#BECAUSE EVERY SINGLE TIME IT TURNES OUT THEY DID HATE ME

[itendtothinkalot]

daddy's girl! (enemies to lovers)

summary: beomgyu's teasing is getting out of hand, and you're constantly left wondering what you did to deserve it. does he hate you? and if he does, why don't you hate him? your major crush on him certainly doesn't help. when he's teasing you, all you can do is stare at him, wondering if he’d ever like you back.

genre: FLUFFFFFF

characters: beomgyu x f!reader

words: 9668

warnings: none!!!

You’ve always considered Beomgyu the single biggest annoyance in your office. He’s the type who breezes into work with a cocky grin, always a little too casual, always quick with a teasing comment that seems specifically designed to get under your skin.

You’ve somehow managed to ignore him for your first few months in the company, but recently over the year, he’s been… everywhere. Offering to help with projects he has no reason to be near, popping into your workspace with coffee, even catching your eye during meetings. 

And the worst part? Lately, instead of just being annoyed, you’ve started noticing things: the way his laughter lights up the room, or how he remembers your favorite coffee order, including yours. It’s maddening, and the more you try to brush it off, the harder it is to ignore that twist in your stomach whenever he’s around.

And...you hated every bit of it, you think. Every time he’d tease you—calling you “princess” when you were stressed, smirking when he made you flustered—it was like he was actively trying to get a rise out of you. And it worked. Every. Single. Time. 

“Boo.”

The word was barely a whisper, but it made you jump so hard that your coffee slipped right out of your hand, splattering across your dress in a warm, sticky mess. You whipped around, finding Beomgyu standing there, barely holding back a laugh as he took in the damage he’d caused. 

“Beomgyu,” you gritted out, grabbing a paper towel in a futile attempt to dab at the stain. “Do you enjoy terrorizing your coworkers, or am I just special?”

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he watched you with an amused tilt of his head. “I don’t know, maybe I just have a soft spot for you.” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes, fully aware of his gaze lingering on you as you tried to clean up. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, hoping he couldn’t see the faint pink on your cheeks.

He shrugged, a slow, lazy smile creeping onto his face. “You know you’d miss me if I didn’t keep things interesting.”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you shot him your best death glare, then turned sharply on your heel, whipping your ponytail right in his face. A small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you heard him stifle a surprised cough behind you.

“Mm, raspberry,” he said suddenly, taking an exaggerated whiff. “Nice shampoo choice.”

You spun back around, crossing your arms and giving him a look that could curdle milk. “Dude!” you snapped, appalled—and maybe a little flustered. “People are staring.” You shot a glance at a few of your coworkers, who were desperately stifling their laughter.

Everyone in the office was all too familiar with the occasional “spat” between you and Beomgyu. For some reason, the two of you bickering like an old married couple had become prime entertainment around here.

He laughed, completely unbothered. “They’re just enjoying the show.” His grin didn’t waver as he looked at your coffee-stained dress with obvious amusement.

“I’m not in the mood for this,” you muttered, pushing him aside as you made a swift exit out of the pantry. “Not after you’ve essentially soaked me from head to toe with coffee.”

“Okay, okay.” He jogged up beside you, catching your arm just as you were about to storm off. Your eyes dropped to his hand on your arm, a spark of warmth rushing up to your cheeks. You’d blame it on surprise, but you couldn’t deny the way your heart picked up speed at the contact.

Beomgyu seemed to notice, too, because he let go almost immediately, a flicker of something in his expression—guilt? Amusement? You couldn’t quite tell. He recovered quickly, though, shooting you an apologetic smile that, annoyingly, looked almost… genuine.

“C’mon,” he said, voice softer than before. “I have an extra shirt at my desk. It’s clean, I promise.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed, even though you were already considering it. “And why exactly would I want to wear your shirt?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirk slipping back into place. “Because…you either wear my shirt or walk around smelling like a coffee spill all day.” His eyes glinted with a challenge.

Your glare returned, but this time, you hesitated, the discomfort of your soaked clothes settling in. With a huff, you crossed your arms. “Fine,” you relented, narrowing your eyes. 

A few minutes later, you were standing in the bathroom, staring at the shirt Beomgyu had handed you. You sighed, the absurdity of the situation slowly sinking in. There was no way you were going to wear this. You could practically feel your dignity slipping away with every second you stood there.

“Doing good in there?” Beomgyu’s voice floated in from the other side of the door, his tone teasing.

“Choi Beomgyu,” you called out, your voice dripping with disbelief. “I am not wearing this.”

From the other side, you could hear his laughter, muffled but still unmistakably filled with overconfidence. “I don’t think you have a choice.”

With a sigh, you stepped out of the bathroom, already bracing yourself for the inevitable ridicule. The moment you emerged, you looked up to see Beomgyu standing there, absolutely dying of laughter. His eyes formed perfect crescents, his whole face lit up in a way that made your heart beat faster than it did before.

It was a bright, obnoxious shade of pink, with Beomgyu’s face cartoonishly plastered on the front, a goofy grin matching the bold words scrawled across it: “Daddy’s Girl.”

Beomgyu was clutching his stomach, laughing so hard he could barely stand. "Oh my god," he gasped between breaths. "You look—" He paused, wiping tears from his eyes. "You look adorable."

You stood there, face flushed with embarrassment, glaring at him. “Why do you even have this damn shirt?”

His laughter slowly died down, but that infuriating grin of his remained. “It was a gift from Soobin,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “I just never expected to see it on you. However, I do have to say…” He trailed off, his grin widening as he stepped a little closer.

“What?” You didn’t want to ask, but it was already too late.

“Well, you pull it off better than I expected. Almost like you actually are Daddy’s Girl.” His voice dropped a little as he teased the last part, his tone playful and teasing. He inched closer to you, his presence suddenly a little too close for comfort.

“Y-you’re... an asshole,” you stammered, pushing him in his chest with more force than necessary.

You walked away, but you could still hear his laughter echoing behind you, completely unbothered that he had essentially broken down all your walls.

Your cheeks were burning, but as much as you wanted to keep the little pride you had left, you couldn’t help but suppress a grin that tugged at the corners of your lips. Beomgyu might be the last person you'd ever want to give the satisfaction of seeing you flustered, but there you were, cheeks red, heart racing, and trying to hide the smile that was slowly creeping across your face.

You could hear him still chuckling in the distance, and, despite your best efforts, a part of you almost hated how contagious his laughter was.

–

The whole office seemed to be buzzing with energy as everyone gathered for the afternoon meeting. You tried to act normal, to slip into the routine of things, but the moment you walked into the conference room, you felt it—the eyes. The teasing smiles. The laughter that seemed to linger just behind every glance directed your way.

You walked to your usual spot, only to have Soobin glance over at you with a mischievous grin. "So," he started, his tone light but laced with something that made you instantly uneasy, "How does it feel to be Daddy’s Girl?" His words were casual, but there was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Your face immediately flushed, and you could already feel the heat creeping up your neck. "What? No! That's not—" You stammered, but your words faltered, and before you could regain your composure, Yeonjun jumped in.

“Oh my God,” he teased, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Didn’t expect the whole ‘Daddy’s Girl’ look to work for you, but Beomgyu definitely has good taste. You make that shirt look way better than he does.”

“Seriously? He spilled coffee–” You attempted to explain, but quickly gave up, realizing no one was really listening, too busy giggling. “Beomgyu, aren’t you going to explain why I have to wear this?”

“Because you’re daddy’s girl?” He laughed, clearly enjoying the moment way too much

The entire table broke into laughter, with some of the interns joining in, adding their own playful remarks about how you and Beomgyu seemed to be ���matching in more ways than one” and how “that shirt definitely tells a story.”

Trying to maintain some dignity, you crossed your arms and glared at Beomgyu, who had his usual half-smirk on his lips, though his eyes held a playful spark. “You really had to do this, didn’t you?” you muttered, barely able to mask the irritation creeping into your voice.

Beomgyu’s grin widened. "I didn’t know you’d look so cute in it," he teased, completely unbothered. "Guess I should have made you wear it sooner."

“Seriously, Beomgyu?” You shot back, rolling your eyes.

—

The next day at work, you walked into the office with a scowl, still trying to shake off the embarrassing memory from yesterday. You had barely managed to avoid Beomgyu for most of the morning, but as you rounded the corner to your desk, you found him standing there—leaning casually against your cubicle wall, as if he’d been waiting for you.

He looked up with that all-too-familiar grin, the same one that had made your cheeks flush the day before. "Well, well, if it isn’t Daddy’s Girl," he teased, his voice dripping with that playful tone you couldn't escape.

You groaned inwardly, trying to hide the heat rushing to your face. "You’re really not going to let that go, are you?"

Beomgyu shrugged nonchalantly, still smiling like he was having the time of his life. "I mean, it’s a pretty good look on you," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You might want to consider keeping it as your new work uniform. Though, of course, you still look good in this little office siren look you’re going for.” He looked you up and down, making you feel suddenly self-conscious.

You couldn’t help but push his face away, trying to avoid his gaze, and quickly looked away, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. "You're impossible," you muttered under your breath, focusing on anything but him.

Beomgyu paused, his eyes back on you, "You look good," he said, this time a little more serious, like he meant what he was saying.

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. For a moment, the usual playful mischief was gone, and it was just him, staring at you with an intensity you hadn’t expected. You looked at him, unsure of how to respond, the tension in the air suddenly making you feel even more awkward.

"And you’re still annoying," you snapped, trying to regain control of the conversation, though your voice betrayed a hint of something softer beneath the words. You looked away, unable to meet his gaze for too long.

“Okay, okay. Look, I’m sorry if I took things a little too far yesterday,” he apologized.

You examined his face for any sign of mischief, but soon realized he was being sincere. You nodded, walking away.

—--

A few hours of working in silence passed, everyone was in their own little cubicle typing away with whatever they had to. 

Just as you were getting into the groove of things, you heard footsteps approaching. Soobin’s voice broke through the quiet office. "Hey," he greeted, leaning on your desk with a smile. "Where’s your Daddy?" He raised an eyebrow playfully, clearly teasing about Beomgyu.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden question. "My what?" you repeated, confused for a moment before you realized what he meant. "Oh, please, don’t encourage him," you groaned, rubbing your temples.

Soobin chuckled. "I mean, you are Daddy’s girl, aren’t you?" He laughed again, clearly enjoying your discomfort, making you glare at his way. "Anyway, wanna grab lunch? We haven’t done that in a while.”

“As long as you stop calling me that.” You rolled your eyes.

Soobin raised his hands defensively, smirking. “Alright, alright. Fine.”

“I just have like a couple more e-mails to sort out.”

“Got it. I’ll wait for you outside.”

You went back to typing, trying to wrap up your task quickly so Soobin wouldn’t have to wait too long. You were back to focusing, but just as you were picking up the pace, you felt hands cover your eyes from behind.

“Beomgyu,” you muttered without looking up from your screen.

Beomgyu’s voice came in soft and teasing. “How’d you know it was me?”

You rolled your eyes, pushing his hands away. “You’re the only one who bothers me when I’m trying to do work.”

He chuckled, sliding into the chair next to your desk. “Guess you just know me so well, huh?” His eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” you said, shaking your head as you finished up a few last details.

There was a minute of silence before you finally did look up at him. Beomgyu hated to admit how cute you looked when you looked up at him—your eyes meeting him with that slight furrow in your brow, your hair falling perfectly around your face. It took everything in him not to smile, but he quickly masked it with his usual smirk.

“So what do you want?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you finished up a few last details.

“Lunch with daddy?” he replied with a casual grin, though his eyes held a glint of something that made your stomach flutter.

“Oh, I’ve already made plans with Soobin, dad” you said, not thinking much of it as you slipped your phone into your bag.

“Soobin?” Beomgyu’s voice hardened ever so slightly, but you didn’t catch the shift at first. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing just a touch.

You shrugged, focusing on gathering your things. “Yeah, just grabbing lunch. We haven’t hung out in a while.”

Beomgyu’s smirk faltered for a second, his usual confidence slipping just enough for you to notice. But before you could react, he leaned back, his demeanor slipping into something more casual, though there was still that slight edge to his words. “Right. Of course. Soobin.”

You looked at him, slightly confused by his changed demeanor. “Okay?” you replied, furrowing your eyebrows.

Beomgyu didn’t immediately respond. He just leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest as he watched you. There was a tension in the air now, something unspoken, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. His eyes, which were usually so playful, were now unreadable, like he was deep in thought.

“Yeah,” he finally said, his tone back to its usual teasing edge, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enjoy your lunch, I guess.”

—-

During lunch, your mind replayed the previous scene with Beomgyu one too many times. Why was he so pissy after you mentioned going to lunch with Soobin? Weren’t they good friends? Why was he being so dramatic? Crazy ass, you thought to yourself.

“Are you even listening?” Soobin’s voice pulled you back to the present.

You snapped out of your thoughts. “Sorry,” you mumbled, offering him an apologetic smile.

Soobin raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been acting weird since we left for lunch. Did you even hear my harrowing story about how Beomgyu’s been acting up at home?”

Right, they’re roommates, you remembered, a pang of curiosity hitting you. “Wait, what did he do now?”

Soobin chuckled, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe it—he’s been sulking around the apartment lately, for reasons he won’t even explain. Just moody and snippy about everything.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I’m starting to think he’s hiding something.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if Beomgyu’s strange mood earlier was connected. Trying to play it cool, you asked, “Does he, like…do that often?”

“Nope, which is why it’s weird. And this all seemed to start around…” Soobin paused, giving you a suspicious look, “…around the time you two started bickering at work.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t blame this on me.”

Soobin laughed, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “Hey, I’m not saying anything,” he teased, though his smirk suggested otherwise. “Actually… there is one thing that might explain it.”

“What is it?” you asked, curiosity and a tinge of dread mixing in your voice.

“Well,” Soobin began, leaning in a little, “he was on the phone with one of our friends the other night, talking about some girl he’s into.”

Your heart did a little flip. A girl he’s into? Was it you?

“Yeah, someone from his yoga class,” Soobin added, watching you carefully.

Oh. Yoga class. You didn’t go to yoga. You felt a mix of relief and… something else you didn’t want to admit to yourself.

“Oh,” you said, trying to sound indifferent, though your disappointment was evident. “That’s… nice.”

Soobin tilted his head, amused. “You sound thrilled.”

“I am thrilled,” you replied sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “Glad he’s happy. Maybe then he’ll stop fucking with me.”

Soobin leaned back, watching your expression with that same knowing look. "Yeah, apparently she's, like, really flexible," he said, barely holding back a grin.

You forced a casual nod, hoping your face didn’t betray you. "Good for him, then."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your reaction. “What, you’re not jealous, are you?”

“What?” You scoffed, trying to brush off the question, but your voice came out a bit too defensive. “Why would I be jealous?”

Soobin chuckled, leaning forward. "I mean, you guys do spend half your time arguing, and the other half looking at each other like... well, like something is going on.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you said, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “We’re just… coworkers. Besides, he’s obviously into some yoga girl I’ve never even met. Who’s apparently really flexible.”

"Uh-huh," Soobin said, raising his hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t buying it. "Well, for what it’s worth," he added, "I don’t think he actually likes yoga that much."

“Oh, sure. I don’t actually care,” you replied, trying to sound casual.

“Really?” he asked, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief.

“Really,” you said, the words coming out a little too firmly—as if you were trying to convince yourself as much as him.

Soobin’s gaze dropped to your plate, and he chuckled softly. “Then why’ve you mashed your rice into porridge?”

You looked down, realizing your grip on the spoon was practically turning your knuckles white.

Your face heated with embarrassment, and you shot Soobin a glare. “You seem to be really enjoying this, Soobin. What happened to ‘I missed you, let’s catch up’? You’re practically using our only hour to tease me.”

Soobin laughed, leaning back in his chair with an innocent shrug. “Hey, I am catching up. I just happen to find your love life… fascinating.”

You rolled your eyes, attempting to brush it off. “It’s not my love life.”

“Right. Just your very intense work rivalry,” he said, grinning. “But fine, I’ll ease up. For now.”

—

You sighed, glancing at the clock. Just one more hour, and you’d be free. It was Friday, and the idea of slipping into bed and sleeping through the night was the only thing keeping you going. Unlike your coworkers, who were always up for late-night drinks, you had a steadfast love for sleep.

Well, at least until…

“You coming tonight?”

Startled, you looked up to see Beomgyu leaning against your cubicle. His hair was slightly tousled from a long day, and somehow, he looked even better when he was a little worn out. You felt a pang of frustration at yourself for even noticing.

“Where?”

“The team’s going out for drinks,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes fixed on you.

You hesitated, glancing away. “I don’t know. I was planning on just heading home,” you replied, trying to ignore the way he made it hard to focus on anything but him.

He tilted his head, a playful smile forming. “Come on, you’re always skipping out on these things. One night won’t hurt.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending to be unimpressed. “Right, because I’m sure you’re really hoping I’ll be there.”

“I was,” he paused, then corrected himself, “I am.” He looked at you seriously, as if making sure you knew he wasn’t joking or lying.

“I—I…” You stammered, unsure of what to say.

“Please?” He added, his tone softening, almost like a plea.

“Fine.”

—

The bar was buzzing with the chatter and laughter of your coworkers. The group had claimed about four or five tables, but you’d positioned yourself at the bar, seated on a stool. You weren’t sure why you even agreed to come—maybe it was Beomgyu’s pleading, or maybe the way his eyes softened when he asked you. Damn it, he could be so cute without even trying.

You stirred your drink, watching it swirl as your mind wandered. Every so often, you glanced over to where Beomgyu was standing, sandwiched between two tables. He was in his element, effortlessly drawing people in with that easy, curse that confident charm of his. His laughter filled the air as he joked with your colleagues, their faces lighting up at whatever he’d just said.

He had a way of making even the most mundane conversation feel like the most interesting thing in the room. His smile, his gestures, the way his eyes sparkled when he said something funny—it was like he could command the room without even trying. It was no wonder people were drawn to him, and you couldn’t help but be drawn in too, even if you didn’t want to admit it.

You watched as he shifted from one group to the next, always moving with such ease, always the center of attention. His effortless charm left a weird knot in your stomach, but also a strange flutter, something you didn’t quite know how to process.

Damn it, you thought again, taking another sip of your drink. You were making yourself dizzy just watching him.

“You’re going to catch flies with the way you’re staring at Beomgyu,” Soobin teased, leaning back in his chair with a mischievous grin. He placed a finger under your chin, gently tilting your head up.

You sighed, trying to brush off the comment, swatting his hand away. “Soobin,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “If you’re just here to mock me about my stupid crush on Beomgyu—”

“Oh, so we’re admitting it’s a crush now?” Soobin interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“What? No! I—I… it slipped out,” you stuttered, feeling heat rise in your cheeks as you tried to recover.

Soobin leaned in, his grin widening as he pressed, “So you are admitting it—”

“I’m not admitting anything!” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively and giving him an exaggerated glare.

Soobin chuckled, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. "Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that," he said, giving you a wink before turning his attention back to the table, though his smile lingered as if he knew something you didn't.

You huffed, trying to push the thoughts of Beomgyu out of your mind. The alcohol wasn't helping; if anything, it was just making things feel more awkward. You shifted in your seat, glancing back toward Beomgyu. He was laughing with your coworkers, his hands animated as he told some story, effortlessly commanding their attention. It was almost maddening how easy he made it look, his charm radiating off him like it was second nature.

