, because tonight—as many others—this is your ticket to freedom.
You start the Mercedes.
No soul, no personality, just reliable transportation from point A to point B.
Everything your family expects from both their vehicles and their daughter.
But as you navigate through Tokyo's late-night traffic toward the garage where your real car waits, you can feel your pulse quickening.
Because earlier, Maya texted that there's a gathering at the docks. Nothing official, just people showing off their builds, talking shit, maybe some impromptu runs if the mood strikes. The kind of casual meet where you can breathe, where your worth is measured in tenth-of-a-second reaction times rather than quarterly profit projections.
And you need this.
Need the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber. Need the sound of engines being pushed to their limits. Need to remember who you are when you're not performing the role of perfect daughter.
You need to move toward the place where the Hayashi name doesn't matter and the only thing that counts is how fast you can make eight-six liters of pure joy scream down a stretch of asphalt.
The thing about earning your place at the top of Tokyo's food chain is that punctuality becomes optional.
You pull into the lot twenty minutes after Maya's text, because showing up on time is for rookies still trying to prove they belong. The ones who circle the block three times before working up the courage to park. The ones who check their mirrors obsessively, making sure their cars look perfect from every angle.
You? You just fucking drive.
The familiar crunch of gravel under your tires signals home in a way that marble corporate floors never will.
Engine off, and immediately you can hear it—the symphony that makes your pulse quicken. Revving engines, bass lines thumping from custom sound systems, the occasional screech of someone showing off with a burnout.
This is your world. The one where board meetings and quarterly projections don't exist.
Your AE86 settles and you can already feel eyes tracking your movement.
You've earned every glance, every nod of respect, every whispered comment about how the panda-colored Toyota shouldn't be able to keep up with cars worth ten times as much—but somehow always does.
You scan the lot for Maya's ridiculous purple Silvia, but before you can locate her in the maze of modified metal, a familiar arm snakes around your neck from behind.
"My giiiiirl," Maya drawls, and there's that tilted accent she gets when she's been drinking or fighting or both.
Probably both, knowing Maya.
You chuckle and drive your elbow back into her ribs, just hard enough to make her grunt.
"Dramatic much?"
"Always," she grins, but doesn't let go of your neck. Maya's version of affection usually involves some form of minor violence, which explains why she gets along so well with the racing scene. "You missed the opening act."
"So where's the twins, huh?" You ask, sliding your keys into your jacket pocket.
Maya's grin turns sharp. "Twins have been dealt with."
You frown. "Huh?"
Instead of answering, Maya just tilts her head toward the far end of the lot, and your stomach does something complicated when you follow her gaze.
A midnight purple R34 Skyline GT-R.
Him.
Jaque fucking stands near his car like he owns not just the vehicle but the entire lot it's parked in.
The bastard who handed you the only loss of your racing career.
The one who earned his place here by beating you, which means he gets to be in this lot, in your crew, in this weird little bubble where surnames don't matter at all; but rather how fast you can make your car scream.
One loss.
O n e.
But apparently that's all it takes to earn yourself a permanent pain in the ass who shows up to every meet like he's got some kind of standing invitation to make your life complicated.
Maya snorts behind you as you start walking toward the Skyline, but she follows anyway, because Maya never misses a good show.
And this? This is definitely going to be a show.
Your boots crunch against loose gravel and cigarette butts as you cross the lot. A few conversations pause as you pass—the usual mix of admiration and speculation that follows you wherever you go in this scene.
But tonight something is making your spine straighten and your hands curl into loose fists at your sides.
Because Jaque isn't just here.
He's here and apparently he's been ‘dealing with’ the Tanaka twins, which could mean anything from out-racing them to putting them in the hospital.
And knowing the twins' habit of running their mouths about your car, your driving, your right to be here in the first place, you're not entirely sure which outcome you'd prefer.
His car still feels warm, oozing off expensive modifications from here—high-octane fuel, performance oil, the metallic scent of carbon fiber still warm from whatever run he just finished.
