jack gilbert between aging and old / dog years halsey / analicia sotelo bitch instinct / jean valentine isn’t there something / jane grealy puppy with a stick / lincoln saint bernard / kate baer to take back a life
NEW PROMPT ‼️ define ur muses approach to loyalty within the crews & if it’s important to them or not. or, what’s it like being part of a company versus being part of a crew.
that’s the second thing the company looks for in new hires, just behind the right skill set for the job. where do you see yourself five years down the line? you’ve never been asked that question. they’ve never had to. you know the right answer all the same. a smile. back straight. a head tilt. confidence is appreciated, but so is the bashfulness injected into, hopefully manager here. i’d like to grow my career with the company. so, so predictable. you smile back every time someone gives it to you just like that.
( sometimes you wonder, what would you have said if tigress had pulled you aside that first week, sat you down and asked, where do you see yourself five years down the line? you were young and hopeful too, once. eager to prove yourself. new to the job.
you don’t think you would’ve lied. )
i mean, it depends, you’ve heard once. they didn’t get hired. you leaned in anyway, during that interview. heard them say, it’ll be nice to still be here, of course. but there are a lot of factors, you know? a stare, dead in your eye. confidence without the bashfulness. it’s a two - way street.
it is, isn’t it? a two - way street turned into a road you never looked back on. that’s what they say about those who left the garage hot on mercury’s trail. no amount of placating, it’s not personal, can change that. there are many things that you don’t mean, but this one is different. it’s like being in the company. not for you, maybe, but for anyone else. one day they’ll leave and get a better job and it’ll make you happy. it’s not personal. is that not real loyalty?
the nariza bois huddle by the side of the track and you watch a group of prowlers glare from across the road. they stick to each other. the grip one prowler has on another’s wrist is too tight. the bois are pressed too closely together. there are two packs of wolves out here. you put your arm around nory’s shoulders and miss the blazing heat in eddie’s eyes when he looks in your direction. you think you get it. maybe. the company you can’t leave. the crew you can. that’s easy. that has nothing to do with loyalty. loyalty is real — it’s deeper than that. the company is a shackle. it’s family.
isn’t it a little like that, for the prowlers who bleed cyan and the bois who have magenta running through their veins?
FEELIN' LUCKY, ROCKY? eyes aren't on the fairlady, no business putting her name into the raffle. but with enough cash in the yellow fluff purse xile rosario will hopefully wrangle up a 1971 monte carlo, a replica of the one tattooed on her skin, at the showcase
far passed midnight & officially day two of the new year, last calls are made & attendees from 12welve's kick-off spill onto the streets. a group this big makes the miami street seem impossibly small. for two crews with egos & tempers large enough to fill the city, it's a perfect recipe for disaster.
you feel it before it even hits the finish line — the weight in your chest, like something’s pressing down on you, making it harder to breathe. it doesn’t hit all at once. it creeps up on you, slow & relentless, until it wraps around your ribs & squeezes. the first hard right feels like the beginning of the end, & you know it. every shift, every turn, every drop of sweat that’s gone into perfecting this machine — it's all coming apart now. you’ve lost before. but this... this feels different.
there’s a flicker of a thought that’s almost too quick to catch. it’s not the race, not the mechanics, not the adrenaline or the speed. it’s the moment when your focus fractured. the words she said, the way she smiled. you’ve never been good at letting distractions in, but tonight, something about her stuck with you. it didn’t make sense, not here, not now. you should’ve pushed it away, buried it beneath the roar of the engine & the hum of the streetlights. but you didn’t. & now it’s ruined you.
the race unfolds like a blur. you’re behind, & no matter how much you push, no matter how hard you slam the pedal to the floor, you can’t seem to catch up. vipers’ drift is perfect, smooth like she was born to do it. ghost’s nos bursts like a shot of pure fire, the car flying past, & there’s genesis, just ahead, her grip on the road unshakable. & then there’s you — fighting to hold on, but losing.
your hands tighten on the wheel, your knuckles white, but the frustration doesn’t come. not yet. instead, it’s that hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, the slow realization that this is it. you’re falling behind, & there’s nothing you can do to change it. the tunnel looms ahead, a final stretch, a curve you’ve mastered before. you push too hard, take the turn too wide, & just like that, it’s over. & you’re slipping.
third place. the finish line comes & goes, & all you can do is watch it fade. the others are ahead of you, their cars tearing through the air like they’ve won everything. vipers’ triumphant roar, ghost’s triumphant smirk. you cross the line, & it’s a quiet thud, like a weight dropping.
& it hurts more than you thought it would.
your chest is tight, your throat dry, & your hands are still gripping the wheel like you can turn back time, but you can’t. you can’t fix it now. the ache of it settles into your bones, & it’s all you can do to sit there, still, as the engine hums its final note.
but this is how it goes, isn’t it ? this is the price of losing. the sting that doesn’t just burn — it lingers. you think about the hours you spent with your crew, the way you’ve all worked together for this moment. & it feels like it didn’t matter. except it does. you can feel it now, the slow build of that fire under your skin, the heat that refuses to die.
you slam your door open, & for a moment, you just stand there, hands clenching & unclenching slowly at your sides, eyes narrowed as you stare out into the distance. focus. focus. just focus. but it’s not working. it’s not that simple. it’s the fucking nariza bois. it’s them, & how they’re always there, always winning, always pulling shit like this. viper & ghost, acting like they own the goddamn streets. & you want to tear them apart.
you pace, every step a reflection of how restless you feel, how your blood is pumping faster than it should be. the heat is still there, boiling up in your chest, making your fists ache to hit something. someone. the thought of their faces, the sound of their laughs, it’s all you need to fuel the fire that’s burning in you. you could feel the fury, the frustration, the anger rising until you can’t hold it in anymore.
it’s not just the race. it’s not just about losing. it’s the way everything’s tangled up in your head, the way it all feels out of your control, the way you let it slip. & now, you need to hit something. you need to make them feel this. you can feel your pulse in your fingertips, like your body’s electric with all this anger, all this frustration, & you don’t know what to do with it. fuck it. you’re done standing still.
you’re not thinking anymore, just moving, heading straight for the chaos of the night, the anger driving you forward, the promise of revenge already on your knuckles.