"Are you sure you don’t have a thing for him?" Soobin’s voice brought you back to reality, and you looked at him, annoyed.

“I already told you, I don’t—" You stopped, realizing how defensive you sounded, how your heart was racing at the mere mention of Beomgyu’s name. You ran a hand through your hair, frustrated at yourself.

"So, what's going on then?" Soobin asked, his tone suddenly softer, less teasing. "You can’t keep pretending you don’t care."

You looked away, avoiding his gaze as you focused on the edge of your glass. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”

For a moment, Soobin didn’t say anything, just watched you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze. Finally, he spoke again, quieter this time. “You don’t have to figure everything out right now, but don’t pretend like it doesn’t matter."

You swallowed, feeling a lump form in your throat.

“Okay, what if I do…” you whispered, barely audible, eyes darting around nervously.

Soobin leaned in closer, eyebrows raised. “Come again?”

You sighed, feeling your face burn as you tried to keep your voice low, as if somehow that would protect you. “What if I do… have a tiny little bit… the tiniest bit… of a crush on him…” you whispered even softer, almost too quietly to hear.

Soobin leaned in further, a mischievous grin pulling at his lips as he mimicked your whisper. “I can’t hear you.”

You rolled your eyes, swallowing your embarrassment. “I said,” you shouted, louder than you intended, and immediately felt the weight of your coworkers' stares on you. You quickly smiled awkwardly at them before turning back to Soobin. “I said... what if I did have a tiny crush on him?”

Soobin burst into laughter, loud enough that it felt like the whole bar could hear it. His laughter, bright and unapologetic, drew even more stares from the surrounding tables. You felt your face flush even more.

“You know,” he said, catching his breath, “it’s about time you admitted it. You’ve been looking at him like that all night.”

“I have not!” you protested, though you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

“Right, because I didn’t just see you staring at him while he was telling that story about his yoga class.” Soobin grinned knowingly.

You groaned, sinking lower into your seat. “Can we drop it now?”

Soobin held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. But just so you know, it’s obvious to everyone here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, finally calming down. “Trust me, you’ve got the ‘I’m-trying-to-hide-a-crush’ look written all over you.”

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling in defeat. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Soobin said with a grin. “If you’re embarrassed, then that means you care. And that’s actually kind of cute.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

Soobin patted you on the back. “No problem, now go get your man.”

You snorted. “I’m not ‘getting my man’ anywhere besides isn’t he into this yoga girl you keep mentioning about?”

“First of all,” Soobin sighed. “I mentioned her once. Second, you're really gonna use her as an excuse now? I was just kidding. There wasn’t any “yoga girl”, I just wanted to see your reaction.”

“You lied?”

“For a good cause!” Soobin said, defensively.

“Look, I don’t even care. I mean... it’s not like he’s even looking my way,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to Soobin. “In fact, he hasn’t even talked to me all night.”

Soobin gave you a knowing look, the kind he always gave when he knew you were being a little dramatic. “You’re really gonna do this right now?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “You’re letting one night ruin your mood?”

You sighed, resting your chin in your hand. “I mean, it's fine, really. I didn’t come here to be his entertainment plus free drinks!”

Soobin rolled his eyes. “It’s not about that, though, is it? You didn’t come here for him to entertain you, you came because you wanted to see him.”

“I did not come here…to see him.” You attempted to defend yourself. “I could be here to see you. You’re a pal.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Soobin rolled his eyes. 

You shot him a glare but it only made him laugh. He could always tell when you were hiding something, and right now, he was enjoying it a little too much.

“Fine, maybe I did want to see him,” you finally admitted, your voice softer than you wanted it to be. “But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just—he told me to come, which I did but now he’s been avoiding me all night and talking to everyone but me.”

“Have you tried initiating the conversation first?” Soobin said. 

You stared at Soobin, momentarily taken aback by his insight. “I just… I’m not sure what to say anymore." 

"Say hi or something, in fact," Soobin said, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet. "You talk to him tonight, and... yeah, that’s it. Just talk to him. No ands ifs or buts."

"W-what? No! I can’t... I’m not ready! I’ve only had one shot of vodka. I’m not ready for this level of commitment—"

Soobin sighed in frustration. "Damn, you’re stronger than you look." He grunted, struggling to pull you up as you continued to thrash in your seat.

You dug your heels into the ground, still trying to resist as Soobin tugged at your arm. "No, seriously, Soobin! I'm not ready for this. What if I screw it up?" You felt the panic rising in your chest, your pulse quickening. The idea of talking to Beomgyu, of finally doing something about it, felt too overwhelming.

“And what’s going on over here?”

The two of you stopped your struggle, realizing it looked as though you were hugging, and quickly turned around, both of you frozen like deer caught in headlights.

“Beomgyu,” the two of you muttered in unison.

“You’re making quite the scene,” Beomgyu said. His tone was hard to place, but you would guess he was either slightly annoyed or, more likely, not at all amused.

“Sorry.” You glanced around, realizing no one was really paying attention to the two of you, which left you a bit confused, but you decided to ignore it.

“Soobin, Taehyun’s looking for you.” He pointed over to the table of interns.

“Taehyun’s here? Doesn’t he have…” Soobin gulped. “Okay. I’ll go find him.”

Soobin gave you one last glance, his smirk still lingering as he followed Beomgyu's direction. “Don’t think I forgot about this,” he teased, then strolled off toward the interns.

You let out a small breath of relief, now alone with Beomgyu. He was still standing there, his expression unreadable, though you could have sworn you saw something in his eyes when Soobin had left.

“So,” you started, clearing your throat awkwardly. “Thanks for... saving me from Soobin.”

Beomgyu chuckled, his gaze softening slightly. “Not sure you’re saved when a bigger devil is here.” He smirked.

“Right,” You chuckled before turning your attention back to your drink.

"Care for a conversation?"

"Now?" You hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic.

Beomgyu looked at you with a hint of confusion in his eyes before replacing it with his usual smirk. "What’s wrong with a little conversation?"

"I just... don’t you have a whole parade to lead? Aren’t people waiting for the life of the party?"

“Well, the life of the party needs a break, and I was kind of looking for my own relief.” He glanced over at you.

“And?” you prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Found her.” He locked eyes with you, a hint of mischief in his gaze.

You shifted awkwardly, trying to gauge his intent, but he kept his eyes on you, unfazed.

“So, this is where you take your breaks?” you asked.

Beomgyu’s smirk deepened. “Only when the company is worth it.”

Your breath caught slightly, caught off guard by his boldness. You didn’t know how to respond right away, so you turned your attention back to your drink. The silence stretched on, and for a brief moment, it felt like there was something unspoken between you two.

“Oh, right!” You pulled out a small paper bag from your work bag. “Here.” You handed him the washed t-shirt he had lent you.

“You can keep it,” he said casually.

“And why would I want to keep a shirt with your face on it?” You rolled your eyes, holding the t-shirt up with mock disdain. 

Beomgyu chuckled, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Y’know…I always thought you were pretty, but I think wearing my face has made you ten times prettier than you already were.”

He leaned back, watching you closely, his smile softening into something more sincere. “I’m serious though. You look good in it.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you quickly brushed it off, trying to maintain your playful composure. “Sure. But I think I’ll pass on wearing it as a permanent look.”

You glanced at your watch, it was still early. If you were home you’d probably be binging a drama. You shook your head. It was time to say goodnight. You didn’t feel like overstaying your welcome. 

“I’m gonna take off,” you muttered.

“What? So soon? It’s only 10,” Beomgyu said, sounding surprised.

You shrugged. “Yeah, and I’m wasting my Friday night being surrounded by drunk colleagues.

“Okay, then at least let me send you home,” he said, his tone softening.

“It’s totally fine! I can take the bus!”

“The bus? We can share a cab!” Beomgyu insisted.

“I’ll be fine, I swear.”

“And I won’t be until you let me take you home safely!” Beomgyu said, pouting ever so slightly, his lips curling downward. You stopped yourself from smiling at the sight of his pout.

“It’s really fine! If it makes you feel better, I’ll get Soobin to drive me back. I mean, he drove me here,” you replied, trying to brush off his concern with a casual shrug.

Beomgyu’s demeanor shifted immediately. His face tightened, and you noticed a flicker of frustration in his eyes. "Again with Soobin," he muttered, his voice a little sharper than before.

You glanced over at Beomgyu, seeing the almost imperceptible shift in his expression. He looked... frustrated, almost as if your mention of Soobin was a trigger. You weren’t sure why, but the change in him caught your attention. 

“Yeah, I mean, he drove–”

“Do you enjoy torturing me?” Beomgyu sighed, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“What?”

“Do you enjoy… torturing me?” he repeated, sounding almost exasperated by your sheer density.

“Are you drunk?”

He shook his head.

He pulled you aside, guiding you into a quiet corner of the bar. Now, there was no sign of your colleagues—just the two of you, standing by a plant. The sudden isolation made the air feel heavy.

“You’re torturing me,” he muttered, his voice low. “You actually hate me.”

You blinked in surprise, unsure if you had heard him right. 

“Hate you?” You frowned, trying to make sense of what he was implying. “Beomgyu, I don’t hate you.”

“You avoid me,” he sighed, frustration laced in his voice. “You’re always making jokes with everyone around you. Yeonjun, Soobin—dear God, you even make jokes with the new interns, Taehyun and Kai.”

You stood there frozen, caught off guard by the intensity of his rant.

“You laugh with everyone, you smile, you bat your eyelashes at Soobin, you touch Soobin’s arms, you go on one-on-one lunch dates with Soobin… You like Soobin.” His words came out in a rush, and each sentence hit harder than the last. “And you don’t feel a single thing for me.”

You felt your heart skip a beat at his accusation, your stomach dropping. 

“I–”

“Why won’t you like me back?” Beomgyu repeated, his voice softer now, but still laced with an underlying pain. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for an answer that you weren’t sure how to give.

And it was… three seconds of silence before Beomgyu hurled onto your shoes.

You stared in disbelief, mouth agape, as the reality of what had just happened set in. The mixture of complete shock and disgust made you freeze for a moment, unable to process what had just unfolded.

“No liquor, my ass!” You screamed, stepping back in horror as you looked down at your shoes, now a disgusting shade of… well, you didn’t even want to think about it.

Beomgyu collapsed onto the floor, his body crumpling like a ragdoll.

“Oh my God!” You shouted, hands thrown up in the air, unsure of what to do. You were stuck between wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all and wanting to strangle him for ruining your night—and your shoes.

Beomgyu’s head lolled to the side, eyes barely open as he slurred, “I... I didn’t mean for it to... to go like this. I just… I thought you’d—” He cut himself off with another groan, clearly too far gone to finish his sentence.

Your mind raced, torn between sympathy for his state and pure annoyance. You didn’t sign up for this. 

—

Soobin had driven the two of you back to your place. Beomgyu, half-conscious and heavily leaning against your shoulder, made no effort to support himself as you navigated him out of the car. 

You reached your front door and stopped, fumbling with the keys for a moment before Soobin broke the silence with a sigh. “You sure you don’t want him to just go home with me?” His voice was soft, but you could hear the concern in it, even if he tried to mask it with a teasing tone.

You shot him a tired glance as you finally unlocked the door. “Isn’t your mom visiting right now? You sure you want her to know this is the kind of roommate you have?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you nudged the door open with your foot, glancing at Beomgyu, who was mumbling nonsense under his breath.

“Yeah?” Soobin shrugged, clearly not thinking it through. “But, you know, I could always—”

“You sure you want your mom to see all this?” you interrupted, gesturing at the disaster that was Beomgyu, who looked like he might pass out any second.

Soobin blinked, his face faltering slightly as the reality of the situation hit him. “...You’re probably right,” he said with a chuckle that barely covered his embarrassment.

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping despite everything. “Thanks for the ride,” you said, offering a strained smile before you turned your attention back to Beomgyu. “Alright, let’s get you inside.”

Beomgyu stumbled and flopped onto the couch as soon as you let him go, groaning dramatically, his head lolling to the side. His disheveled hair and the faint smell of alcohol coming off him was enough to make you feel a little queasy, but you refused to let him see how uncomfortable you were. Instead, you turned to Soobin, who lingered by the door, looking unsure about whether to stay or leave.

“Is there anything I can do?” Soobin asked, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

You looked at Beomgyu again and sighed. “Just help me change him.” You half-smiled, trying to reassure Soobin despite feeling like a mess yourself. 

Soobin chuckled awkwardly. “You should probably get him some water or something.”

“Yeah, I will,” you said, already moving toward the kitchen, your mind racing as you debated what to do next. You glanced back at Beomgyu, still sprawled out on the couch, looking like he had no care in the world. He was out of it, sure, but the way he had acted earlier still lingered in your thoughts, leaving a pit in your stomach.

Soobin finally left, his footsteps fading as the door clicked shut behind him. You were alone now with a drunk, insufferable Beomgyu, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for whatever this night was about to throw at you next.

—

You were thankful Soobin stayed long enough to help change Beomgyu out of his puke-soaked clothes. It was an awkward scene, but you couldn’t exactly leave Beomgyu in his state. Soobin had managed to get him into a pair of comfortable sweats and a t-shirt before he left, leaving you to deal with the aftermath.

As you walked back into the living room, you found Beomgyu still sprawled on the couch, his head resting awkwardly on the armrest. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep but uneven. Despite the mess he’d made, you couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.

You grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and gently placed it on the coffee table in front of him, hoping he’d wake up enough to drink it.

It’d been a few hours since the incident happened. You had just been sitting on your armchair, waiting for Beomgyu to wake up.

His eyes fluttered open a moment later, his vision blurry as he blinked a few times, trying to focus on his surroundings. When he saw you standing there, a faint, sheepish smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You’re still here…” he mumbled..

“Of course,” you said, sitting down on the edge of the couch, keeping a safe distance. “You’re kinda at my house.”

Beomgyu let out a groan, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into all of this…”

You sighed, watching him closely as he sat up, trying to get his bearings. “You didn’t drag me into anything, I just so happened to be standing right in front of you, waiting for my prince charming to puke on me.” You replied, trying to hide the slight irritation in your voice, but the frustration from the whole night was starting to seep through.

Beomgyu winced at your words, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. “Yeah... that wasn’t my best moment.”

“No kidding.” You leaned back, folding your arms across your chest. “I’ve never seen you this... well, out of it. What even happened tonight?”

“I don’t know. I think I just... lost it. All the stuff with you and Soobin, it’s been bugging me more than I want to admit. And, well, I guess it all came crashing down at the wrong time.”

“So… you remember what you said in the bar just now?” You asked, the tension in your voice barely masked by the casual question.

Beomgyu nodded, his eyes slightly narrowed as if he was trying to piece everything together. “I’m puke and black-out drunk. Not the kind to forget about the stupid shit I do when I’m drunk... kind of drunk.”

You laughed awkwardly, trying to process what he was saying. "So you… were—are—jealous of Soobin?"

Beomgyu nodded slowly, his gaze avoiding yours as he seemed to wrestle with his own feelings. “Kind of. I guess. I don’t really know. But listen, he’s a great guy and clearly in better shape than me, so I… genuinely think the two of you would be great together.”

You blinked at him, trying to process the unexpected confession. "I don’t know… I kind of had my eyes on someone else, actually."

“It’s Yeonjun, isn’t it? It’s because he’s up there with that whole manager position and his weird party tricks… damn it, I should’ve picked up rollerblading when I had the chance.”

“No—not Yeonjun. He’s a little too intense for me,” you said, the memory of Yeonjun yelling at you for accidentally dropping a pack of Skittles down the garbage disposal flashing through your mind.

“Then who is it? Not Soobin, not Yeonjun—I’m gonna be so for real with you right now, we’re kind of your only options if you were into like hot people–”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I just… I’m curious to know who this guy is! Who’s this less attractive person I’m losing out to, y’know?”

“Well, he’s kinda cute to me.” 

Beomgyu sighed and ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated but also trying to mask it with a weak smile. “Okay, fine. I get it. You like someone else, and that’s cool. But you’re really killing me here with the suspense. Actually, you know what…maybe I don’t wanna know.” He sat up from the couch, shaking his head.

You were leaning against the wall opposite him, your arms crossed loosely over your chest as you tried to steady your breathing. Your eyes flicked to Beomgyu, watching him as he ran a hand through his messy hair, clearly wrestling with his own thoughts.

The way he shifted uncomfortably on the couch made you feel almost guilty for not speaking sooner, but you weren’t going to lie, you kind of enjoyed this little mental torture he was going through. 

Served him right for teasing you so much.

The truth was, you had been trying to avoid it, trying not to make things complicated especially with someone you weren’t even sure that liked you back. 

Come on. Dropping your coffee and making you wear the ugliest t-shirt? That didn’t really seem like someone who liked you.

“Look, y’know what, I’m fine. I’ll just go home,” Beomgyu sighed, standing up from the couch. “Thanks for taking care of me. I’m really sorry about the shoes. I’ll get you a new pair. I promise.” He ruffled his hair, clearly trying to hide the awkwardness with a forced smile, but you could tell he was feeling guilty.

“Beomgyu–”

“I’m good. Look, it stings. The girl I’ve been pining for, for about a year or so, doesn’t like me back. It’s cool. I’ll get over it. Not now, but soon enough. I just hope this guy—whoever the fuck he is—treats you well… but like, I hope he’s not that hot. I don’t think that’d be good for my self-esteem. But you also deserve the best so I hope he’s at least hot-ish…? I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m being really immature right now, aren’t I? This is not a good look on me,” Beomgyu rambled, his voice wavering slightly as he shifted uneasily on his feet.

“Dude, you gotta let me talk.” You sighed, walking over to Beomgyu and gently pushing him back onto the couch. He blinked up at you, still looking a little frazzled, but his shoulders visibly relaxed when you didn’t back away.

“This guy…that I’m into–”

“Oh great. We’re still talking about this asshole.” 

“He’s really funny,” you spoke, your tone exasperated but softening.

“It’s that one tall dude from marketing, isn’t it?” Beomgyu asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re not listening!” you yelled, cutting him off. Beomgyu gave you a sheepish, apologetic smile, slowly realizing that he was spiraling. You pulled his chin toward you, making sure he was looking at you. “He’s funny. He’s kind of an asshole, actually.”

“You’re into that?”

You shrugged, “And he’s really handsome.” You looked up at Beomgyu, giving him the sweetest smile, which made his heart leap.

“Don’t smile at me like that. You’re just gonna make me more hung up on you.” Beomgyu’s voice was softer now, the playful edge gone, replaced by a vulnerability that made your heart race. 

You chuckled, “He’s also really cute. Didn’t peg him for the jealous type.”

“What?” He tilted his head, confused.

“He’s also really narcissistic. Has apparently zero alcohol tolerance,” you mumbled. “He also puked on my shoes.”

Beomgyu blinked a few times, his mouth opening and closing as if he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Wait, he puked in your shoes? And you’re still into him?” He let out a disbelieving laugh, though it was edged with a hint of nervousness. "And you think I'm the one who’s messed up?"

“Beomgyu, it’s you. How are you not getting it?”

“Oh.” 

Beomgyu’s gaze softened, the realization sinking in fully. His lips parted as if he were about to say something, but he hesitated, unsure of how to handle the sudden shift in the conversation.