Everything about the car screams money and precision, the kind of build that most people spend years saving for.
But you know better than most that the car is only as good as the driver behind the wheel.
And Jaque?
Jaque is very, very good.
"Jaque."
The name comes out flat. Matter-of-fact. Like you're reading from a grocery list instead of addressing the one person who managed to crack your perfect record.
He looks over his shoulder, and that glance transforms into something that makes your stomach do things you refuse to acknowledge.
Full-blown smirk, eyes included.
It spreads across his face like spilled oil, slow and inevitable.
He lowers his sunglasses—the ones he always wears even at nighttime because apparently being cocky as hell isn't enough, he also has to be stupid—and raises his eyebrows in mock surprise.
"Hello to you too, princesa."
The pet name hits exactly like it's supposed to—annoying and warm in equal measure.
You ignore the warm part, though.
He turns fully now, back against the Skyline's midnight midnight purple paint job, arms crossing over his chest like he's settling in for a show. The position makes his shoulders look broader, his stance more relaxed, like your presence here is the most entertaining thing that's happened to him all night.
Which, knowing Jaque, it probably is.
"Cut the bullshit, lover boy." You stop just close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. "The twins."
His grin widens. "What twins?"
The innocent act might work on other people.
The way his head tilts just so, like he's genuinely confused by your question.
Like Shinji and Akira Tanaka haven't been running their mouths about your AE86 for the past three months.
It doesn’t fool you though. Never does.
You sigh, loud enough that Maya chuckles. Your tongue presses against the inside of your lower lip—a habit you've never been able to break when dealing with particularly dense specimens of humanity.
Or Jaque, to put it simply.
"Don't play stupid," you say. "It's too easy."
That gets a chuckle out of him. Low and rough, like gravel under tires.
"Siempre tan bocona, tú." (Always so mouthy, you).
The Spanish rolls off his tongue like he's commenting on the weather, not insulting you in two languages at once. His smile never wavers.
"Twins are not here."
You want to throttle him.
"I could see that much, thanks for pointing out the obvious."
"Ay, pues." He shrugs, and the movement is liquid smooth. "You don't want stupid answers, don't ask stupid questions."
Maya snorts behind you. Traitor.
Your jaw ticks. Just once. Just enough that you know he notices because his eyes flick down to catch it, that smirk getting smugger by the second.
"Shinji," you say, because playing his word games is getting old fast. "Akira. The Tanaka twins. Where are they?"
"Ah." Like understanding has just dawned. Like he hasn't been deliberately obtuse for the past thirty seconds. "Those twins."
"Yes, Jaque. Those twins."
He straightens slightly, the lazy posture shifting into something more intentional. Not threatening—never threatening with you—but focused. Like you've finally said something worth his full attention.
"¿Por qué?" (Why?) The question comes out slow, curious. "Miss them?"
"Because they were here twenty minutes ago talking shit about my car, and now they're not." You cross your arms, mirroring his stance. "And you're here looking entirely too pleased with yourself."
"I always look pleased with myself, gatita." Another pet name. Another small flame of irritation. “Es mi cara natural." (It’s my natural expression.)
"Answer the fucking question."
He laughs again, and this time it's genuine. Surprised. Like you've done something delightful instead of threatening to wrap your hands around his throat.
"Calma, chiquita." One hand comes up in a placating gesture that somehow manages to be condescending and charming at the same time. "No need to get all worked up."
"I'm not worked up."
"No?" His eyebrows climb higher. "Think you are."
Your eyebrow twitches. He smiles.
"They're not here," he says finally, voice losing some of its playful edge. "Took a little drive. Might not be back for a while."
"What kind of drive?"
"The educational kind." He pushes the sunglasses back up his nose, hiding his eyes again. "Someone had to explain proper parking lot etiquette to them."
Your hands ball into fists at your sides.
"I don't need—"
"Hey, tranquila." He holds up both hands now, but he's still smiling. Still enjoying this way too much. "This is your territory, ¿no? They talked shit about the boss lady. Someone had to warn them."
Boss lady.
Like you're some fucking mafia princess instead of a racer who's earned every ounce of respect through skill and stubbornness.
"That's how we do it in my country," he adds, like that explains everything.
"This is Japan."
His smile turns sharp. Dangerous.
"And I'm latino."
You scoff, looking sideways because seriously—he's unbelievable.
Like being Latino is some kind of universal excuse for whatever bullshit he decides to pull.
Like slapping his ethnicity on the table explains away every reckless move, every stupid decision, every time he decides to play knight in shining armor when nobody fucking asked.
Like he’s not basically insulting his whole ethnicity when he does that:
Your hand dips into your jacket pocket, fingers finding the familiar crinkle of cellophane.
"Right," you say, unwrapping the cherry lollipop with sharp, efficient movements. "Because your passport gives you a free pass to stick your nose in everyone else's business."
The wrapper finds its way back to your pocket.
"No es eso, princesa." (It's not that, princess.) His voice carries that lazy drawl that means he's having way too much fun. "But where I come from, you don't let randos disrespect the people you—"
You pop the lollipop into your mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence.
The words die on his tongue.
His eyebrows lift, and he makes this low snorting sound that has absolutely no business being as distracting as it is. Like he's just witnessed something worth stopping traffic for.
You turn back to look at him, lollipop stick jutting from between your lips.
"What?"
The smirk that spreads across his face is slow and dangerous.
"Nada, nada." (Nothing, nothing.) But his eyes haven't moved from your mouth. "Keep going."
Before you can ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, an arm locks around Jimin's shoulders from behind.
It’s Taeyang, appearing like he materialized from the fucking parking lot shadows or something.
"J is off his game tonight."
Jimin doesn't even try to shrug out of the hold. Just keeps staring at you with that insufferable expression.
"Nah," he says, voice dropping lower. "Just distracted."
He gestures lazily with his chin, eyes still locked on yours.
"Can't focus when you keep putting things in your mouth like that."
The lollipop nearly falls out of your mouth.
What the actual—
Your hand moves before your brain catches up, grabbing the stick and yanking the candy free. The cherry flavor lingers on your tongue, sweet and artificial and suddenly too much.
“Ay, dale, beba. Don’t stop on my account. Looks tasty.”
"You want it that bad?" You hold the lollipop out toward him, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Here. Choke on it."
The parking lot goes quiet.
Not completely—engines still rumble in the distance, someone's still blasting music from their stereo. But the space between the four of you turns into this weird vacuum where even Taeyang stops breathing.
Jimin straightens.
Slowly.
Like a cat uncoiling before it pounces.
Taeyang's arm slides off his shoulders as he takes a step toward you.
Then another.
Until he's close enough that you can see the exact moment his pupils dilate, can smell that mix of cologne and gasoline that shouldn't work but does.
He reaches out.
Plucks the lollipop from your fingers as if this is just something he does every day.
And pops it into his mouth.
The cherry-stained stick disappears between his lips, and he just stares into your eyes like he’s hoping for a reaction.
"What's wrong, princesa?" The words come out muffled but still carry that infuriating drawl. "Didn't think I'd take it?"
Your pulse hammers against your throat. Hard. Visible.
Fuck.
Your mouth opens—ready with some cutting remark, some dismissive comeback that'll put him back in his place—
Nothing.
Not a single goddamn word.
Jimin's grin spreads.
"Naaaah, wait." He lets the word stretch, savoring it like the candy between his teeth. "You actually—"
A soft, amused chuckle escapes him. His tongue flicks against the lollipop, deliberate. Testing.
"—speechless?"
Heat crawls up your neck like flames licking gasoline. .
"Shut up." The words snap out before you can stop them, but your voice wavers.
Just enough. Just fucking enough for him to catch it.
Jimin hums, a low sound of pure entertainment. He steps back—not far, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge of whatever this is.
"I should steal your shit more often," he says, amused.
The comment jolts you back to yourself. Back to solid ground.
"Give it back."
He rolls the candy between his teeth, considering. Like he's weighing the entertainment value of compliance versus continued torment.