“I’ve liked you for awhile now.” You continued, “I just thought you genuinely…disliked me. Or at least just enjoyed making my day miserable.”

“Miserable? Baby, I was entertaining you,” he said, his voice low, teasing but with an undeniable sincerity underneath.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling both amused and flustered. “Entertaining me? By making me spill coffee on myself and tricking me into wearing that ugly t-shirt?”

Beomgyu chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well–” he started, clearly trying to defend himself but failing to keep his grin in check.

“How about two weeks ago when you took out the screws of my chair at work and I fell and hurt my ass?” You crossed your arms, a playful yet accusatory tone in your voice.

“To be fair, that was Soobin’s idea,” Beomgyu said quickly, as if the excuse could somehow absolve him. He looked genuinely innocent for a split second before breaking into an even wider grin. “But I did help, so I guess I’m partially guilty.”

You scoffed, unable to suppress a smile despite yourself. “Partial guilt? You’re the mastermind behind most of it.”

"You don't get it!" Beomgyu sighed dramatically. "You're just so... adorable when you're mad! Your eyebrows furrow, your eyes widen, and when you pout... it's just... God, if you could see yourself the way I see you."

You raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress the grin that tugged at your lips. "Adorable? Really? You think I'm adorable when I'm mad?"

Beomgyu nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up. "Yes! You don’t get it! You’re like a firecracker. When you get all huffy and your cheeks puff up, it just... it drives me crazy." He looked almost embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's like the cutest thing ever."

You couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine sound that surprised both of you. "Am I just your daily work stress ball or something?”

"Yes!" Beomgyu replied instantly, his voice a little too eager. He leaned in slightly, his tone softening as if revealing a secret. "I swear, if you could see yourself, you'd understand. It’s like you’re all fierce and pissed off, but still so... you. And God, it's so easy to fall for."

You smiled shyly, “You’re a little weirdo, aren’t you?” 

Beomgyu grinned, his eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint you’d come to know all too well. "Maybe," he said, his voice low and teasing. "But I'm your weirdo. If you’ll take me."

He leaned in just a little closer, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips, and for a brief moment, the air between you seemed to thicken. You felt your heart skip a beat, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool, but your voice came out softer than you intended. "I don't know if I’ll like that," you teased, though you couldn’t hide the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Beomgyu chuckled, his expression softening into something more sincere. "You should. I swear, I’ve got the best intentions. Even if I do mess with you a little."

Your breath caught as his words hit you in a way you hadn't expected. He wasn’t just being playful anymore—there was something real behind his eyes.

"You’re... kind of sweet when you’re serious," you murmured, unable to stop yourself from feeling a little flustered under his gaze.

Beomgyu leaned back just slightly, his smile turning a little shy, like he hadn't meant to let that much of himself show. "Yeah, well... I mean it, you know?" he said quietly, looking down at his hands before meeting your gaze again. "You make it hard not to feel this way." 

“You’re being ridiculous.” You puffed your cheeks.

“There! There it is!” Beomgyu shouted, jumping up and down on your couch in excitement like a little kid.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics, your heart skipping a beat at how effortlessly cute he was. “You’re being insane!” you said, still smiling.

“I’m not!” Beomgyu responded dramatically, flailing his arms for emphasis. “How are you not seeing how cute you are?!” His voice was nearly exasperated, like he was trying to make you understand some grand truth about yourself.

“It’s probably how I see you!” you shot back, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips.

A moment of silence filled the room, the weight of what you had just said hanging in the air.

Beomgyu’s eyes widened slightly, his expression faltering as he processed your words. “That’s how you see me?” he asked, his voice softer, almost unsure.

You nodded, your gaze shifting as you tried to put your thoughts into words. “Yeah. You’re… well, close to perfect, as far as I can see.” You shrugged slightly. "The way you put your tongue at the side of your cheek and poke it when you're feeling smug after winning an argument with me... Maybe that's why I let you win sometimes. You look... sexy when you do that."

Beomgyu froze, his eyes locking with yours, a mix of surprise and something else flickering in his gaze. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin, that mischievous glint returning. “You think I’m sexy when I do that?” he asked, scooting closer, his hands coming to rest beside your thighs on the couch.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, suddenly self-conscious as you realized what you'd just admitted. But before you could retreat, Beomgyu leaned in a little, his face lighting up with that playful yet sincere spark. “Well, now that you’ve said it... I’m definitely not letting you off the hook,” he teased, his tone warm and a little more serious than before, making your heart skip a beat.

“What else do you like about me?” he asked, his gaze drifting from your eyes to your lips.

You blushed, feeling your heart race. “When you… when you make everyone laugh. You’re just so effortlessly you,” you said softly, your voice warming as you smiled shyly at him.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered your name. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere. “You’d see the most beautiful person in the world.”

You stayed silent, your heart pounding as his words settled in. The air between you seemed to thicken with unspoken feelings, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice.

He leaned back slightly, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "And, would the most beautiful person in the world... let me kiss her?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You could feel the tension, the way everything seemed to slow down as you locked eyes with him. He was so close, and his expression was so genuine, you couldn’t help but feel your heart flutter.

Slowly, you nodded, barely able to whisper, “Yeah... I think I would.”

His eyes lit up, and in that instant, the world around you seemed to disappear. Without wasting another second, Beomgyu gently cupped your face in his hands, leaning in until his lips met yours in a soft, tentative kiss. It was sweet at first, testing the waters, before deepening as you both relaxed into the moment.

Everything felt perfect. Well…until…

You pulled away, suddenly aware of the rules that had always been lurking in the back of your mind. “Wait. Doesn’t our company have a rule about dating?”

Beomgyu froze for a second, his lips brushing yours one last time before he pulled back, a playful grin spreading across his face. “I could quit tomorrow if it meant I could kiss you every day,” he sighed dramatically, but there was a sincerity in his eyes that made your heart race.

Before you could say anything, Beomgyu pulled you gently but insistently closer, guiding you to sit on his lap. He leaned in again, his lips on yours.

“Beomgyu, I’m serious.” You mumbled between the kisses, your voice breathless but laced with uncertainty.

He only grinned wider, his hands lightly gripping your waist, “Rule, schmule,” he muttered dismissively, pushing you closer to him as he deepened the kiss. "We’ll figure it out. Besides, isn’t Taehyun like the boss’s son or something? We could bribe him."

“What?!” You gasped, pulling away from the kiss, your eyes wide with disbelief.

“Shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that,” he muttered sheepishly, but the mischievous gleam in his eyes was unmistakable as he shrugged and pulled you back into the kiss.

“You did not just drop a big bomb like that!” You tried to protest, but your words were muffled by his lips.

“Less talking, more kissing,” Beomgyu murmured between kisses, his hands gently guiding your face to meet his again.

“But we have all night,” you teased, breathless but still managing a smirk.

He paused for a moment, his face a little too close to yours, his grin playful. “I’m listening…” he said, clearly enjoying this back-and-forth.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, pushing him playfully away just enough to get a word in. “You’re also gross.”

Beomgyu’s expression faltered for just a second before he burst into laughter, his arms wrapping around you tighter as he pulled you back against him. “Gross? I thought you liked me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest made it hard to stay mad. “You’re impossible,” you murmured, even as you found yourself leaning in again.

“Impossible to resist,” he corrected with a wink, his lips capturing yours once more, and this time, there was no pulling away.

[planetpedri]

The story of us — Lamine Yamal.

Pairing: Lamine Yamal x Flick!Reader

Summary: When you and Lamine first met, it was because of a simple mistake. It was sweet and cute, and now you were faced with the task of telling your father about your relationship, or, well, convincing Lamine to agree to it.

Word count: 1.6k+

Disclaimer/s: Outfit read is wearing is in the first pic! Fluff , reader is Hansi Flick’s daughter , teasing , banter , ect.

A/N: Hi! So i’m unfortunately obsessed with the coaches daughter trope. This is ESPECIALLY dedicated to 2/3 @halfwayhearted and 1/3 dedicated to @sakashq . I love you both. Sorry that I gave you towards the end..

When your dad said dress formally… he wasn’t very specific. A dozen dresses and skirts laid out on your bed, each one a different level ranging from casual to fancy. Exhaling a long, annoyed breath, you tap your foot against the wooden floorboard.

Your door clicking open had you groaning. “Dad—“

“This is not.. the bathroom.” A boy’s voice says slowly. Whipping around you are met with a tall, dark, and.. oh lord he was cute.

Your eyebrow lifts teasingly. “Really? What was your first clue?” She recognized him—Lamine. You had known the names of every single Barcelona player, your father made sure of that.

The boy laughs lightly, his head dipping down as a light blush spreads across his cheeks. “Funny.. So—” He trails off, his eyes trailing over the clothes spread across your bed.

“Hold on! I’ll give you directions to the bathroom, but first,“ You step aside, “help me pick? I’m having a bit of trouble choosing.”

Lamine meets your eyes, silently asking for permission to take a closer look. You give him a short nod, your lip curling slightly. He takes a few steps forward, standing at your side and thinks for a moment, taking a few glances at you. “You’re wearing silver jewelry?”

You hum, “yup!”

“Then, the pink top with the white skirt.” He nods to himself. as if to assure himself of the choice.

“Perfect.” You clap your hands together. Grabbing the set, you turn towards him. “Bathroom is literally two doors back, on the left side.”

Lamine laughs, “I overshot?”

“Yes, Lamine, you did.”

His name leaving your lips not only had a weird feeling growing in his stomach, it also had his eyebrows pulling together. “You know my name?”

Your eyes move from side to side, “uh… yeah? My dad is about to be your coach, is he not?”

Lamine stumbles over his words, “well—I—okay. True. He never told us your name, though.” He cocks his head to the side with a grin.

You tell him your name and he tests it out on his tongue, hating the way he loved how it rolled off so easily. “That’s a cool name.” Lamine internally slaps himself. Cool? Seriously?

You clasp a hand over your mouth, hiding the smile that almost accompanied a laugh at the painful look that crossed his face. Removing your hand, you nudge your head to the door. “Bathroom?”

His eyes widen, “uh, yep! Yeah, thank you! Again.”

“You didn’t thank me the first time.”

“Right.”

Lamine gives you two thumbs up, his nervous smile falling instantly. A small giggle bubbles in your throat and he takes that as his cue to leave, fast.

When you finish dressing, you slip on your small heels and exit your bedroom. The dining room was packed full of people when you arrived, taking you a bit by surprise. While you searched the room for your parents, your sisters hadn’t come, too busy with their lives and leaving you all alone—you stumble into the back of someone.

“Oh shit—“ You hiss, “i’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the mans voice was familiar, as if you heard it only ten minutes ago.

Great.

“Wow! Humiliating ourselves in front of each other twice in ten minutes, good for us.” You pat his shoulder, eyes drifting to the people beside him who were observing the two of you curiously.

Héctor Fort, Alejandro Balde, and Pau Cubarsí. Wow! You just humiliated yourself in front of so many people. Great going.

“Uh, this is Flick’s daughter.” Lamine explains, “long story. Don’t ask.” He adds when he received more questioning looks.

You give them a short wave, introducing yourself. They do the same, although you didn’t need them to. “It was nice to meet you all, but I better go find my dad!”

Scurrying off, you approach your dad. “I just absolutely embarrassed myself in front of so many people. Remind me again just why I had to attend?”

Hansi looks down in your direction, “we already talked about this. I’m sure it wasn’t that bad—where is your mother?”

Huffing, you nod your head in her direction. “Talking to one of the wives.”

“Perfect, now.. go converse.” He waves you in a random direction, “just have fun. Okay?”

“Fun?” You grumble as he places a kiss to the top of your head.

“Fun.” He nods, walking off to find his wife.

When the dinner was finally over and you’d exhausted yourself with bare minimum conversations, you make your way toward the balcony that overlooked your back lawn. The cool night air brushed against your shoulders.

Letting out a long breath, your eyes flutter shut. The moment of peace you’d been wanting all night had finally arrived.

Or not.

“May I join you?”

Opening your eyes, you turn your head to look at Lamine. “Sure, why not.” You say quietly.

Lamine stands beside you, not speaking thankfully—not that you would’ve minded, but it was nice to have some quiet time.

Minutes pass before either of you speak. You initiate it, not looking at him, “so.. thoughts?”

“On what?”

“I dunno, the house, my dad.. anything, I guess.” You shrug, twirling around so your back was leaning against the railing.

Lamine rests his hip against it, giving you an amused smile. “Your house is, well, fancy. And your dad is scary, but funny.” He answers truthfully.

You snicker, finding it funny how everyone who met your dad thought he was scary. Hansi—your father, was quite the opposite. Maybe it was just because you were his daughter, but your dad did have quite the humor when he wanted to.

“My dad is the least scary person in the world. If he was, you wouldn’t be out here alone with me. He would’ve been right behind you.” You nod toward the balcony door. “I promise he’s a chill guy.”

“You’re only saying that because he’s your dad.” Lamine counters. He believed you, but he couldn’t help but doubt it when he saw the mans resting face.

Your name being shouted interrupts your conversation. You glance in the voices direction, seeing your mother’s head pop out of the door. “Your father’s about to make his.. speech.” She looks toward Lamine, eyebrow raising. “You’ll be needed too, Lamine.”

“We’ll be in soon!” You call back, silently begging for her to leave. She does, giving you a knowing look that you scowl at.

“Okay, we should probably go.” You say slowly, taking a few steps away from the railing, “but, hey—“

Lamine pauses mid step, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

“Could I get your number?” Your face grows a bright red, “that was far too direct. I just.. well you seem cool.”

The boy laughs, “yeah, of course. Here.” He reaches for his phone in his back pocket and hands it to you, allowing you to type your number in and save your contact.

“Text me sometime, i’m pretty much always available. New country and all..” You continue walking to the door, Lamine close in tow.

Months had passed, five long months. Lamine had texted you the day after he got your number and you had never stopped talking. You started hanging out regularly, which eventually progressed into his asking you out.

You’d been dating for a few weeks, and in those weeks you’d tried to convince Lamine that it would be okay to tell your dad, that he wouldn’t mind, but he had his doubts.

Sitting on the couch at Lamine’s parent’s house, one of the few places you could be together without the eyes of the public on you. Your head rested on his shoulder with his arm wrapped around you.

“Lamine.” You rub your temples, “he literally adores you! If I’m being honest, he probably likes you more than me. So please, I hate hiding this from him.”

Contemplating for a moment, he finally lets pit a sigh of defeat. “Okay! Okay. Fine, but if he sells me to a different club, it’s your fault.”

Laughing, you tilt your head up. “You’re my dad’s little starboy, he’s not selling you to anyone.” You tease, your lips pulling into a smirk.

Rolling his eyes at you, Lamine tips his head closer, lips inches from yours. “You are so annoying.” He grumbles, pecking your lips sweetly.

“Yeah, well, you love that about me.” You greet his lips in a small kiss, only pulling away to grab your phone. “Diner at parents tonight?”

“Tonight?” Lamine’s eyes widen. “Hell no.”

“Hell, yes! Actually.” You laugh, “dress nicely.”

You forced Lamine through the front door, your hand gripping his tightly. “Get in! You’re acting like you can’t walk.”

“Yeah, well, i’m sort of paralyzed in fear. No thanks to you.” He hisses, scowling when he sees the entertained look on your face.

“Is that you, Engel? [angel]” Your dads voice calls out from the living room.

“Yeah!” You yell back, turning to lamine to whisper, “I may have forgotten to mention you were my boyfriend.”

Lamine has no time to react when your dad walks out of the living room entrance to greet you. A sweat breaks out on the boys forehead when his coaches eyes land on him.

“Lamine? What are you doing here…” He stops speaking slowly, eyes flickering to you with something a little less than surprise, but something near it. “Huh.” He nods. “Well, dinners almost ready. You can go to the dining room.”

Mild reaction, expected reaction.

“Perfect! I’m starving.” You squeeze Lamine’s hand and pull him toward the kitchen, trying not to comment on the absolute fear written across his face.

likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future lamine posts.

DTS , @halfwayhearted @sakashq @ar4ujos @hrts4havertz @joaoflms @spidybaby !

[pjsk-hot-takes]

To add onto Anons before me I’ve noticed that whenever misogyny is brought up in the PJSK fandom the people talking about it always specifically refer to L/N, MMJ and even N25. Which.

Actually I think we should talk about Emu Nene An and Kohane more. They face SO much misogyny. Constantly. And nobody even mentions them in discussions about misogyny BECAUSE of said misogyny. Literally every single time an Emunene or Anhane song comes out people call it bad or say it should’ve gone to someone else. Every time. Without fail. It gets ignored at best outright hated at worst.

Ok so thought experiment time. Name a popular Emunene or Anhane song that’s as beloved or gets as much attention as Aun no Beats and Fixer.

If you couldn’t name one - that isn’t even because they don’t have bangers people just don’t like women unless they’re standing right next to men. Anhane alone has Imperial Girl and Odo and Pheles and Love is War and the Night Sky Patrol of Tomorrow and Butterfly on your Right Shoulder archives and you’re telling me that none of those are “good enough”????? Idk I think that’s just bias. Ruikasa and Akitoya songs have gotten popular with worse. Anhane and Emunene could drop the most jaw dropping gorgeous songs ever and not a single person would care and I firmly believe and will stand by that statement.

This isn’t even getting into how they’re treated in group covers!!!!!! Everybody ignores or hates on them!!!! If people feel like they got even slightly more lines than Ruikasa or Akitoya, even in their *own focus songs* (cough forward cough) they get so upset. And yet when Anhane and Emunene get the EXACT same treatment in Ruikasa or Akitoya songs nobody says a single thing!!!

And that’s not just speculation I KNOW that’s the case I can literally prove it. An has three total solo lines in the entirety of blender. That’s the exact same amount of solo lines as Toya gets in Ready Steady. They pretty much have the exact same amount of duet lines as well. In both songs. But Ready Steady is infamous and hated for it whereas blender nobody has even pointed this out and it’s universally beloved. It’s not even just a “blender is a focus song” thing because this happened with Forward too. It’s just misogyny.

I’ve seen people complain about Daybreak Frontline. Because and I quote “I hate it when the girls get most of the lines”. I can’t even go into any of the Nene or Emu tags without filtering every single Tsukasa and Rui tag first and even then finding any sort of content is almost impossible I think that’s a problem.

People will call Kohane “just a girl” despite the fact that she has a solid character arc and a personality and development. You can think she’s boring or not for you but????????? Don’t call her “just a girl”????? Esp not when she has social difficulties that are intentionally supposed to be relatable to the audience. A lot of people might actually relate to her character and journey even if they don’t necessarily like her. Idk leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

An has it only SLIGHTLY better because there’s a niche little fanbase for her and she’s somewhat popular (in the western fanbase. I think Kohane is more popular in Japan iirc.) but she still gets treated as an accessory to Akito and Toya just like Kohane. Also people keep trying to be weird and frame her as abusive or toxic which. Considering that possibility isn’t like a bad thing but people are just straight up reaching to try to prove stuff that either isn’t implied at any point or is outright refuted in the text just to villainize her??? Which is weird??? Especially because these people will turn around and defend Rui and Akito. Like. What did she ever do to you….. you’re willing to defend Rui who has canonically put people in mortal danger because teehee autism (I am autistic FYI I still think that’s a really stupid thing to use as justification especially if he’s aware it’s dangerous????) but An. Just existing with her fear of abandonment was too much??????

I could go ON and on and on there are so many examples….. help me……… help me anons…..

It’s not even that liking Akito and Toya or Rui and Tsukasa is inherently bad!!!!! But the favoritism as a whole is…….. something. Especially when it turns into hating the fem characters.

Also Mizuki suffers this too with Rui as another anon mentioned and it’s like. Really guys. Like first off it’s not about him it’s about Mizuki and if you’re gonna involve anyone else it should be the Nightcord girlies. Second off It’s a double whammy because people will bring up Rui but make no mention of An despite the fact that An is the one who’s canonically defended Mizuki from transphobes. Like. Why only Rui.

(I tried to word this as neutrally as possible I hope it didn’t come off as too aggressive ausuxuvhxhgxhgshg…. Anyways….. introspection and growth is good and cool actually…. Also I’m using Anhane and Emunene and Akitoya and Ruikasa for ease of use not as like a ship thing just to clarify it’s just tiring typing out each name individually)

.

[ravenswritingroom]

It was never ‘social anxiety’ it was fucking pattern recognition, but no I’m the paranoid one for always worrying that people hate me. It’s almost like I have a disorder that’s lots of people hate me for that has a symptom of recognising the pattern of being treated like shit for something I have no control over.

a bottom-tier autistic experience is being told throughout your entire childhood that you are just an overthinker when it comes to social situations and later finding out that your friends did, in fact, hate being around you and tried to communicate that through weird little hints

[novella-november]

Is this fanfic friendly? I feel like an outlier.

I guess this is my sign it's time to throw together a FAQ post to link to lol.

Yes, every event for this blog is fanfic friendly :D

Though as I mentioned on my Ominous October post, for events that include multiple short stories, I encourage everyone to flex their creativity and take one of their planned short story fanfics, and at least *attempt* to turn one of them into something entirely original; rebuilding a character and story from the ground up to stand on its own two legs is no easy feat, and that is what makes it so fun!

It really gets your creative gears turning, to make an "au of an existing material" to be something entirely original, and you can be pleasantly surprised about the things you come up with!

As a few people say, its not just a matter of "filing the serial numbers off" -- you have to add in just as much *or more* as what you take out when you are turning a fanfiction into something that is original and completely divorced from its original source material / inspiration, and that is a hard, but very rewarding challenge!

Obviously, this is not a requirement (there's no hard requirements for any of the challenges, other than no cheating, including no using AI),

but if you would like an extra challenge for the short story events and you're planning on doing entirely fan-fiction, I highly recommend trying it out at least once, and seeing where it leads you--

you may find yourself pleasantly surprised by what you find down that rabbit hole!

[smile-files]

i think the main issue in arguing with zionists is that, well, they believe in zionism! if israel did deserve to exist, then the genocide and injustice in palestine could be argued for (not like it should be, but it certainly could) -- and zionists believe israel deserves to exist.

i, unfortunately, have a large amount of experience interacting (personally) with zionism and zionists. most of those i've talked to feel for the palestinians, and the violence they are facing, but they fail to realize (or they staunchly deny) the very, very active part israel and the IDF have had in that -- and how it's representative of what the nation has always done.

at the same time, they focus more on israeli hostages than palestinian ones -- and i know, of course, that these zionist jews i've interacted with are either israeli or have loved ones in israel, and so have a very personal stake in the safety of israeli hostages (which may very well be friends or family members), but i find it strange how much emphasis they put on hamas' cruelty in taking hostages while the IDF is doing the same thing (in essence; the exact details of who's doing it worse are important to note, but not relevant right now, because folks should realize that their side is being at least as cruel as the enemy's).

recently i was drawn into an argument with an israeli zionist (who, unfortunately, is very close to the action and tragedy by being israeli), and she was incredibly offended by my anti-zionism and my opposition to israel's abject cruelty to palestinian citizens, as it seemed (to her) like i was bypassing the cruelty hamas has enacted on israeli citizens -- which is very telling. i've noticed that we as jews have the tendency, whatever the situation may be, of focusing more on our pain than the pain of others, even if we are the ones hurting them. that person has every reason to be scared and hurt, and i'd be lying if i said her response wasn't at least somewhat sympathetic, but her pain in this horrible, violent conflict does not invalidate the pain on the other side. jews, throughout this recent crisis, have consistently not talked in depth about the constant losses in palestine -- am i suddenly being callous by focusing on those losses, and not our own? (YOUR PAIN AND THEIRS AREN'T MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE, YOU DOLT! sorry...)

because it all comes down to believing in israel! my mom has always told me about how beautiful it is there, about her time living on a kibbutz... and sure, it might be nice. i can't argue with that. but why is it that our nationalism for israel is so strong, so virulent? i have not seen patriots as loyal for any other country. and when you criticize israel, israelis feel like you're criticizing their entire existence -- and many non-israeli jews do, as well. because zionism has been built so deep into the modern religion! it's made to be a necessary piece! belief in it is the default!

and, from the inside looking in, i can't be surprised that many jews take anti-zionism as being antisemitic -- because, to them, israel and zionism stand as the pinnacle of safety and support for the jewish people. it is impossible to argue with them about anything above that base layer, as the base layer itself serves as a foundation: so long as a jew thinks that israel is right, deserved, and necessary, no proof will sway them into hating israel. it's just impossible, and that's very frustrating.

for me in particular, i find it very frustrating, as this single idea has turned so many people i know to support a genocidal entity. they believe in and support israel, so they stand with it now -- even if they condemn its current actions, they neglect how those actions are just an extension of its inherent existence -- whether they think israel's doing the right thing or wrong thing right now, they don't really care at the end of the day, because israel, to them, is necessary in keeping the jewish people alive. they stand with it, thinking that jews can only stand at all if they do.

but a genocidal crutch is no crutch at all: it only breaks us more. zionist jews make me so mad, and the worst part is that i could never express that to them in a way they'll understand.

[valewritessss]

This reply is hidden because you have blocked the author

“Hmm… I kind of wanna unblock just to see what they said.”

*sees everyone disagreeing and arguing with the reply*

*pats myself on the back*

[digirainebow]

i didn't think jacob would be arguing with olivia, wanting it almost as much as her. what the hell. i expected the self defeated, taking one for the team attitude but actively needing it like her? when he had been trying to stop her all night? i feel like i've been blasted by a buckshot

[bileroom]

we're going to have our own safe home again and then we can process the. aughh

[slvttyplum]

toji having a smug smirk on his face whenever the both of you are around other people, knowing he’s going to be tearing your insides out when he gets the chance.

you wouldn’t call yourself toxic, but one thing in particular that you did every once in a while when toji was pissing you off was to invite your mutual friends over because he hated having people over.

chugging down whiskey while he eyed you down from across the room every five seconds—a nasty stare, but beneath it was horniess.

he wanted to turn you every way but loose and knew that he couldn’t do it with people there; that’s what got him frustrated.

adjusting his sweats every few seconds while his dick pushed against the fabric, cursing under his breath.

throwing jabs at him from the earlier arguments while he stood there smirking, just letting you say whatever you wanted knowing you wouldn’t be able to when the two of you were alone.

“what was that? mm forgot you had these in there.” pushing his fingers deeper down your throat while his dick was stuffed deep inside of you, fighting the urge to let whatever was sitting in the pit of your stomach out.

sliding another finger in your mouth as the pace he was holding onto quickened, his other hand sliding to your clit.

toji was a brat; he wanted his way all the time. especially when it came to disagreements, and when the both of you were going to speak about it, of course it was your decision at the end of the day, leading to his sexual tantrum.

“take it, just keep these in there.” gagging around his fingers with no fail every single time, eyes watery, and your pussy overflowing with wetness, hitting his lower stomach.

that same smug smirk on his face the entire time, not letting up; he liked to see you like this, all squirmy while he fucked you.

“oh, now you wanna talk? talk for me, baby.” saliva spilling out the sides of your mouth while you gag around his fingers and your pussy continues to spill over.

one of the examples of the petty fuckings you’ve gotten because of toji; he didn’t like when you tested him, but you didn’t like when the both of you disagreed.

fucking was the only compromise.

[shencomix]

Recently I decided to go to my local fighting game tournament.

Here's how it went.

I had been getting pretty good at Guilty Gear over the past few weeks, to the point where I was getting the input correctly for the Potemkin Buster 1 out of every 4 or 5 times I tried it. So I thought "I might not be the best yet, but, surely good enough for my local" -- and I decided to go.

It took place at a the comic & games store in the town center. The venue was full of people 10-15 years younger than me and even more drastically cooler. They all turned to glare at me as I walked through the door, but as I stood completely motionless like a gazelle hoping to blend into the grassland, their gazes slowly returned to each other and they continued to banter friendlily.

I sat down next to me first opponent, and reached out to shake their hand. They looked down at my hand, and then up at my eyes slowly.

"You're supposed to do that at the end of the match."

"Oh, s-sorry"

I got perfected twice and lost the match. At the end, I reached out again to shake their hand, but they just stood up and walked away.

Because I lost, I got moved down to the loser's bracket, which was literally below the main tournament because it took place in the basement of the comic shop. I could hear footsteps, cheering, and happy conversation in the floor above. Here in the loser's bracket though, the mood was a lot more somber.

My next opponent reminded me a little bit of me. They were equally nervous and disheveled looking. They said "Um, h-hello" and reached out their hand for a handshake as they saw me approaching. I said "you're s-supposed to do that at the end of the match." But as a look of deep sadness came over their face and they slowly put down their hand, I pulled them in for a hug.

I'm not sure why I did that.

I think that some part of me knew that, in this dark, dank, alien place, illuminated only by a single failing ceiling light and the neon glow of a few arcade machines, I had at last found a friend -- someone I understood, and who might understand me too.

They hugged back.

I lost that match by a very narrow margin, and as they jumped up and began dancing around and cheering ecstatically, I began to hate them. This was no friend of mine. A friend would not do this to me. After they were done dancing, they reached out to shake my hand. After a few seconds of pause, I stuck out my hand too, but didn't look at them and refused to close it around theirs as they grasped it. They shook my karate chop.

I thought that at that point, since I had lost and then lost in loser's bracket, I was free to go home. But one of the tournament organizers approached me and informed me that I was going down to sub-loser's bracket in the sub-basement of the store, and pointed me towards a descending staircase.

The people there were fewer, and it was darker. I could faintly hear sobbing in one of the corners, but as I went to investigate, another participant put his hand on my shoulder. He furrowed his brow in a look of pain and shook his head slowly.

"You can't do anything for them."

In sub-loser's bracket I went up against a man in a suit whose face was cloaked in shadow. He spammed May's dolphin move. I lost.

As I went to go back upstairs, one of the tournament organizers held out her palm to stop me, and pointed towards a staircase leading further down instead.

Going down through the levels, I lost to many interesting participants. One player played exclusively by bashing the controller against his face. One player was a mushroom with a few circuit cables clipped onto it, that I later learned was able to play because its bioelectrical signals got sent to a machine that interpreted them as fighting game inputs. One player didn't touch their controller at all, but instead just told me their life story, which was so tragic that I picked up their controller and won for them.

Finally, at the very bottom floor, where construction standards were long abandoned and the stairs and walls were just messily carved out of the earth's stone, I faced my final player. It was a small bit of metal framework, with a controller nestled in it. On it was a tiny piston that just pressed the jab button exactly once every second. I lost.

I hung my head for a moment, then said "close game" and stuck my hand out for a handshake, before remembering that I had played against a metal framework cube with a piston in it and retracting my hand slowly. Then I heard a slow clapping from the darkness.

"No neutral. No footsies."

Out of the darkness slowly walked a woman about my age, clad in a decorative poofy dress that looked more expensive than my entire life savings. She smiled at me warmly, continuing to clap slowly, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes.

"No meter management. No mixups. No spacing. No learning. No strategy…

…You're perfect."

"Wh-what?"

"You're perfect. I absolutely must have you."

"Have me for…um…for what…"

(Her eyes went wide as her smile grew more manic.)

"WHY, MY MORON FAILSON HAREM OF COURSE."

"Um, I-I"

"Tell me, what do you do for a living? Let me guess, you work at a fast food restaurant? Or, retail?"

"No, I'm a--I'm a comic artist."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Oh my god, you are PERFECT. What will it take to get you."

"To-to ge--"

"You would be well taken care of, of course. 3 Michelin star dining for every meal. Only the finest, softest sweatpants and sweatshirts, pre-stained with whatever flavor of Takis your little heart desires. You would have access to the entire mansion except for the main foyer when I'm in business calls, and you could make all the comics and play all the fighting games you want."

"I'm uh--"

I knew that I had to think fast here.

"I'm already i-in a moron failson harem."

"Oh, DARN IT!! TELL ME, WHO IS IT??? WHO GOT YOU??"

"I-I think I'm not allowed to s-sa--"

She stomped her foot petulantly, her shoe clacking against the stone floor.

"WAS IT SHUXUAN?? IT'S ALWAYS SHUXUAN HOGGING ALL OF THE GOOD ONES."

"I-I'm sorry," I blurted out, shuffling along the wall to make a wide radius around her and then running up the staircase.

As I got home and began making my standard dinner of Trader Joe's microwave falafel, I thought about her offer. Maybe I should have taken her up on it after all. A 3 Michelin star meal right now wouldn't be so bad.

Then I hopped on Guilty Gear and lost 22 matches in a row.

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I��m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[moremaybank]

CHOCOLATE , jj maybank

── KINKTOBER: PRAISE KINK + SQUIRTING + MIRROR SEX

"all i know is, it rains when it feels right." ─ kiana ledé, chocolate. (remix)

jj maybank x insecure!gf!reader

(18+) praise kink, squirting, fingering, use of a mirror (technically it's partial mirror sex), dirty talk

jj worships you when you’re feeling down (and makes it rain)

KINKTOBER , OBX MASTERLIST

jj's chest was hot against your back, the two of you pressed up skin to skin. you melted into him like chocolate, craving him and the way he took the time to worship you.

lucky for you, jj was always in the mood to do so.

when you had confided in jj and told him you were feeling insecure lately, presumbly because of your upcoming period, he wasted no time crafting a plan with the goal to make you feel better.

there was no way in hell he was gonna let his girl walk around thinking she was anything less than perfect, whether her insecurities were caused by hormones or not.

he'd pulled your body-length mirror closer to the edge of your bed, placed you between his legs, spread you wide open and made you watch as he cherished you with his words and with his magic touch.

"who told you you weren't perfect? huh, baby? 'cause the way you're lookin' right now, 'm pretty sure you're an angel 'n this is heaven.”

his fingers slide into your warm, oozing cunt rhythmically, each punt curling upward to play with that spongy part of you that made your thighs tremble for him. every single press to it forced a pitiful moan to tumble past your parted lips.

"hate seein' you like this, baby..." the ringed knuckles of jj's free hand skimmed up and down anywhere they could reach, drawing imaginary lines on your inner thighs and your stomach. the cool metal ran over your pebbling nipples and pulled goosebumps forth from your flesh. "jus' need me to remind you how perfect you are? hm?"

his chin hooked over your shoulder, and he dotted kiss after kiss on your blood-rushed cheek. turning his head, he found your gaze in the mirror and held it there. the pad of his thumb applied pressure to your clit, rubbing it in time with the work of his fingers. he motioned downward with his chin, urging you to look at your filled pussy in the reflection. "see how that pretty pussy takes my fingers? look at'er go, mama."

you mewl pathetically when he starts to fingerfuck you harder, the heel of his palm now colliding with your clit and making your knees buckle. "feels too good, j," you voiced out the best as you could. you could barely suck in a breath as the freight train that was your high crept up on you. "don't deserve it. don't deserve you."

jj tutted you, shaking his head. "yeah you fuckin' do. deserve the world, mama. fuck, you're so good."

your heat started to clamp down on his fingers, quivering and convulsing helplessly.

"you wanna cum?" jj asked, eyes meeting yours in the mirror once more. your smaller hand circles around his wrist, holding on while he used it to please you. "that sound good, sweetheart?"

"y-yeah. please, j. need it."

"then you gotta say what i tell you to, alright?"

you nodded for him. you had no idea what you were agreeing to, but you didn't care. jj was completely taking over all of you, and you just wanted to be good for him. do anything he asked of you because you seeked his approval so direly.

"tell me how pretty you look with your pussy stuffed."

your stomach did cartwheels and your core fluttered at his vulgarity. gulping, you did as he said. "i-i look pretty with my pussy stuffed."

"yeah...yeah you do, baby. tell me you take it so well when daddy fucks you. tell me how perfect your pussy is for me."

"m-my pussy's perfect. take it so well for you, daddy."

"good. now look yourself in the mirror 'n say you're beautiful," was his next command. his gaze was scorching, his praise electrifying and heart-filling. he'd handcrafted you into his own puppet, or he'd had you hypnotized. either way, the words leaked out of you like a faucet.

"i'm beautiful."

"again...say it again, baby."

"i'm— shit— i'm beautiful!"

his rosy lips found solace in the crook of your neck. he pressed open mouthed kisses before letting his teeth lightly nip and scrape at your pulse point. "so beautiful, mama. deserve to cum real good, yeah? go 'head 'n give it to me."

jj's left hand sought out your breast, pinching your sensitive nipple just how you liked. his fingers were relentless, fucking your sopping cunt into oblivion. you were so far gone that you couldn't speak. the pit in your core was burning ferociously, threatening to take you over completely.

"yeaaah. there ya go." you started to cum, your juices shooting out of you in spurts. his fingers withdrew from you, cum-slicked fingerpads rubbing at your clit almost viciously as he tried to get more out of you. he grinned wickedly when his plan worked, and your pussy continued to squirt for him. the glass was covered and your shared image was distorted, but all you could zone in on was your godsent boyfriend and his ever-so-skilled words. and hands.

"i love you so much, mama. don't ever think you aren't enough."

[lovieku]

OLDER ⋆ 정국

you’ve tried, but you can’t help yourself from crushing on your best friend’s dad. hot, buff, tatted up and successful, mr. jeon is the starring actor in all of your wettest dreams. and as you wake up from one while sleeping over at his house after his daughter’s birthday party, you don’t expect all of them to suddenly come true. but they do.

pairing: dilf!jk x inexperienced!fem reader

genre: smut, dilf au, best friend’s father

warnings: lower case intended, porn with some lots of plot, age gap (21 n 38), dom!jk, sub!reader, voyeurism, messy blow job, fingering, oral (f receiving), bit of tit play (small chested reader yayyy), two (2) spanks, unprotected sex, cum eating, dirty talk, a bit of degradation, but also praise, pet names, some angst hehe, she falls first he falls harder??? but miscommunication sadly, forbidden love

ratings: 18+ / mdi

word count: 18.2k

a/n: i kinda hate this it doesnt make sense anymore to me but when i realized i was already 12k words in so 😃 here you are! its also so hard to write smut for me because i get carried away but then it becomes too overwhelming Help. anyways. im back hey!!!!