Then he grins.
Shifts the lollipop to one side of his mouth, head tilting as he watches you with that same lazy, predatory amusement that makes your skin feel too tight.
"You really want me to give it back, mami?"
That accent. The way he wraps around the word like silk, all rolling consonants and heat.
Something flickers up your spine. Quick. Electric.
You don't react. Won't give him that satisfaction. Instead, you let your mouth curve into something unimpressed, arms folding across your chest as you pretend to consider.
"Up to you," you say, voice carefully casual. "But it's mango."
The reaction is instant.
Violent.
Jimin spits the lollipop out so hard you hear it hit the asphalt with a wet thwack. His whole body jerks backward, hand swiping across his mouth like he's trying to scrub away poison.
The grimace that twists his features is beautiful. Pure disgust mixed with betrayal.
Maya fucking wheezes beside you, the sound high and breathless.
You press your lips together, feigning concern. Let your eyebrows lift in mock surprise.
"Oh, wait—" You blink, tilting your head like you're just remembering something important. "Actually... it was cherry."
His entire body goes statue-still.
Slowly—so slowly you can count the seconds—his hand drops from his mouth. His jaw locks. His tongue darts out, running over his teeth like he's confirming what his taste buds already know.
The lingering sweetness.
Cherry. Not mango.
"You—" Jimin's voice comes out sharp, exhaling like he's been sucker-punched. His eyes snap back to yours, flat and accusing. "Are you fucking serious?"
You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug.
"I mean..." Your head tilts, innocent. "Can't you taste the difference?"
Jimin stares at you. Then at the discarded lollipop on the oil-stained asphalt, sticky and abandoned. Then back at you.
The silence stretches.
"Do you think at the mention of mango I was taking a damn moment to assess—"
"You should've," you interrupt him, voice honey-sweet and absolutely ruthless.
Before Jimin can fire back, someone from his crew—Daniel, probably, the loudmouth who never knows when to shut up—pipes up from behind him.
"Yo, you allergic or something?"
The words hang.
Maya's grin freezes mid-wheeze. The rest of Jimin's crew shifts, glancing between him and the spat-out lollipops
Your stomach drops.
Cold. Fast.
Jimin doesn't look at them. Doesn't acknowledge the question floating in the air like clouds, just stays flat, unreadable, but his jaw ticks—just slightly, just enough for you to catch it.
And suddenly, you realize—
They don't know.
None of them know.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant. A stupid fruit allergy that probably means nothing in the grand scheme of underground racing and territorial bullshit. But still—
You're the only one who noticed.
The only one who clocked it months ago when he shoved aside a drink without explanation. The only one who saw him swipe a fruit skewer off someone's plate but carefully, absentmindedly, avoid the mango piece in the middle.
No one else ever caught on.
Your chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to... understanding.
Jimin exhales sharply through his nose. Reaches into his pocket with movements that are just a fraction too controlled to be casual. Pulls out a pack of gum.
"No," he says, popping a piece into his mouth. His tone is clipped, dismissive. Final. "I just don't like surprises."
He chews once. Twice. Like that explains everything.
Like it's enough.
His crew buys it.
They snicker, shake their heads, make some comment about how dramatic he always is. Daniel laughs too loud at his own joke about Latino attitude. The conversation shifts, interest dissipating like vapor in hot air.
Just like that, the moment passes.
But not for him.
And not for you.
Because Jimin's gaze flickers back to yours—sharp, searching, like he's trying to read something written in a language he doesn't quite understand.
You hold it.
The stare. The challenge. The unspoken question floating between you.
His jaw tenses. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, working the gum like he's trying to scrub away more than just the lingering taste.
Then he huffs. Quiet. Humorless.
Looks away.
"You're so annoying," he mutters, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
The words should sting. Should make you defensive, ready to snap back with something twice as cutting.
Instead, your mouth curves.
"Feeling’s mutual," you say, voice soft enough that only he can hear it.