────୨ৎ────

in the backseat of his car, you stare forward at his hands gripping the steering wheel. there’s something hypnotic about the way his fingers curl around the leather. you bite your lips, an attempt to suppress the heat easily pooling low in your belly, your thighs rubbing together to conceal the effects of your lewd thoughts.

but amid them, one stands out. it’s the one that puts a shameless, selfish smile on your face, when you fixate on the image of the fourth finger of his left hand lacking a gold band.

it’s been a few months since that day— since areum, your best friend, showed up at your door in a frantic state, her finger jabbing the bell over and over in a panicked rhythm that jolted you from your bed.

you had nearly tripped down the stairs in your rush to swing the entrance open, and when you did, you were instantly tackled by your friend collapsing into your arms, her tears soaking through your shirt.

kicking the door shut, your hands busy embracing areum with panic in your eyes, you tried to steady both her and yourself. in between her uncontrollable sobs, shaking you to the core, she let her worries tumble out her mouth. her words came in a torrent, fast and breathless, barely giving you any time to fully process them as she buried her face in your neck, her body trembling.

it took a moment for the huge news to break through your thick, slowed down brain, but then it struck you, areum chanting it repeatedly as if she couldn’t grasp her mind around it: her parents were splitting up. divorce was imminent.

your own disbelief mirrored hers, but for very different reasons. you felt it in the way your shock turned into excitement; indecorous, depraved exhilaration, with your friend still hiding in your chest.

even as her sobs echoed in your ears, your mind latched onto one single thought, repeating like a mantra: he’s single. mr. jeon is single.

you felt terribly guilty when you sensed a smile that you couldn’t quite suppress stretching over your features, and the jittery sensation that came with it flowed your body and reached your hands, tightening them around areum harder to try and squeeze the shame out of yourself.

since that day, you’ve lost count of how many afternoons you’ve spent at areum’s house. you’ve been doing your best to be the friend she needs, to keep her company when what she fears the most is loneliness.

you’ve been a constant presence, helping her through the mountain of neglected work she left piling up, distracting her with baking sessions, or mindlessly binge watching entire seasons of friends on lazy evenings. anything to keep her mind off the pain.

but each visit is an opportunity. a fleeting chance to see him. to study how he moves around the house with that quiet intensity of his, a presence able to fill every room like a calm, steady current.

you’ve memorized many of his mannerisms. the way his eyes soften when he looks at areum; the way his mouth twitches into a faint smile when she tries to cheer him up; the way he nods at you in recognisment, silently letting you know he’s grateful for what you’re doing to help his daughter.

you wish you could help him too. in other ways. ways you know you shouldn’t be thinking about.

you can’t avoid it, though. you’ve witnessed him come back home from work countless times now, watched the tension etched across his features as he steps through the door, wished you could be the one to ease it off his shoulders. let your hand travel down his chest, reach his belt.

you feel disgusting unfailingly, but how can you not let your mind wander when he groans so deliciously every time he loosens the tie around his neck and kicks off his shoes?

you know exactly what his next move is, the imperceptible sigh melting the weariness off his face the moment he greets his daughter, a tender smile breaking through his exhaustion.

“any requests for dinner tonight, girls?” he always asks, his gaze jumping between areum and you on the living room couch, waiting for a response.

after your friend replies she likes whatever her daddy cooks, your stomach twists with nerves when his eyes meet yours to make sure there’s no complaints, and you quickly shake your head, biting your lips to keep from saying something foolish. is your dick on the menu? perhaps?

and the man can cook. exceptionally well. he moves around the kitchen with an effortless grace, every movement purposeful, every dish you have the honor of tasting better than the last.

while you help setting the table, you catch yourself staring more times than you should, mesmerized by the way he chops vegetables or stirs a pot, and you can’t help but wonder if there’s anything he’s not good at.

fuck. is there even a single flawed bone in this man’s body? with every day you spend at his house, you’re convinced there can’t be.

you want him to notice you, the same way you notice him. you tell yourself you’re just being a good friend to areum, but you know there’s more behind your constant visits.

there’s definitely more behind the way your skirts get shorter, your tops tighter, your bras purposefully not worn.

you feel crazed when you convince yourself his gaze falls upon your exposed thighs when he puts a plate in front of you at dinner, or when his eyes seem to be caught, only for a fleeting second, by your hardened nipples, evident through your poor excuses of shirts.

even when your interactions don’t go further than a brief exchange about college and areum or quiet, polite smiles in passing, the mere thought of being around him sends a rush through your veins, a dark and forbidden feeling tumbling in your stomach.

you’ve been seeking more and more of that after one particular night, your feet making their way down the stairs after areum had fallen asleep and you had rathered take your leave. you found him stretched on the couch, a drink in his hand.

his eyes hazily followed your movements, his voice low and slightly slurred, “are you leaving already?”

hearing him acknowledge you outside of the usual context of areum’s presence made you stop dead in your tracks, your reddened cheeks turning to face him, the dark color spreading all over your features when you fully took him in.

he was cladded in a comfortable attire, one you almost never saw on him, black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt falling sweetly on his shoulders, the short sleeves revealing the intricate ink designs running all over his right arm.

you shook yourself out of your trance suddenly, stuttering, “huh… yes. didn’t wanna be a bother.”

he chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, “oh, you’re not. i wish all of my daughter’s friends were like you.”

his words hung in the air, with sincerity and something else you couldn’t quite decipher. you simply laughed along, a nervous, shaky sound escaping your lips, trying to mask the way your heart was racing with desperation for the gods to grace you with the depth of his tipsy voice all night.

to this day, you still think your horny and delusional prayer was heard when he nodded to the empty space beside him, lifting his glass slightly, “care for a drink? you’re 21 now, right?”

you only nodded shyly, more out of reflex than actual thought, slowly making your way to sit beside him just as he had instructed. the proximity sent a wave of heat through your body, your insides melting with the lava, the smell of his cologne and laundry detergent replacing the burned ground with a trail of flowers.

you were willing to do whatever he wanted from you at that moment, even if it meant downing the harsh liquor he poured into a glass for you. you took a sip, struggling not to grimace at the burn that followed. he smiled.

it was probably the alcohol loosening his tongue, but that night, for the first time, you saw a side of mr. jeon that he kept carefully hidden away, his vulnerability a strong characteristic of it.

his words tumbled out in a quiet, almost confessional tone. he spoke about his marriage, about how he had always felt somewhat trapped. still a teenager himself, he was only 17 when he found out his soon to be wife was pregnant with areum; 23 when they decided to marry.

his voice soft, but tinged with a sadness you hadn’t heard before, he admitted he never felt like he got to live his youth to the fullest, certainly blessed with his perfect baby, but also chained down by responsibilities and a tightening pressure he shouldn’t have had to deal with at such a young age.

then, with his eyes burning into your shiny and equally flaring ones, he paused just for a moment, and you felt he could see right through you, into the very core of your being. that he had you all figured out.

“when i look at you,” he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper, his gaze traveling down your bare thighs, squished together on his couch, “i feel like i get a bit of that youth back. you’re so full of life, so fresh, so… full of love for my daughter. i’m glad she has you. glad we have you.”

as he found your orbs again, you noticed his had significantly darkened. you were sure your heart would have failed you if you had kept navigating in his gaze; instead, you looked down at your hands folded in your lap.

that night, he paid for your uber and insisted you sent him a text when you made it home. it was only read the morning after, and left unanswered.

even now, you’re convinced that if it weren’t for the whisky, those words would have stayed locked away in his mind, never seeing the light of day. not even if he were forced to speak them at gunpoint.

still, you’re grateful for the magical effects of alcohol and how they’ve brought you a tiny bit closer to give a look into his complicated world. it has awakened something in you, something stronger and far more dangerous than anything you’ve felt before.

you want to be there for him. help him through the doubts and regrets. be the youth he missed. take the weight off his shoulders. let him use you on that couch.

that feral, undomesticated monster inside you is a hundred times hungrier when, exiting the library building with areum by your side, babbling in your ear about today’s plans, you see his sleek mercedes parked outside.

he honks, getting his daughter’s attention too, who excitedly walks over the car when she spots it. the sound works as a pavlovian trigger for you, it has your mouth salivating and your senses alert, catching up with your friend and getting in the backseat.

it has been a few weeks since you last saw him, both you and areum too busy with assignments and outside activities, and his charming smile as he asks about the day cuts the breath from your lungs.

you’re silent as your friend fills him in, your ears struggling to pick up her speech as it only takes a few more seconds for your eyes to be caught by an interesting detail, one that has your world rocked: he finally took his wedding ring off.

the wedding ring that has stood as an unspoken boundary between you and your reckless fantasies is gone.

the realization hits hard, and suddenly, the reality around you narrows. your mind veers into dangerous territory, conjuring visions that feel too real.

you can almost feel his left hand wrapping around your waist, pulling you in, claiming you. and the images are so vivid, so consuming, that you don’t even notice when areum nudges your shoulder.

you don’t register her calling your name until the sound finally cuts through, pulling you back to the present with a jolt.

you blink a few times, trying to ground yourself, before turning to face her, areum’s voice light but her expression amusedly curious, “dad asked you a question.”

your whole face drops, panic clear in your features, and heat immediately rushes to your cheeks. you’ve been zoning out, lost in a daydream about the very man sitting in front of you, the one you literally just ignored, too busy thinking of him. the irony is almost too much.

your eyes find his in the rearview mirror, and the slight smirk on his lips only makes you look even dumber, stuttering all throughout your explanation, “sorry, mr. jeon. i— um. i was distracted.”

he simply chuckles, low and clearly not offended by your lapse in attention. his focus is back on the road, but as he speaks you keep yours on the words he’s directing at you this time, “it’s okay. i always tell you, just jeongguk is fine. i was asking about your day, you seem a little worn out.”

“oh. i—it went well! i guess i’m just tired,” the words feel clumsy as they leave your mouth, but you hope they sound convincing enough. you just can’t stop your eyes from falling on his left hand.

“well, you can’t be!” it’s areum’s excitement interrupting your furious imagination and bubbling over, “you need to help me set up for tonight. then, we’re gonna do our makeup, our hair, and dress up. i’m so excited!”

right. the reason why you could finally see mr. jeon after weeks and why you’re currently driving to his house is because it’s areum’s birthday.

the day feels significant in so many ways. you’re excited to witness your best friend turn a year older even after the hardships she’s been faced with. honored that you’re the one she’s chosen to help make this night perfect, ensure every detail is just how she’s pictured this moment to be like. and you can’t deny that you feel slightly nervous at the prospect of tonight, knowing there’s going to be faces you’re not that well acquainted with. you’d say you’re a bit awkward with new people, but you’ll try to bear through it for the sake of areum’s happiness.

but mostly, you feel guilty. because no matter how much you try to focus on your friend, the thought that truly makes your insides all mushy with fuzziness is the fact that you’re going to be in the proximity of her dad, again.

you crave for the smallest moments. the brief second where you’ll catch his gaze. the way his cologne will subtly linger in the hallways of his home. your eyes have a habit of drifting to his hands, those strong, veined, tattooed hands that move so smoothly whenever he speaks.

even now, in his car, as you glance at his side profile, there’s a ridiculous and almost cosmic sense of gratitude. like you’ve been chosen. blessed by whatever god to exist on this planet at the same time as him, to simply witness his presence.

it should be enough. it really should. but you’re a sinner. you’re greedy, wanting more. always more.

that buzzing sensation sticks with you throughout the entire day. the hours are packed with frantic energy, as you and areum run around in anxious over-organization, only for her own panic to rub off on you, making your movements quick and precise, as if every step has to be executed flawlessly.

and with all the chaos, he’s there in the back of your mind. mr. jeon. his presence is overwhelming, even when he’s not around.

he helps for a while, joining you in the backyard as you set up for the evening, his calm demeanor in stark contrast to the whirlwind around you. but then he disappears into his studio, retreating into his own space, leaving you to your tasks, and you don’t see him until hours later.

yet, you still feel him, as if he’s always near. his upstairs studio’s window faces the garden, and it’s enough to make you hyper-aware of your every gesture.

you straighten your back, slow your steps, each action more deliberate, because even though you don’t know if he’s really watching, it feels like he is.

getting your makeup, hair and outfit ready with areum does slightly ease that sensation off your chest. you love these moments with her. shared girlhood when you do each other’s eyeliner, the flutter of excitement as you zip up dresses, as you rummage through her closet, searching for the perfect piece to complete your look.

but even then, you’re brought back to the man working just a few rooms down the hallway. it’s astonishing how easily areum has access to everything she wants. the power her dad holds, the kind of wealth that makes life feel effortless in ways you can’t help but envy.

for her, money isn’t just something that buys things. it’s a silent force that shapes her world. she doesn’t have to worry about how much something costs or wonder if she’ll ever have enough. it’s as simple as snapping her fingers.

it must be nice to have that kind of life. to have someone like him in your corner, with wealth that seems to fall into place as easily as leaves from a tree. you don’t resent her for it, not really. but it makes you wonder what it would be like to live in a world where nothing is out of reach.

where everything, even the man who haunts your thoughts, could be yours with the right words or a simple gesture.

when you see him again, you’re standing in his kitchen. areum is still upstairs, fixing the tiniest details to her makeup, but you decided to come down early, just in case the first guests arrive, wanting to be helpful, wanting to keep yourself busy.

you’re momentarily lost in the view outside the window, the backyard garden bathed in the warm glow of fairy lights, their soft hues blending beautifully with the sage and pastel yellow decorations. the setup looks like something out of a dream, and it pulls a small, unbidden smile to your face.

the quiet peace is interrupted by the sound of a cupboard cracking open behind you, and you startle, your heart giving a quick jump.

you turn, following the noise, and there he is— jeongguk, bent over as he retrieves a bottle of red wine from the lower cupboard.

as he straightens up, bottle in hand, he finds your eyes already staring in his. he’s uncharacteristically deliberate as he still lets his gaze wander up and down your figure.

you’ve dressed carefully for tonight, choosing a flowy pink dress that flutters delicately against your thighs. the corset top hugs your waist in all the right ways, accentuating your shape, the kind of dress that makes you feel just a little more confident, a little more seen.

but now, under his gaze, you feel exposed, like he’s seeing more than just the fabric of your dress. his eyes linger longer than usual, and when his orbs dip to your chest, it’s almost as if he hesitates, like he’s trying to tear his eyes away but can’t.

you’re not even sure if the engrossed look on his face is real or just the product of your own twisted fantasies.

still, your body responds instinctively, your hand drifting up to play with your necklace, an unconscious gesture, while your other arm wraps around your waist, as if you’re trying to hold yourself together under the intensity of his stare.

when his eyes return to your wide ones, he gives a subtle nod towards your dress, and the smile that curves his lips is warm, but you can’t decipher that something else it wants to communicate.

his voice is smoother than you’ve ever heard it, as if literal honey, sweet and rich, is dripping out from his pillowy lips, “what a beauty. you look very pretty.”

you weren’t expecting that. it steals the breath from your lungs. it’s not just the words, or even the way he says them, velvet wrapping around your senses.

it’s how he seems to drink you in, his refined wine nothing in comparison. like you’re something to be savored just as carefully.

at this point, you’re seriously questioning if there was a stronger substance in the liquor you and areum shared earlier, even if you hadn’t taken big quantities, each small sip burning your throat and making you grimace at the sensation. but you figure it must have been enough to distort the current reality around you. or maybe, mr. jeon is the inebriated one.

you don't know how you find the voice to speak, or if you even do, the word escaping your lips in an uncoordinated mess, almost imperceptible, “thanks.”

he hums deeply in response, and it vibrates through the space between you. you let out a shaky exhale the moment his gaze finally shifts away. he resumes the task at hand, effortlessly opening the bottle of wine and turning his back to you as he reaches for a glass from the higher cabinet.

the muscles in his shoulders shift under his shirt, and for a split second, you’re unsure what to do. whether to stay, add anything else, flee the room entirely. make small conversation about areum’s birthday. comment on his look, too. oh, you have a lot to say about it.

you can tell he just wrapped up his work-related tasks for today from the way the first three buttons of his white shirt are opened, revealing his deep cleavage. his hair slightly tousled, but in a way that looks purposeful, perfectly intentional. his slacks hug him deliciously, rounding the curve of his ass and making you swallow hard.

your eyes can’t resist trailing over him, but they quickly move up to stare at the ceiling, feigning deep thought when he turns back to face you, and the counter.

surprisingly, he’s the one to break the silence first, again. the rich sound fills the air as he pours the red wine, the motion so precise, so fluid, it feels like witnessing an authentic art form.

he doesn’t bother looking up at you as he asks, seemingly casual, but slightly amused, “is there a boy you’re trying to impress tonight?”

the way he steers the conversation makes you less agitated, more confident. especially with the question thrown your way. teasing, almost belittling. you can see he’s not even trying to hide his pretty smirk, his focus on the wine flowing into the glass.

the question lingers, and you twirl your necklace around your fingers, smoothing down your dress with your other hand, your eyes flitting to his naked left hand, “mh… you could say so.”

of course, you’re not thinking about a boy. mr. jeon is no boy— he’s a man. the kind women dream about but know they’ll never find. the kind that belongs on the big screen or in the pages of a novel, with his effortless charm, his wealth, his looks that stop you in your tracks.

but he’s in front of you. and he’s tall, muscular, with hands that could crush or caress, tattooed in a way that makes your mouth dry up and water all at once.

it’s him you want to impress. you want to affect him the way he affects you, with effortless intensity. you want to pull him in, make him look at you the way he makes your world tilt on its axis with just a glance.

you’re hypnotized as you witness him in one of his rich man activities, performing a ritual with the wine glass. he brings it to his nose, his eyes fluttering shut as he takes in the aroma.

there’s something so practiced, so sensual in the way he handles the glass, the liquid dancing with delicate precision, as if even this simple act holds meaning. you can’t look away.

when he's satisfied, he finds you again, and your mouth is slightly open without you even realizing it. the moment he lifts the glass to his lips, you bite your own, almost harshly, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

his smile is soft, but there’s something unsettling in its honesty, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

he mutters into the glass, his words resounding even stronger, “well, he’d be a fool not to fall for you.”

the implications of his comment make you swallow audibly, while he downs his first sip of the wine with fine ease, his adam’s apple bobbing with it. the whole time, his eyes never leave yours.

a thick silence stretches between you, and you wish you could break it but you don’t know how. your mind spins with the unspoken tension, but he seems entirely comfortable with it. the only sound filling the space is the quiet hum of the house.

he places the glass back on the counter, the soft clink of it slicing through the quiet. smoothly, he nudges it in your direction, his movements slow, as if testing the waters.

his voice is inviting, even more than usual, “you want some?”

”is that wine?” you instantly cringe at the way you sound strained.

he hums, a low sound of affirmation, watching you carefully.

you briefly glance at the glass, “i’ve never had it.”

”try it, then.”

with a slow twist of his fingers around the base, he slides the glass toward you. as it moves across the marble surface, you notice how he rotates it imperceptibly, but purposefully, so that the side where his lips touched the rim is now facing you.

the gesture is subtle, but the intent behind it is clear. at least to your deranged fantasies.

there’s a faint lip mark where his mouth had been, and the sight of it pulls you in, making your pulse pound in your ears. you look back up at him, finding his gaze still on you, his expression unreadable but heavy with implication.

without a word, you lift the glass, your fingers wrapping clumsily around the stem. you bring it to your lips, your mouth closing over the spot his lips had just pressed on.

the wine hits your tongue— bitter, sharp, and unfamiliar. you gulp hard, the liquid burning slightly as it slides down your throat. your face scrunches involuntarily, a clear sign of distaste. the richness of the flavor is too much for you, and you can’t help but grimace as the aftertaste lingers.

he watches, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. when you set the glass down, he effortlessly picks it back up and brushes his fingers across the rim.

his tone laced with amusement, he asks, “like it?”

you shake your head quickly, trying to hide your discomfort.

his chuckle is low, a soft rumble that makes your stomach flip. swirling the wine gently, he muses, “i heard there’s going to be alcohol tonight.”

you groan lightly, slumping your shoulders, “ugh, i know.”

the endearment rolls off his tongue like a secret meant just for you, his voice dipping into something softer, more intimate, “make sure you don’t drink too much, pretty face. i’ll be around.”

just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your thoughts spinning. pretty face?

what just happened? you’re not sure, but you’ve definitely stepped into something dangerous, something you can’t quite shake.

it’s hard to do so, even as the birthday party kicks off. the energy in the backyard shifts as more guests arrive. lively voices and unfamiliar faces begin to fill the space. areum’s laughter cuts through the hum, infectious and bright, drawing everyone in.

it all contrasts sharply with the weight still hanging in your chest from your earlier encounter with mr. jeon. your eyes keep darting toward the house, toward where you know he is, even though the logical part of you tells you to stop.

you stand at the entrance to the garden for a moment, taking in the scene. the subtle smell of flowers mixes with the faint scent of food, and your best friend bounces around the space, radiant in her dress. you’re genuinely happy for her, honored to share this moment.

and with your best efforts, you start engaging with others, smiling as you talk to some classmates and mutual friends, but it’s all surface-level. your mind is elsewhere.

it’s only later, as the evening progresses and the party settles into a rhythm, that you begin to relax. mainstream music plays in the background, and it inevitably involves everybody, as some classic party games become the main entertainment.

long after the cake and the gift-opening, the group gathers into a loose circle, throwing each other never have i ever questions.

you can’t help the way you all still feel like teenagers deep down, and how you get foolishly excited whenever the topic gets hot, and hints at anything that is sex related.

childish and immature, you know, but your ears still perk when the first probing question is tossed out.

“never have i ever been fingered.”

areum instantly shushes it, her eyes panickedly looking back to the house in hopes her dad isn’t around. laughter bubbles just as quickly, both because of the question and the girl’s reaction.

as expected, many reach for their drink, and you do too. the few present boys holler in a teasing manner, gaining some eye rolls.

sheepishly, the plastic cup touches your lips and you take the smallest sip from your punch. you can’t appear unbothered like your other peers, your cheeks subtly flaming as the embarrassing memories rush to your mind.

it’s silent, the small plea you telepathically send to anyone that might be listening. you pray for the topic to shift to something else, something that won’t inevitably put you at the center of the attention. something you can relate to.

but of course, god is not on your side. the questions only dig deeper, wandering in uncharted territory (at least for you), and you never reach for your glass again.

you can only sink further in your chair as everybody else around you seems even more lively with the way the game has turned, sharing their experiences, giggling as they listen, refilling their cups.

beside you, areum buzzes with energy as every question is just something for her to drink to, nothing that shocks her or that she isn’t familiar with.

never have i ever given head.

never have i ever been ate out.

never have i ever rode someone.

it’s undeniable, the way your skin heats up. with how you’ve been spending your whole day, fantasizing about the man who’s probably already asleep in his bedroom by now, your friends sharing their adventures only fuels your imagination.

you feel dirty when you put yourself in those scenarios, and for every daring moment they relive, the figure that appears beside you is always mr. jeon.

if only you turned your head, just for a moment, and glanced toward the kitchen window that faces the backyard.

you would have seen the same man dominating your thoughts, staring intently at the scene unfolding outside.

jeongguk is hidden in the shadows, the darkness of the house swallowing him whole, with every light turned off. maybe that’s why neither you nor areum notice him.

you don’t see him. you don’t feel him. you’re too caught up in the moment, too consumed by your own desires, unaware that the man that put you in that same condition is standing so close, watching.

jeongguk traces your every move with his intense gaze. he studies how your face dips down at every new question, how your smile seems just a little too tight, too forced when listening to the stories, the ones that make you shift uncomfortably in your chair.

if you don’t notice it, he does almost immediately— the way the attention in the circle shifts toward you.

the glances thrown your way become layered with a subtle curiosity, laced with something that looks like concern. but then, in the eyes of a few, jeongguk catches a faint trace of judgment.

it’s there, in the tilt of their heads, in the way they exchange fleeting looks with one another, as if they sense your unease and interpret it as something lesser. something they can pick apart.

his jaw tightens as he observes, that familiar protective instinct stirring within him. it makes his hands twitch by his side. he stays rooted in place.

eventually, the moment you clearly seem to dread the most (it doesn’t take a genius to know. it’s written on your face. or maybe, he got so used to studying you. it comes easy to him. knowing you,) follows.

it makes you want to vanish into the thin air caressing your legs, the way the question is put out with intent, an only pretending-to-be-careful tone wrapping it, all pairs of eyes instantly directed in your direction.

“never have i ever… had sex.”

you feel trapped, a momentary panic bubbling in your chest as you reach for your cup, hesitant. the rim hovers near your lips as you avoid every expectant glance, taking the smallest sip you can manage.

a murmur ripples through the circle. you can’t decipher it, too busy feeling the heat spread across your face. it’s only later that you realize no one else drank. the question had been crafted specifically for you, a silent test.

lara exhales, a teasing smile playing on her lips, “woah, i was getting worried for a second there, ___.”

you barely have time to react before areum steps in, her voice sharp in your defense, “what’s wrong with never having had sex, either way?”

“nothing, but—”

you’re not sure why you speak, and why you choose your speech that way specifically. you cut in before you even realize what you’re doing, driven by a sudden urge to explain yourself, an unshakable need to clarify forcing itself up your throat, “i only took a small sip, though.”

the group’s collective curiosity spikes, attention zeroed in on you like never before. you feel it— everyone waiting for you to continue, to reveal something you’ve kept to yourself until now. so, you give in, words tumbling out against your better judgment.

you clear your throat, straighten your back against your chair, your tone evasive, “i technically am not a virgin, but…”

the expectation drips from every person around you, their wide orbs trained on you, and for some reason you continue, gulping audibly before providing them with an explanation they don’t deserve, “when we— did it, he um… he got his tip in, but— god, this is embarrassing.”

“c’mon, tell us!”

you sigh, pressing forward with the humiliating truth, “he came, like, two seconds after. so, i felt nothing.”

the laughter that erupts is immediate, your friends covering their mouths in shock and amusement. you can only chuckle nervously, shrinking in your seat with a deep, liberating exhale.

yunjin pats your shoulder beside you, “that’s so sad, babe. we need to find you a real man.”

a strange sense of relief courses through you, the adrenaline from finally being acknowledged and validated by your friends swelling within, and you quickly learn how the buzz spreading to your body after taking part in sharing one of your experiences awakens you significantly.

you don’t know why, but you keep talking, oversharing, feeding into the newfound attention, “oh, i’ve been waiting for one in particular.”

you quickly become the center of attention for different reasons than the previous ones, now. their curiosity flares again, eyes wide with excitement as they beg for more details. who is it? tell us!

their voices overlap, but you dismiss them all with a playful shake of your head, giggles bubbling up as you try to evade their questions.

but just as quickly as the moment came, it fades when you glance to the side, and your smile drops.

jeongguk’s eyes meet yours immediately.

the intensity of the gaze knocks the breath from your lungs, the air thick between you as time seems to slow.

he’s been watching the entire time, arms crossed, the muscle in his jaw tensing as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. there’s a quiet frustration etched into his expression, a subtle irritation with your friends’ behavior. but it’s more than that. there’s something stirred by your confession.

your inexperience. your innocence. the untarnished parts of you he’s only beginning to realize he wants to corrupt.

the truth is, he’s known for a long time. longer than he’d like to admit, really. but he’s never let himself feel it fully until now.

it wasn’t something that hit him all at once. no, it crept up on him slowly, over the months. he’s always known you were beautiful, in that distant, untouchable way. you’re his daughter’s best friend, after all.

but he couldn’t help his eyes from lingering on you a little too long when you’d come over to hang out with areum, how his heartbeat would quicken up when he’d let himself be coddled by the warmth of your helping actions, the way his muscles would tense when he’d catch sight of you lounging by the pool.

he’d been good at keeping it under bay. but you weren’t subtle, not even the slightest. your fleeting glances, your breath hitching whenever he was near, your clothes putting you on display for him. it all made it harder.

even more when you’ve been nothing but the proof that angels exist, and at some point he convinced himself you were sent on earth to fill the void he felt his whole life, with your unconditional care towards his daughter and your pupils widening whenever they’d land on his.

and earlier, in the kitchen. he’s used to being in control, but the way you responded to his presence, to the compliment he gave you, had moved something deep inside him.

maybe it was seeing you tonight, all grown up and standing there in that dress, hugging your figure deliciously. how you carried yourself, confident yet unsure, mature yet untouched.

hearing you talk about your inexperience, about that brief, awkward encounter with a boy who clearly didn’t know what he was doing. watching you squirm under your friends’ teasing questions, witnessing how you tried to explain yourself.

it’s like it all clicks into place for him. and for the first time, he’s letting himself acknowledge it.

jeongguk wants you.

he knows it’s wrong. so wrong. he’s never felt this way about someone so much younger than him, and yet, the need to be the first one to truly touch you, to show you what it means to be wanted by a real man, makes his blood run hot.

it’s dangerous, the way these thoughts take hold of him now. maybe it’s the way you’ve changed lately, stepping into womanhood but still holding onto that wide-eyed innocence. or maybe it’s him. maybe he’s the one who’s changed, his resistance crumbling little by little.

he feels disgusting. selfish, his stomach swirling with nerves. dirty, his fingers twitching and begging to free his insides from such feelings.

but there’s simply no ignoring it anymore, no pretending like you’re just areum’s friend. that boundary he set in his mind is starting to blur. he’s old enough to know better, but old enough to know exactly what he wants.

your eyes widen with terror, meeting jeongguk’s own hardened gaze. he wants to tell you, wants you to know, but the way your startled expression lingers in his narrowed eyes makes him hesitate. it fills him with uncertainty, an unfamiliar feeling, one he rarely contends with.

the moment is abruptly interrupted when one of areum’s friends, an older guy she’s met through her dad’s colleague, crashes into you from behind, draping his weight over your shoulders.

you struggle not to stumble forward, holding yourself on the arms of your chair while you look to the side, and immediately try to pull away when you realize the unwanted proximity.

but it’s hard, you’re weaker than the boy’s embrace, holding you still and wiggling his eyebrows, his tone playful as he ruffles your hair, “is it me?”

the people around you laugh, the sound light and carefree, but the way your body stiffens, the clear discomfort in your eyes— jeongguk notices.

and he also notices (reluctantly) the ugly feeling making space in his stomach the more that guy’s face moves closer to yours. his jaw twitches, the muscle at his temple ticking.

he can’t just stand there doing nothing anymore.

the sudden sound of the door to the garden opening catches everyone’s attention, and your gaze flies over in that direction.

jeongguk steps out, his presence commanding, and your expression drops. areum’s eyes grow wide, instantly sensing something wrong in the way her father is looking at the scene. his eyes are too dark, too sharp, and if no one else detects it, you and his daughter surely do.

still, the taller boy behind you moves up again, taking a step back from your seat, and jeongguk seems to reserve him a look you find hard to decipher. it’s firm, heavy with a warning.

“areum,” he calls, his voice calm but edged, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

she’s quick to move toward him, and you can’t help but try to listen in on what he’s saying to her.

but the voices of your friends rise again, loud and boisterous, filling the space with chatter, drowning out any chance you had of overhearing.

you sigh, and when you return to your slumped position on your chair, you can’t ignore how all the girls around you are sneaking glances at him, their giggles piercing through the air as they whisper among themselves.

jeongguk has always had a certain effect on people, and tonight is no different. you hear some of their comments, but they don’t fully register in your mind.

all you can focus on is the bitter feeling rising in your chest.

you bite the inside of your cheek, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. it sickens you, the way you have to share the image of him with everyone else.

you wish only your eyes had been granted the gift of looking at him, of admiring the way his shirt stretches across his chest or how his hair falls perfectly, even when tousled.

but instead, he’s a spectacle for everyone to enjoy, and you hate it.

when areum returns, she’s slightly slumped over, her energy deflated. behind her, mr. jeon stands with his arms crossed, a small, condescending smile tugging at his lips.

areum’s voice is low as she announces, “the party’s over, guys.”

the subtle groans of disappointment echo around you as your friends try to protest, giving up when met with no possible negotiation. they then gather their things, saying their goodbyes and slowly trickling out, only after trying to argue about it.

once the last guest has left, it’s just the three of you, left to clean up the remnants of the night in the dimly lit garden.

jeongguk barely looks at you. his focus is elsewhere. on the mess, on areum, on anything but you.

as you bend down to gather some empty cups, you steal a look at him again. he’s helping clean up too, though his motions are deliberate and slow.

it’s silent for a while as each one of you picks up their own task. teamwork seems to be efficient, every area of the backyard slowly regaining its original aspect.

until areum yawns dramatically, stretching her arms above her head as she makes her way over to you and her father. she mumbles, blinking heavily. "’m so sleepy."

jeongguk raises an eyebrow, glancing at the still-messy garden, some leftover cups and plates scattered across the tables, and the chairs strewn about from the night's festivities.

he teases lightly, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. "oh, really? you’re just gonna leave all this mess behind?"

for a moment, the weight of his words hangs in the air. you and areum both freeze, glancing at each other with wide eyes, unsure if he’s serious. the pause is brief, but it’s enough for tension to rise in your chest.

but then, jeongguk’s lips curl into a soft, knowing smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“just kidding,” he chuckles, his tone warm now, the joke clear. “go sleep, c’mon. it’s past your bedtime.”

areum sighs with exaggerated relief, rolling her eyes before stepping forward to wrap her arms around her dad in a loose hug. she mumbles into his chest, “i’m not a kid anymore, dad. i don’t have a bedtime.”

he chuckles with a lightness that was foreign to you until that moment, and he leans down, pressing his lips gently to the top of her head, his voice low and tender as he whispers, “whatever you say. happy birthday, reumie.”

it’s such a simple moment, nothing grand or elaborate, but the intimacy of it, the quiet affection between father and daughter, makes your heart clench.

you watch them with stars in your eyes, completely captivated by this rare portrayal of vulnerability from mr. jeon. he’s always been the composed, collected man in the background of areum’s life, but here, he’s just a father, brimming with love for his daughter.

you almost feel like an intruder witnessing such a private exchange, but you can’t pull your eyes away. every detail — his hand softly resting on her back, the delicate warmth in his eyes, the way his voice softened — it all paints a picture of a side of him you’ve rarely seen.

you want to be part of it, too. want to bask in his love, the one he keeps hidden but the same one that shapes him whole. that fills him from head to toe, never spilling, always quiet. makes him the brave man you only know through your best friend’s admiring eyes, never from his words.

he doesn’t like talking about himself, but you’d kill to know what truly goes through his mind, even for just a second. you’d gladly find a house in his brain, and you’d pay rent and everything.

when areum finally pulls away and turns to you, her expression sleepy but content, she asks, “you coming with me?”

you hesitate, glancing at the mess still surrounding you. you speak with a small, reassuring smile, only looking at your friend, “i’ll be there in a minute. i wanna help clean up first.”

she just shrugs, already too tired to argue, and heads inside. jeongguk’s eyes follow her briefly before flicking back to you.

his lips part as if he wants to say something. maybe to insist that you shouldn’t stay, or that you should go inside too. but the words never come. instead, he watches you silently for a second longer, before turning his attention back to the garden.

now, it’s just the two of you.

the quiet between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. the subtle hum of the night seems louder now without the chatter of party guests, and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze fills the air as you move around the small round tables, readjusting the chairs.

you’re trying to focus on the task at hand, but your mind keeps drifting back to mr. jeon. to the protective edge in his tone earlier, to the way he’s been looking at you tonight.

but then, in your distraction, you clumsily trip over your own feet, your breath catching as you stumble forward.

before you can fall, though, a strong hand grips your arm, steadying you instantly.

“oops. careful, little one,” it’s jeongguk’s deep voice murmuring close to your ear, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

your face flushes immediately, the heat spreading across your cheeks and down your neck.

“sorry,” you whisper, glancing up at him through your lashes, feeling ridiculously small under his intense gaze.

“it’s okay,” he instantly replies, his tone so gentle it almost makes your heart falter.

silence falls again, but this time, it’s thicker, and maybe even uncomfortable. you both remain still for a moment, his hand loosely gripping your arm, and you feel yourself burn where his fingers rest. his thumb brushes your skin lightly, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, but it’s enough to make you gulp audibly.

finally, he releases you, stepping back slightly, but his eyes never leave yours, "thanks for making my daughter happy today. i really appreciate that. i appreciate you."

the words catch you off guard, your breath hitching at the sincerity in his voice, deeper, almost too revealing.

your mind races, trying to find the right words to respond, but all you can manage is a stutter, “oh. i—”

his voice is firmer when he gently cuts you off, “go sleep now. i’ll finish here.”

you want to protest, but the way he’s looking at you — his dark eyes locking onto yours, holding you in place even with his hand now by his side — makes it impossible.

there’s something about the way he’s speaking, like he’s being careful with his words, almost spelling them out, making sure you’re paying attention to each one, “if you need anything, you know where to find me. yeah?”

you swallow hard, nodding slowly. his gaze is unwavering, and it feels like he’s saying something more than just the words themselves, something you can’t quite grasp yet. you stammer, “right. yes. i—i’ll… goodnight.”

“goodnight.”

it’s not exactly a good night for you. in a sense, maybe it is. you always welcome dreams like these when they decide to visit. but right now, it feels more than a little awkward.

worst timing ever. you’re lying next to areum, the daughter of the very man who’s making you wet with just a few flashes of imagery dancing behind your closed eyelids.

at first, it’s soft, almost serene. you see a beach, engulfed in warm, blurry tones that blend together like watercolors left to bleed in the sun. the sea is flat, unmoving, and glimmers like pearls under the flaming light.

a weight presses down on your exposed thigh. the sensation feels so vivid that it pulls you deeper into the dream, and as you glance down, you instantly recognize the large, familiar hand resting there.

jeongguk’s hand. his left one. on the fourth finger, a gold ring.

when you lift your head, his face greets you with a wide, unusual smile. his hair is wet, slicked back as if he’s just come out of the water, droplets clinging to the tips.

but the softness of the look he gives you is replaced by something more dangerous, more daring. he bites his lip, and you see it.

a double piercing sits on the side of his mouth, the silver studs gleaming as he plays with them using the tip of his tongue. your breath catches in your throat. you don’t just see it there.

on his eyebrow, a matching piercing catches the sunlight, giving him a rebellious edge.

you remember them from old pictures areum showed you once. jeongguk, in his younger days, rougher, wilder, and undeniably charming.

it must have left a deep impression on you because your subconscious has dug it up now, weaving it into this dream. deep in your slumber, you unconsciously whine.

his hand kneads the soft skin of your leg, and his grin stretches wider, eyes crinkling into familiar crescents, but with an edge you’ve never seen on him before.