Jimin doesn't answer. Just shakes his head once—like he's trying to clear it of something he doesn't want there—and turns toward his car.
But you catch it. The way his shoulders set. His somewhat robotic movements now.
The realization that someone saw through his bullshit.
That someone noticed.
The sound of his voice speaking Spanish hits different when he thinks no one's listening.
You're half-listening to Maya complain about her clutch slipping when movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. Jimin peeling away from his crew, phone pressed to his ear, heading toward the far corner of the lot where the lighting gets spotty and conversations turn private.
Something about the way he moves—purposeful, almost urgent—makes you tune out Maya's mechanical rants entirely.
"—and then the fucking thing just started grinding, you know? Like metal on metal, which obviously means—"
"Mm-hmm." You nod absently, watching Jimin settle against a concrete pillar about thirty feet away. Far enough that his crew can't hear him, close enough that if you strain just a little...
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Clutch. Grinding. Very tragic." Your eyes don't leave Jimin's silhouette. "Keep going."
And Maya does.
But you're already tuning her out again because Jimin's voice carries just enough on the night air, and the shift in his tone is immediate.
No trace of the lazy, teasing drawl he uses with everyone here.
"¿Martín? ¿Qué pasó, hermano?" (Martin? What happened, brother?)
"No, no, tranquilo. Decime qué pasó." (No, no, calm down. Tell me what happened.)
There's a pause, and you can see him run his free hand through his hair. His shoulders tense.
"¿Cómo que se pelearon? ¿Por qué?" (What do you mean they fought? Why?)
Another pause. Longer this time. His jaw ticks.
"Ay, Martín... ¿y le dijiste qué?" (Oh, Martin... and you told her what?)
You edge closer, using Maya's continued clutch commentary as cover.
"No, está bien, está bien. No es tu culpa, cabrón." (No, it's okay, it's okay. It's not your fault, dude.) His voice drops, gentler. "¿Pero por qué le dijiste que andaba en los clubs? Sabes que se pone loca cuando piensa que ando de joda." (But why did you tell her I was at clubs? You know she goes crazy when she thinks I'm partying.)
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. The lighter flicks once, twice, before catching.
The first drag makes his voice rougher when he speaks again.
"Sí, ya sé que no sabías qué decir. Pero la próxima vez decile que estoy trabajando, ¿dale?" (Yeah, I know you didn't know what to say. But next time tell her I'm working, okay?)
You watch him take another drag, the cherry glowing orange in the dim light.
The way he holds the cigarette—practiced, automatic—suggests this isn't a recent habit.
"¿Qué más te dijo?" (What else did she tell you?)
The pause that follows is different. Heavier. You see his free hand clench into a fist at his side.
"¿Cómo que no va a aceptar más plata?" (What do you mean she won't accept more money?) His voice sharpens. "Martín, ¿qué carajo le dijiste exactamente?" (Martin, what the hell did you tell her exactly?)
Another drag. Deeper this time.
"No, no, no. Escuchame bien, cabrón." (No, no, no. Listen to me carefully, dude.) His tone shifts, becoming more authoritative. "Vos no te vas a poner a trabajar. Tenés trece años, boludo. Tu trabajo es estudiar." (You're not going to start working. You're thirteen years old, idiot. Your job is to study.)
You can hear the frustration building in his voice, see it in the way he paces within the small circle of light.
"¿Necesitás libros para la escuela? Yo te los compro. ¿Necesitás zapatillas? Yo te las compro. No digas huevadas, Martín." (Do you need books for school? I'll buy them for you. Do you need shoes? I'll buy them for you. Don't talk nonsense, Martin.)
The cigarette moves to his lips again, and apparently the sound carries through the phone because his brother says something that makes Jimin pause mid-drag.
"¿Qué?" (What?)
A beat.
"Naaaah, no estoy fumando." (Naaaah, I'm not smoking.)
You don’t even speak Spanish like that but you know that’s a fat lie coming off his lips. Pretty clear he’s talking about smoking by the way his eyes flicker to the cig.
You almost snort.