"you wanna take another bath?" his voice is husky in your ear, filled with suggestion. he’s leaning in now, closer, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin.

your throat feels dry, your pulse quickens, and before you can say anything, his hand slides higher, fingers grazing the hem of your swimsuit. his breath fans over your face, and suddenly, the sea behind you isn’t the only thing that feels like it's burning.

"come on. just you and me."

before you can even think to answer, your surroundings shift. the beach, once hazy and peaceful, morphs into something more private.

you’re no longer in the open air, but sitting at the border of his pool, both your feet grazing the warm water.

jeongguk’s hand is still playing with the laces of your bikini, and he’s slow and teasing as he pulls one of them. when he fully undoes it, you’re bare in front of him.

but he doesn’t look down just yet. he keeps staring in your eyes, his smile gone now, replaced with something more serious, more focused.

jeongguk leans closer to your ear, his lips brushing your lobe, and it feels way too real when he whispers, “let me make you feel good.”

it’s with a jolt that you wake up, the low sound still echoing in the depths of your brain, and you struggle to take in your surroundings at first.

on your right, areum is sleeping soundly, even snoring softly. you'll tease her about it in the morning.

but if the thought initially puts a smile on your face, it morphs into a frown when you register the reason why you’re now awake, and you brim with guilt.

you have to get away from your best friend. need to get away from your brain, if possible. wash it all with a glass of cold water.

you make sure not to cause too much noise as you slowly sit up, the covers falling from your figure and the air welcoming you with goosebumps on your skin.

your naked feet tentatively touch the ground and you force yourself to stand on them, padding on the floor and exiting the room, gently closing the door behind your shoulders.

at first, you only hear it. faint, muffled noises; fussing; heavy panting; groans.

you blink rapidly, convinced your hazy brain is still cozily wrapped around the blankets, finding it hard to let go of the images that had flashed behind your eyelids and adapt to the new state of consciousness.

but as you make your way to the stairs, the sounds get closer, and more vivid. it’s not just your mind playing evil games, anymore.

it’s shushed moans, and eager whines. and they seem awfully close to how you’d always imagined mr. jeon would sound like. in that situation.

having lost control over your own brain a long time ago, it feels like you’re now being ordered around by it, no freedom of choice whatsoever.

your feet move on their own, following the source of that delicious music, and you swear your eyes get teary with joy when you find that the door was left ajar.

you feel delirious. the small gap is more than enough to give you a view into what you never thought you’d have the honor of witnessing: the man of all your desires has his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing it, then dragging it up and down in slow movements that you just know are torturing him, from the way he harshly bites his lower lip, to the way his furrowed eyebrows almost meet at the bridge of his nose, eyes focused on his doings.

nonetheless, he loves it. his mouth opens every time he brushes the tip of his thick dick with his palm, releasing small whines, followed by quiet moans when he uses his other hand to play with his balls.

he cusses repeatedly, then grips his base and halts his movements. only to go over the punishing pattern again, bringing himself closer to the edge then retraining when he feels like stepping over it.

the sight of mr. jeon edging himself makes your knees weak. it takes over you physically, you genuinely have to find support in the wall beside you.

you need to be there with him. you need it to be your hand; need him to guide it just the way he likes it; need him to teach you how to please him. his groans make your head spin, and you need to get closer.

you’re not thinking when you instinctively take a step towards the slightly open door, but when you do, the floor cracks under you.

you’re paralysed. in the silence of the house, wrapped in night time, the otherwise small sound is amplified, and he stops his hand.

with the little power you still possess over your actions, you move your back to the wall beside the door. your breaths are ragged, too overwhelmed with the mixture of fear and lust, and you think of running away to hide but a huge weight is chaining you down, and you find yourself unable to move.

you can only register fussing from the other side, the soft thump of his feet on the floor and the door opening alarmingly. when he looks to the side, he’s met with his expression mirrored on your small face, your eyes wide but willing themselves to keep looking in his.

if you were to look down, you’re not sure you could keep yourself composed, knowing his cock is hard and unattended in his pajama pants.

“___? what are you doing up?” his voice quickly takes on the calm that characterizes him so well, instilling some of it in your startled figure.

still, you stutter all throughout your answer, making it clear what you just spied into with the way your face changes color, “i— water. i wanted— there’s no, huh, water in the fridge.”

mr. jeon does a weak job at hiding the confused amusement on his features. nonetheless, he nods, a small grin on his lips while he says nothing, just walks to the stairs and makes his way down them. you follow hastily, careful not to trip.

there’s plenty of water in the fridge, but he doesn’t question it. he takes out a bottle and pours a glass for you, sliding it over the counter.

you take the smallest sip, afraid you might choke with the way he stands facing you, staring so intensely into your orbs.

when you put the still full glass down, he smirks. you see his hands gripping the edge of the table in front of him, “nightmare?”

the depth of his voice translates into heat pooling right in your lower stomach and staining your shorts. you’re a mess just from the blurred sight of him. you shake your head, “more like… a weird dream.”

he smiles fondly, having to break the prolonged eye contact and look elsewhere, his grip getting tighter and his patience wearing thin.

he won’t be able to control himself much longer if he doesn’t get out of this kitchen, especially with the effects of your effortless charm flooding down his pleading dick.

you’re in front of him, eyes full with a feeling that scares him, only the counter dividing your bodies, and you’re wearing the tiniest satin shorts paired with a white tank top that leaves little to the imagination, the cut dangerously low and your nipples evident through the material.

he’s a gone man.

his eyes no longer anchoring you, your gaze automatically travels to where you shouldn’t be looking, for your own sanity. but the outline of his cock is so delicious, it makes your mouth water with want.

you’re not sure if it’s your own eyes deceiving you, but you swear you can see it throb, and at that moment you realize he’s not wearing any underwear. just thin, loose pants covering his length.

you gulp, clenching around nothing. you feel him sigh, and the sound makes your head spin with greater force.

he looks back at you, but you’re too enthralled by your current view, the effects of it almost completely shutting out your hearing and your rational thinking, as you round the counter and leave his words hung in the air, “i’m sorry for… what you probably saw. should’ve closed the door.”

apology silently dismissed, or simply ignored (why would he even apologize for blessing you with such an unforgettable sight?) you now stand next to him. as he turns to you, you’re faced with his chest, and you have to bend your head upwards to meet his curious eyes.

your body has long forgotten to trust the thin amount of rationality that could still be found in your brain, and that’s how you find yourself leading your hand to cup his cock through his pajamas.

his face is stoic, staring at you intensely. he doesn’t startle, doesn’t gasp, doesn’t move away. but you feel him. if the contact does something to him, he doesn’t show it. he keeps looking down at you, in your eyes.

then, he speaks, his voice steady, “what are you doing.”

you’re suddenly aware of your actions, and you fall victim to them, feeling small because of his stern, composed gaze while you melt under it.

your voice is frail, barely a whisper, too weak to sound as convinced as you truly are, and your words come out slurred, “wanna help you.”

he doesn’t break, doesn’t seem affected by your desperation, but his pupils are blown out, knuckles white from grasping the counter, “you already did enough.”

your hand is still on his dick, unmoving. no one dares break the moment, though. if anything, being this close to him, feeling him while you both search for something in each other’s eyes, is only spurring you further.

you get on your tip toes, your perky nipples brushing against his chest, your voice low while you tilt your head to the side, “what were you thinking of? i’ll be that for you.”

immediately, his hand flies over yours. he doesn’t move it, just holds it still. the look in his eyes is a lot darker, his eyelids droopy, his jaw clenched, “stop this.”

the electrifying spark that buzzes you the moment you feel his skin travels from your hand to your whole body, and it significantly weakens you.

you don’t know if you fall to your knees because they genuinely give up on you, but it’s how you find yourself facing his hardness, your eyes never leaving his glossy ones, highlighted by the dim light shining through the curtains of his kitchen.

“___. get up.” there’s a tremor in his voice, and the hand that was blocking yours now falls by his side, twitching.

you see it in his eyes. sense it in the tension of his muscles. he’s holding back. but you don’t want him to resist you.

“please,” your beg is muffled and quiet, your nose brushing against his length and following a torturous path that makes him hiss.

he groans deliriously, willing himself to tear his orbs off your big, pleading ones staring up at him, but he doesn’t do anything to move you away.

“fuck,” the chuckle that follows is feverish, his body on fire with the forbidden, but so wanted touch, “don’t make me have to reject you, doll.”

“you don’t have to,” you’re unexpectedly quick in your answers, your conscience coming back to you but letting it be taken over by a dark feeling, the one that makes you kiss his tip through the thin material, and lick along his length, finding his eyes, “i want you.”

jeongguk inhales, his lower lip bleeding with the harsh biting, and he swears his knees are shaking with the effort of keeping even the slightest, thinnest thread of sanity intact.

he wishes he could stop you. knows he should. but he can’t. he can only watch as your slim fingers hook under the hem of his light pants and lead them to pool down his ankles.

the way his cock springs free and brushes your smooth, pure face makes him huff out a deep exhale, his jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed as he takes in your eyes widening at the sight of his length.

mr. jeon is long. and thick. he’s veiny, and perfectly shaved. it looks almost unrealistic, but he’s in front of you in all his glory and he throbs. leaks pretty precum to coat his angry tip.

he doesn’t know how he manages to speak, especially when you look up at him through your droopy eyelids, pupils blown and tongue ready to take him.

his voice is rough, as if it wants to stay stuck in his throat, but he forces one last warning out, “___. don’t do it.”

any and all kinds of inhibitions are nonexistent the moment you attempt a kitten lip at his wet tip, and the simple action makes his head fall backwards, a way too loud growl escaping him.

his breaths are heavy, broad chest moving with them as he looks down at you again, too tempted to look elsewhere.

he curses as soon as he does, his lust-filled orbs swimming in your equally craving ones, and he believes this view is crafted by the hands of a god, not slightly comparable to anything his mind came up with back in his room, not too long ago.

the reason why he’s gotten rock hard under his covers, it’s you. the yearning he couldn’t suppress anymore, the hunger making him salivate, the need to be consumed by your love, the desire to be touched by you, to be cured by your innocence, only to taint it.

he’s thirsty, wants to drink all of you in. wants to finally have you, taste you, feel you. he’s tired of fighting it.

jeongguk doesn’t know how to decipher his heart doing literal flips in his chest when you fully take his cock in your mouth, and he lets out a sound he’s never heard his own self ever produce.

it’s high-pitched, whiny, delirious, and it leads himself to subtly push himself forward, to bury his length in your throat.

you inevitably choke at the new sensation, your eyes fluttering shut to keep the tears welling up under your eyelids from spilling out, but you go relentlessly, just as hungry.

you tentatively bob your head up and down his length, messily taking him as best as you could, probably accidentally scraping him with your teeth a few times, and you try to make up for it with your swirling tongue, slurping thirstily.

he almost coos at your eagerness, and as badly as he wants to bask in the sensation, having to keep himself from pounding into your mouth, he holds your silky hair in a ponytail and gently pushes you away.

when you find him again, your eyes are glossy and your eyebrows drawn up with worry.

you don’t want this moment to end. you don’t want your insecurities to be proven right, don’t want him to ward you off, to still think of you as nothing more than a childish girl with an evident crush. you’re on your knees for him to finally see you.

jeongguk instantly reads your thoughts.

his voice is quick to sooth you, a sweet smile painting his face with an expression you rarely see on him. it’s soft, just like his voice, “come up here, angel.”

you want to listen to him, want to follow his every order. but you’re not sure how to when he’s regarding you with a care you’d never thought would be directed at you, one that empties you of any strength. when the pet name rolling off his tongue that easily seems so natural, you want to think it’s all he’s ever seen you as.

with a delicate tug at your hair, he leads you on your feet again. but you’re weak, your chin falling on his chest as you look at him through your lashes like he’s hung every single star in the sky.

his hand leaves your locks only to cup your face, promptly helping you stand straight to study your features.

if he didn’t know better, he’d say you’re high off the strongest substance you could find. your pupils cover your orbs in a dark, wide circle, a lazy smile on your pink lips as you let yourself be handled by him, no control over your body, almost falling over his bigger one again before he steadies you by your hips.

he lets out an amused chuckle at the state you’re in because of him, and he hopes you know just how much you’re affecting him, too. he wants to swallow you, pill after pill, overdose on you.

when he’s sure you don’t need his help keeping you still anymore, leading your palms to rest on his wide shoulders, he takes your face in his big hands and forces you to swim in the intensity of his gaze.

his words are spoken slowly, a low whisper fanning over your lips, “if i kiss you now, i won’t be able to control myself anymore.”

your eyes jump relentlessly between his own orbs and his mouth, the latter winning the battle when you fixate on it, and speak just as weakly, “please, kiss me.”

you barely manage to get the words out before jeongguk is all over you. he devours you, pushing your lips open and finding your tongue, playing with it in a mess of slick and heavy breaths.

his fingers travel through every angle of your body they can find, pulling your face impossibly closer by your nape, leaving goosebumps along your bare arms wrapping around his neck, falling down your torso and squeezing harshly as they rest by your sides.

your moan is inevitable when his palms reach down the curve of your ass and shove you against him. you feel his hardness meet the softness of your lower belly, his wet tip poking at it and making him hiss on your lips.

he does his best to swallow all your sounds, your muffled whines and whimpers his favorite meal as of now. it’s a wince of slight pain that you let out as he positions you in between his body and the counter, the border pressing on your lower back.

when he moves from your kiss, even with your lungs being unable to breathe anymore and begging for a break, your head follows his movements to try and bring him back on you again.

the chuckle he lets out is almost belittling, the right side of your face being completely engulfed by his palm to put distance between your mouths, his other hand keeping you still by your waist, and his own hips push against you.

you quickly glance down to where your bodies meet, and you whimper when you take in the way his cock is just above your core, his balls brushing against your clit. you only need to lift yourself a little forward to fully feel him.

but it’s like he instantly knows what’s making your head spin, his grip tighter but still mindful not to hurt you. the sudden squeeze has your eyes finding his, feeling ridiculously smaller under the weight of his heavy gaze.

he makes sure you keep your whole focus on him, and as much as registering the way your orbs are glossy with anticipation and desire is making him almost regret his next words, he lets them out, steady but soft, in your face.

“you had your fun, baby. now, you’re going to listen to me. hm?”

this time, your reaction comes promptly following his request. you’re hanging from his lips, tracing their every move and sound, immediately nodding at the order.

but it’s not enough, and jeongguk ensures to sound a bit firmer, ”use your words.”

”yes, mr. jeon.”

the way your response rolls off your tongue with seemingly no hesitation, your pupils still on his, the words you choose to say, make him let out an amused chuckle.

your eyes widen, and he drinks in your state, cheeks flushed and lower lip trembling. you need to bite it in order for it to stop shaking when he narrows his eyes, his left palm rising from your hip and finding its way under your top, his remark making you startle, ”you’re such a bad girl. aren’t you?”

jeongguk makes up for the way more tears seem to well along your bottom lashes by cupping your small breast in his larger hand, swirling his thumb around your nipple, and you need to fight against the loud moan traveling its way up your throat, the chocked sound getting stuck as your mouth hangs open, your eyebrows furrowed.

but it only takes some more of his degrading tone for you to let out an unashamedly loud noise, his fingertips pinching your nipple, ”calling me that only because it gets you off. doesn’t it? you’re not so innocent after all, princess.”

he quickly swallows your sounds with his lips on yours, and both of you can’t help but hum lowly at the contact. jeongguk thinks he could keep kissing you for hours on end. but he badly wants to feel every other inch of your body, too.

unexpectedly, the kiss gets broken when he turns your body around with ease, your back now pressing against his front, and you steady your shaking figure by planting your hands on the counter.

the access to your ear comes effortlessly, he just needs to bend his head down to cover your height difference and make sure his whispered words meet you as close as possible, “i’ll give you what you want. but you need to be quiet and good for me, understood?”

you’re not sure if you should use your voice or stay silent, but your body doesn’t give you the chance to ponder over it before letting out a whiny yes. you’re not exactly being quiet, but can he blame you?

the man you’d get to talk to for more than five minutes only in your dreams is now promising you he’s going to give you what you want. and his cock is perfectly nestled in between your ass cheeks. you’re positive you’ll have to throw your shorts right in the bin after he’s done with you.

though, the scoff resounding in your ear makes you regret not even trying to lower your volume. you really want to be good for him. don’t want to disappoint him.

that’s why when he taps two fingers under your chin, without him having to express it for you, you part your lips open, tongue out. from the corner of your eye, you see the side of his face scrunched with a long dimple before he shoves the digits inside your wet mouth.

you instantly wrap yourself around his thick fingers, coating them in your warm slick, and you can tell it’s affecting him with the way the hold on your hip tightens, and he shifts between your thighs.

with your tongue swirling around the two digits, your eyes search for his face. looking up at him through your lashes, you clench around nothing when you take in the effortless way he towers over you, his body engulfing your whole smaller figure.

the sinful eye contact leads him to spur you on further, his voice rough with desire, “that’s right. suck on them like you would my cock.”

you hum deeply at the encouragement, fluttering your eyelids shut as you energetically bob up and down along his fingers. you think you can still feel the taste of his precum lingering on your tongue, and you whine, wishing you could have him again.

the noise gets cut from your throat when he forces his digits out, the slicky sound lustful, and it makes him groan lowly.

with his other hand, he delicately pushes your head forward to bend you over the marble counter, the same one where hours ago he passed you his glass of wine to take a sip from.

the surface is cold against your cheek and he’s out of your vision as he stands straight. not being able to see what he’s doing, the expression on his face as you lay folded for him, makes the anticipation flood even stronger in your veins.

you feel him pull your shorts down enough to reveal yourself to him, hear him hiss as he’s enthralled by the way your pussy glistens, all for his eyes to admire.

the curse that follows is instant, “fuck. no panties?”

you’re embarrassed for your straightforward bareness, whimpering at his surprise with your fist tightening and your nails imprinting crescents in your palms, but you’re also so impatient to feel his touch.

tentatively, you wiggle for him, hoping to brush against his length, but it’s to no effort as he instantly stills your movements with a hand on your lower back.

he scoffs incredulously, feeling your bare ass against his palm, “it’s like you knew this would happen. you dirty, naughty girl. always giving me those eyes.”

it’s light, the spank that meets the side of your butt, but you gasp nonetheless. you need to bite your lower lip harshly in order to suppress the loud moan from escaping your throat, and you’re sure it bleeds when he softly strokes the spot he hit.

the hand soothing you now travels to your front, torturously putting pressure on your sensitive stomach and following a slow pattern, only to reach your wet core.

he finally touches you where you’ve been needing him the most, and you both groan when he uses his already soaked pointer and ring finger to spread your lips, his middle one tracing your slit.

you inhale deeply as he repeats the motion, and when you exhale you can’t help small whines from leaving you, the pleasure already too overwhelming.

you feel like passing out when his body weight presses on you again, his mouth directly on your lobe, the intention in his voice dripping on your skin, “you think i wouldn’t notice? you know how hard my cock gets everytime i see you in these tiny clothes of yours, huh? you’re quite literally the death of me, doll.”

then, it’s like all your senses come back to you the moment he pushes his digit in, and he immediately reaches around you to put his other hand over your mouth the second he sees it opening, your eyes rolling up.

you scream in his palm, the sound muffled with his fingers tightening under your jaw, his body still leaning on yours.

he whispers sweet nothings in your ear and stills his middle finger inside you, getting you used to his presence, “shh, princess. good baby, you’re doing perfect.”

the contrast to his earlier shaming tone only makes you whine more, your eyes squeezing closed to try and keep the noises in. you’re sure you bite his palm when he starts moving inside you, the finger curling tentatively and soon being joined by another one.

you shake your head weakly, feeling yourself reach delirium, and you manage to stammer out, “can’t— can’t do this.”