His brother clearly doesn't buy it, because Jimin's response is immediate and defensive.
"¿No me creés? Pues decile a la mamá que vos también fumás, a ver qué dice." (You don't believe me? Well tell mom that you smoke too, let's see what she says.)
There's a pause, and then Jimin's voice turns sharp with realization.
"Ah, ¿no, cabrón? ¿Ya sabía, ya sabía...?" (Oh, no, dude? I already knew, I already knew...?) He takes another drag, and his chuckle is dark. "¿Qué te creés, que no vi los cigarros que guardás en el cajón?" (What do you think, that I didn't see the cigarettes you keep in the drawer?)
The next words need no translation. It’s a threat. A big brother threat.
"Cuando vuelva a la casa te voy a agarrar a palos, Martín. Dejá de fumar." (When I get home I'm going to beat your ass, Martin. Stop smoking.)
But there's affection underneath the threat. Worry. The kind of protective anger that comes from caring too much.
"No, no me importa si todos tus amigos fuman. Vos no." (No, I don't care if all your friends smoke. You don't.)
Another pause, and his voice softens slightly.
"Mirá, hermano, yo sé que está jodida la situación con mamá, pero..." (Look, brother, I know the situation with mom is fucked up, but...)
He trails off, takes another drag. The silence stretches long enough that you wonder if the call dropped.
"¿Martín? ¿Seguís ahí?" (Martin? Are you still there?)
Whatever his brother says next makes Jimin's shoulders slump. The fight goes out of his posture all at once.
"Sí, ya sé que está preocupada. Pero no puede rechazar la plata y después quejarse de que no alcanza para nada." (Yeah, I know she's worried. But she can't reject the money and then complain that there's not enough for anything.)
His voice drops lower, more intimate. Like he's sharing a secret.
"Escuchame, si ella no la quiere aceptar, me re vale verga. Le voy a hacer el ingreso igual." (Listen to me, if she doesn't want to accept it, I don't give a shit. I'm going to deposit it anyway.)
Your eyes absentmindedly flick to him as he considers his next words. Or maybe he’s listening in.
"Nah, nah, escuchame." (Nah, nah, listen to me.) His voice softens again. "No le digas nada a mamá de esto, ¿sí? Si pregunta dónde ando, decile que… no sé, que ando con amigos. Que ando estudiando. Lo que sea." (Don’t tell mom anything about this, okay? If she asks where I am, tell her that… I don’t know, that I’m with friends. That I’m studying. Whatever.)
A pause.
The phone is still pressed to his ear when his expression changes.
Goes cold. Hard.
"¿Qué dijiste?" (What did you say?)
His voice drops to something lethal.
"¿Que la mamá prefiere agarrar dinero del papá?" (That mom prefers to take money from dad?)
The cigarette trembles between his fingers.
"Martín, decile a la mamá que como se atreva a agarrar dinero de ese pendejo—" (Martin, tell mom that if she dares to take money from that asshole—)
He cuts himself off. Takes a sharp drag. Exhales through clenched teeth.
"No, no, hermano. Escuchame." (No, no, brother. Listen to me.) His free hand scrubs over his face. "Ese cabrón no va a mandar ni un peso. ¿Sabés cuánto le va a costar mandar dinero desde México? ¿Las transferencias internacionales? ¿Los fees del banco?" (That asshole isn’t going to send a single peso. Do you know how much it’s going to cost him to send money from Mexico? International transfers? Bank fees?)
A bitter laugh escapes him.
"Y aunque mandara algo, no va a ser suficiente. Nunca es suficiente con él." (And even if he sent something, it’s not going to be enough. It’s never enough with him.)
The words come out sharp. Angry.
"No, no hay pero que valga, cabrón." (No, there’s no ‘but’ about it, dude.) He takes a sharp drag, the cherry flaring angry orange. "Ese hijo de puta nos abandonó. Nos dejó sin nada. Y ahora que nosotros estamos bien, ¿quiere jugar al papá responsable?" (That son of a bitch abandoned us. Left us with nothing. And now that we’re doing well, he wants to play responsible dad?)
You can hear the pain underneath the anger. Raw. Bleeding.
"¿Sabés cuánto pinche dinero perdimos en las transferencias cuando nos fuimos de Argentina? ¿Cuánto nos costó empezar de cero acá?" (Do you know how much fucking money we lost in transfers when we left Argentina? How much it cost us to start from zero here?)
Silence stretches. You can see him listening, jaw working around the cigarette.
"Sí, hermano, entiendo que está enojada conmigo. Pero prefiero que esté enojada y segura a que esté contenta y en peligro." (Yeah dude, I understand she’s angry with me. But I’d rather have her angry and safe than happy and in danger.)
He flicks ash onto the pavement with sharp, agitated movements.
"Nah, hermano. Nah. Ese dinero está sucio. Todo lo que toca ese hombre se vuelve una mierda." (Nah, bro. Nah. That money is dirty. Everything that man touches turns to shit.)
Another pause.
"¿Y sabés qué más? Aunque tenga que meterle el dinero a la cuenta sin que sepa, lo voy a hacer. Porque ustedes son mi responsabilidad. No la de él." (And you know what else? Even if I have to put the money in the account without her knowing, I’m going to do it. Because you guys are my responsibility. Not his.)
The cigarette burns down to the filter between his fingers.
He flicks it away.
"Decile que si necesita dinero, que me hable a mí. Que yo siempre he estado acá. Yo nunca la dejé. Yo nunca—" (Tell her if she needs money, to call me. That I’ve always been here. I never left her. I never—)
He stops himself. Takes another drag.
"Martín, ¿me estás escuchando?" (Martin, are you listening to me?)
A reply. Confirmation, you guess by his expression.
"Ese dinero de papá… no lo agarren. Por favor. Yo sé que parece fácil, pero nada de lo que viene de él es fácil. Siempre hay un precio." (That money from dad… don’t take it. Please. I know it seems easy, but nothing that comes from him is easy. There’s always a price.)
He sighs now, listening in before he leans his head back against the wall.
"Decile que no me espere despierta hoy. Que llego tarde. No quiero pelear con ella. No hoy." (Tell her not to wait up tonight. I’m coming home late. I don’t want to fight with her. Not today.)
His eyes flicker to the sky above him. Perhaps pondering; perhaps buying himself more time. Then:
"Tengo que colgar, hermano. Cuida a mamá. Y si ese pendejo trata de contactarla, me avisas inmediatamente, ¿me escuchaste?" (I have to hang up, brother. Take care of mom. And if that asshole tries to contact her, you let me know immediately, you hear me?)
His voice goes soft again. Protective.
"Te quiero, Martín. Todo va a estar bien." (I love you, Martín. Everything’s going to be okay.)
He ends the call.
Takes another cigarette from the pack.
And when your eyes flicker to his movements—you notice he lights it with hands that aren’t quite steady.
✧ main story ✧ wc: 7k ✧ pairing: jimin x f!reader ✧ rating: 18+
✧ genre: latino!jimin, tokyo drift AU, street racing, rivals to lovers
🚦 rundown ;
"They say, in racing, everything gets decided the five seconds before the light turns green."
"You're such an asshole."
"So I've been told." He sets the matcha down, crosses his arms over his chest. Mirrors your posture from earlier. "What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that you—" You gesture vaguely at him. "—you're Jaque. Latino street racer. Spanish accent. The whole thing. And then you just casually bust out perfect Korean like it's nothing?"
"It's not nothing. It's a language."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
"Jaque."
He holds your gaze for another beat.
Then something shifts in his expression. Not quite serious—he's never quite serious—but less performative. More real.
"I speak a lot of languages," he says finally. "Korean's one of them."
"Since when?"
"Since always."
"That's not an answer."
"Sure it is." He picks up the matcha again, swirls it once. "I grew up speaking Korean. And Spanish. And then I learned Japanese when we moved here. It's not that deep, Hachi."
➜ Coming: Soon. <3
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