“you can baby, c’mon. you wanna be a good girl f’me, don’t you?” his tone is still low, warm breath fanning over your nape, and you melt under the sudden change in attitude.

you nod, not because you believe you can actually get through this without your heart failing and the whole neighborhood hearing you in the process, but because you do want to be his good girl.

“say it.”

“wanna be good— your good girl.”

he hums, “that’s right. i need to stretch you out if you want to take my cock.”

you choke in his wrap, now looser around your face, surprised at his words, and you clench hard at the mention of his cock inside you.

you throw your head backwards in search for more of his proximity, and you mumble nonsense, your brain completely melted, “yes! want your dick.”

“i know you do, little one,” with your head nestled between the crook of his neck, his hand now falls to your throat, and he holds you gently by it while his fingers pick up a faster pace.

he’s ruthless as he moves them inside you, effortlessly finding your sweet spot with a curl of his long, tattooed digits, and you whimper at the foreign sensation, unable to moan like you really want to.

you feel like screaming the more he keeps going, the only possible reaction to what is happening to you. one moment ago you were dreaming of this, and now it’s your reality.

mr. jeon is fingering you and calling you his good girl. his large figure is behind your smaller one bent over the counter, his palm around your throat, his hard length pressing against your ass.

the moment he uses his thumb to flick at your clit, you arch your back into him and you hear him fight to suppress a surprised moan.

“shit. you’re so impatient, sugar. dripping around my fingers. wanna taste your sweet juice, can i?” it’s a rhetorical question, hushed slurredly in your ear, because after he lets it out his fingers leave your hole, and find a new home on his warm tongue.

he purposefully moves your chin to make you a witness of his sinful action, humming deeply around the taste of you, his eyes fluttering shut, his digits popping out drenched.

your mouth hangs, your tongue unconsciously peeking out as if asking to be made a participant, but jeongguk only smirks and stands straight once again, his wet hand leaving another light spank on your ass cheek, “turn around, sweets.”

you do as asked, making sure your palms are still steadying your weight on the counter now behind you, afraid your legs alone won’t be able to.

but you soon find out you won’t have to put much effort into that when jeongguk lifts you with ease and sits you on the surface, your slickness meeting the cold marble.

you don’t have to lift your head to look at him anymore, your heights now the same. but finding yourself directly in front of his hardened gaze makes you feel even more intimidated.

especially when he traces your inner thigh, his eyes never leaving yours, “every time you stand up to leave after dinner, you always leave a puddle on my chairs. and i’m left to clean it up.”

you swallow audibly at the accusation, and you can feel your eyes water once again, biting your lips to conceal the shame.

he only grins amusedly at your state, the tip of his tongue coming out to play with his lower lip. the hand on your leg now forces it to move to the side, his face only getting closer to yours, his tone deeper, “i’ve thought about licking it up, you know? but then i always stopped myself, because i knew i’d get to taste your pretty, wet pussy.”

you gasp, a shaky moan leaving you uncontrollably, and your fingers hover over his figure, wanting to find support in him but unsure whether to touch him.

he finds your mouth with a short kiss, almost reassuring, but he’s back to spitting sins the moment he lowers his face between your spread legs, and the way he looks up at you is almost scandalous.

he looks devilish, his orbs visible through his lashes, his tongue wetting his lips. he takes your uncertain hand and places it between his tousled hair, directing himself to you, instructing you how to use him.

he presses a peck above your clit, still drinking in your reactions, his smile wicked, “i knew you’d crumble soon. you little minx. going after your best friend’s dad. so naughty.”

your head is thrown backwards at his words, ones that only add to the pleasure that takes over you when he latches at your pussy, the wet sounds ungodly.

the shame and guilt mixing in the back of your mind generate a profane sense of bliss you’d never think you could reach, and even though deep down you feel dirty being confronted with the truth he sputtered out so easily, you can’t help getting off to it right now.

jeongguk is ravenous as he finds your drenched lips, lapping furiously at them and drinking the juice that continuously drips out.

he flicks the tip of his tongue up and down your swollen clit, and your hand that he himself put on top of his head now tugs at his curls, forcing him closer to you.

he’s trapped, your legs squeezing around his head, his nose nuzzled in your slit, and he can’t stop the hand that reaches to stroke his pleading dick.

you think you hear him mumble something along the lines of taste so good as he teases your hole with his wet muscle, and you’re a gone woman the moment you look down, your eyes fluttering open.

his own are closed, brows furrowed in deep concentration, his nose relentlessly grinding against your sensitive nub, and the way he seems so affected by the act of pleasuring you breaks something inside you.

you feel it begin to crumble when his tattooed hand reaches up to lift up your top just enough to expose your breasts, nipples hardening with the cold air and the stimulation, and they hurt deliciously when he starts kneading at your boobs, fondling them with care.

the deep hum generated from his throat vibrates against you, and the flick of his thumb around the center of your tit matched with the way your clit is being continuously abused unexpectedly leads you to your orgasm.

it’s fast, unannounced, and you find support in his hair, your body taking over your brain and relentlessly grinding against jeongguk’s face, suffocated between you, unable to stop reaching for the heavenly, and so awaited high.

your whines are frantically high pitched, but the moment he feels you cum all over his mouth everything around him disappears except you, and all he cares about is slurping you, drinking you as you let it all out because of him.

he pants, breathless, opening his eyes to witness your climax, to admire you breaking under his doings, chest swelling with pride and a primal sense of protectiveness.

when he hears you whimper the more he keeps sucking on your clit, your slim fingers pulling at his locks, he finally lifts himself up.

on the path he follows to come back up to meet your face, he finds your nipple with a sweet kiss, his tongue teasing your nub, and he smiles against it, teeth gently pinching it, when seeking with his eyes for your reaction he sees your own rolling back.

next, his mouth is on yours, smearing your wetness all over your lips and mixing it with his spit on your tongue, connecting in a frantic, hungry dance.

his forehead is on yours when he breaks the kiss, his breaths heavy, the lazy grin on his face the only thing you can focus on, hanging on his gentle words, “did so good, pretty. came so hard all over me.”

your eyes inevitably fall down to his cock, painfully hard against his stomach, the tip angry and slicked with precum.

you feel your core buzz, kissing him to conceal the unshameful desire building up so fast again, but still you can’t help from mumbling against him, “wan’ you to fuck me.”

the hum of pleasure coming from his throat reverberates on your lips, and he smiles at your confession. even chuckles, one hand resting at your hip and sliding you closer.

“that what you want, baby?” your legs wrapping around him, he kisses along your neck and travels down to your collarbones, leaving small bites to keep himself from marking you like he truly wants to.

he slips his palms under your thighs and lifts you off the counter effortlessly, and you squeeze your hold tighter around him in order to keep yourself balanced.

the new position has his cock perfectly meeting your core, your slit brushing against his tip as he walks you two over the living room couch, his mouth promptly swallowing your whimpers.

when he lays you on the sofa, he straightens himself to fully admire you. you’re sprawled for him, your hair framing your head like a halo, the sweat pearling your forehead adding to your angelic state.

your hands are on either side of your face, fingers dainty and slender, and your tank top is lifted up enough to show him your small breasts, slightly spilling from the sides.

your shorts still rest under your ass, and with a swift motion he fully takes them off you, giving him access to your center.

but the attention is taken away from your wet cunt when he lets his eyes come back up to your face, your cheek resting on your shoulder, trying to hide your embarrassment at his ravenous observing.

he smiles, becoming impatient with the feeling that only grows inside him, and he walks out of his pants still pooled down his ankles, taking off his loose t-shirt and letting it fall on the ground.

your eyes widen at his sculpted physique, now finally in front of you, his buff dimensions intimidating you, especially when your orbs follow his v line and put you face to face with his huge cock, so close to your watering hole.

he teases it with his length, sliding it up and down your slit, then slapping it against your clit. you arch your back, groaning.

“am i the real man you’ve been waiting for? you wanna be fucked by this big man, don’t you?” his sinful words only make you nod dumbly, becoming potty under his control.

at your eagerness, he wastes no time. aligning himself with your hole, he enters you. the stretch is deliciously painful, his tip boldly splitting you open for him.

he knows your wail is coming, so he lowers himself on you to block your sounds with his mouth. but he’s the one that needs to be silenced.

the moment he feels your tightness around his bare dick, he growls. his sounds grow more desperate as he sinks himself deeper, the grip on your waist enough to wreck you, and you’re expecting it to leave a mark.

you hum roughly against his lips, your nails scratching along his shoulder blades in search for any kind of grounding you can find.

it’s too much, his dimensions way oversized for what your hole can take, and the fact that you can’t help but grip him even tighter isn’t helping.

he reads you, your broken whines and the tear falling from your left eye, and the moment he bottoms out he stills himself, his face in the crook of your neck, his nose nuzzling the warm skin in a reassuring manner, “shh, baby. i got you. let me make you feel good.”

the whispered words are the same ones that jolted you from your sleep, the dream almost too real, and paired with his middle and ring finger circling your sensitive nub they cause you to emit a pleasured squeal, your chest arching into his.

at this point, you’re afraid you’re still trapped deep in your slumber. that none of this is actually real, it can’t be.

you’re so convinced that it’s just too good to be true that you test it, scraping your nails harshly in his back, and when he bites the skin under your jaw in protest you gasp shakily.

it’s definitely real. jeongguk is fucking you. almost. not yet.

with the way your clit is being stimulated by his long fingers, the initial sharpness turns into more slick, and you impatiently groan, “fuck me, please.”

one final kiss is left on your lips before he lifts his torso up, his hands roaming along your sides and grasping a hold of your tits.

he teases you with a playful smirk on his face, your disappointed pout only resulting in a devilish chuckle from him as he massages your soft boobs.

but you can feel him throb inside you the more you swallow him in, and you know he’s just as impatient. you buck your hips up in search of friction, and the sudden motion makes the both of you moan.

he’s suddenly resolute as his palms fall to your waist and effortlessly hold you up as he begins fucking into you. with each stroke he picks up his pace, and he’s soon pounding your tight hole wrapping around him.

the two of you soon find out it’s impossible to be quiet. your sounds are stuttered and pornographic, and it makes jeongguk afraid he’s never going to be able to get them off his brain.

his own noises are heavenly, deep growls and surprised whines falling out his pillowed lips, slightly agape in bliss, brows drawn up.

your eyes roll back and never come back, your vision patched, and you think you weren’t build to survive this kind of pleasure. it’s almost deathly when he finds that one particular spot that makes you see stars.

your skin slapping is louder than his hushed speech, but he makes sure the words reach you and translate into wetness coating his length even more, drenching it, making it soaked in your juices, “that’s how you need to be fucked. that’s how my girl needs to be fucked, hm?”

“mhm, fuck, yes!” it’s breathless, but you want him to hear you. you feel yourself get closer just watching him smirk proudly at your state, his pupils blown out.

his palms are back to playing with your breast, kneading it harshly, and you enjoy the way he seems to be hypnotized by the vision, “fuck. love your tits. fit just right in my hand. you were made for me, princess.”

your head is thrown back between the cushions, your legs wrapping around his ass and pushing him even deeper, the anticipated sensation building simultaneously in both of your trembling bodies.

“i’m not gonna last long, baby. this pussy’s too tight. trappin’ me inside it,” jeongguk’s voice is rough, the words leaving him slurredly and all his effort put into snapping his hips against yours, his eyes focused on the relentless in and out motion.

you wail, mumbling nonsense, but at the same time the most sincere words you’ve ever sputtered to him, “it’s yours, jeongguk. f—fucking yours. forever. ah— fuck.”

he hums, feeling you contract around him the more he speaks to you, “that’s it. my pussy to fuck, angel. mine to play with, mine to fill up.”

your eyes widen at his territorial remarks, and when they meet his hazy ones they water with overwhelming ecstasy.

the possibility of his cum filling you up is what does it for you, your nerves undoing once again and making you spasm around his throbbing dick.

he talks you through your abrupt orgasm, praising you for cumming so good all over him, drinking in your blissful sounds and your hips rutting against his.

he’s just as close, and the realization that you came the moment he mentioned painting you in his seed makes him a crazed man, his motions stuttering sloppily, “fuck. aren’t you a naughty one, doll. you really want me to cum inside you? you want it, huh? i bet you do.”

your repeated nodding and the way your body is so pliant in his hold, letting it be completely handled by him with no functioning muscle, pervades his senses with a primal force that he puts all into fucking your sensitive cunt.

he smirks wickedly, “you’d look so pretty. all stuffed. want me to fill up this tight pussy? want my mature cock in so deep you can’t breathe?”

you think you scream at his continuous suggestions, but you can’t be sure when all your senses are clouded, the oversensitivity turning you into a literal doll for him, no power over your actions.

he looks just as fucked out, his lips parting as he basks in the feeling of being in control of you, his eyes fighting to stay open and keep you in his vision.

when he feels you contracting around him in overstimulation, his breath stutters and he feels himself reach the peak, quickly pulling out of you to spill his cum over your naked skin.

you gasp at the sudden emptiness and the warm liquid that keeps falling over your stomach, his cock being pumped in his fist and milked from all he can give you.

you both pant in exhaustion, your legs loosening their grip around him as he dips his weak knees on either side of you on the couch.

he hums when he fully takes in your figure, marked by his cum, and he smiles when he sees your eyelids struggling not to fall.

but you spasm once again when you feel his finger slide over your stomach, the wet liquid being collected, “now, you gonna clean this up for me. open your pretty mouth, baby.”

you don’t even ponder on the request, you just follow the order. your brain is reduced to thoughts that are only related to him, and it automatically complies to anything that he asks from you.

you engulf his digits promptly, swallowing his semen, looking up at him through your lashes and unashamedly clenching at his lazy smirk.

he makes sure every drop of his is collected and sucked by your hungry mouth, smiling when you don’t ever complain, “mh, good girl. get them neat.”

when he’s satisfied, he hovers over your face and finds your tongue in a sensual, slow kiss, both of you moaning at the exchange.

with a sloppy sound, he parts from you only to disappear between your thighs, his eyes mischievous, “gonna clean you up, too.”

you gasp at the feeling of his mouth wrapping around your core once again, slurping your juice and lapping at your inner thighs, and you’re not sure how this is going to help in getting you clean. you only feel yourself becoming even wetter, if possible.

leaving a kiss above your nub, he straightens up with a boyish smile softening his features, and with the fond way he’s looking at you, nobody could tell he just made you cum twice.

he moves your bangs from your forehead, closing the distance between you once again to leave small pecks over your still reddened face, “you did amazing, doll. made me cum so hard.”

you hum contentedly, snuggling closer to him, your body unconsciously gravitating toward his warmth. your hand lifts to thread through his hair, but before you can touch him, he shifts, pulling away.

the warmth he provided vanishes, replaced by the cold emptiness of the couch. panic surges in your chest, washing away any remnants of fatigue. you prop yourself up on your forearms, eyes tracking his movements.

you don’t want him to leave you here alone, bare and vulnerable, maybe a bit confused and uncertain, and deep down deathly scared of whatever will come after this.

your brows furrow, heart picking up a painful speed when you see he’s getting dressed—tossing on his shirt, pulling on his pants. and for a second, your heart clenches with dread. is he leaving?

but then you notice him picking up your shorts from the floor, his expression softening as he walks back to you with that same gentle smile that had made your heart flutter earlier.

relief washes over you.

he handles you delicately, as though you’re something fragile. his fingers brush your skin as he slips your shorts back on, pulling down your top before encircling your waist with his strong arms.

you squeal lightly when he pulls you onto his lap, settling back on the couch with you cradled against his chest. his hands never leave you, securing you to him.

you settle into him easily, sighing in appreciation as the warmth of his body returns, your legs draped across his lap, arms circling his neck.

for a brief, fleeting moment, everything feels like it’s in its right place, like this is where you’ve always belonged. it feels so natural, so easy, being wrapped up in him.

his deep, slow breaths lull you into a state of calm. his chin rests on the top of your head, his hand rubbing soothing strokes along your spine.

you press even closer, breathing him in, feeling like you could get used to this, like you already have. like you’ve always known this is where you should be.

your fingers trace absentminded patterns along his tattooed arm, the one holding you secure under your legs. you feel the need to look at him, to admire the man that marked you as his.

but when you glance up, you’re a bit startled when you notice the shift in his expression. his face is hardened, jaw clenched tight. he’s not relaxed like he was just moments ago. his gaze is distant, staring intently at a spot across the room as if lost in thought.

yet his hands continue to cradle you, almost unconsciously, like holding you has become second nature to him.

but his mind is a whirlwind of emotions, and they only scatter all over the place as he feels you move closer, impossibly so.

you seek warmth, care. nuzzle your fragile body against his for protection, something more that he fears he can’t give you. love.

he once thought he’d drained himself of it, had nothing left to offer. but now, with you in his arms, the smallest spark flickers to life, burning its way up his throat until it feels like it’s going to consume him.

he wants to give in. he wants to hold you tighter, trap you against him, keep you with him. give you love.

but he can’t do that to you. can’t make you go through the same path that took everything from him. not without ruining you in the process.

he knows what comes next. love turns into suffering. it’s inevitable.

and could he survive seeing the look on areum’s face if she ever finds out? how would she react if she knew the truth about what he’s done, about how he feels? about how he truly wants to act upon his feelings?

the thought makes him feel sick, even as his heart beats steadily against yours, comforted by your presence.

but why doesn’t he feel disgusted? why isn’t there shame gnawing at him, making him pull away? there’s only bliss. the sheer joy of having you this close, of holding you like this, makes him forget everything else.

he wishes he could be immature, for once. wishes he was your age, and that nothing truly mattered. that he still could allow himself to make stupid decisions.

maybe then, you’d feel right in his arms, and reality wouldn’t catch up to him.

“jeongguk? are you okay?”

your soft, honeyed voice pulls him from his spiral, and he startles slightly, caught off guard. his eyes meet yours, wide and filled with concern, searching his face for answers.

he tries to hide the storm brewing inside him, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “huh? yeah. i’m okay.”

of course, you don’t believe him. an ugly feeling makes space in your stomach, and the weight of everything begins to press down.

you don’t want it to take over you just yet, want to be coddled by the illusion a little more, want to try and believe there’s nothing to be afraid of.

you offer a tentative smile, hoping to ease whatever tension is growing between you. “you… you seem worried.”

“i’m not, baby. i’m just thinking.”

“about?”

“stuff.” his voice is clipped, and the small wall he’s building between you becomes clearer.

the distance stings, and your heart sinks as you try to hold onto the moment that felt so perfect just a second ago. desperate to reach him, you place your hands on his face, tilting his chin down to meet your gaze.

your eyes jump all over his, but you manage a genuine, if small, smile. “you can tell me, you know. you can talk to me.”

one simple, small smile spreading across his lips makes you doubt all of your worries. it makes you want to believe that maybe, there’s truly no reason to be scared. that maybe, this can go well.

“i know,” it’s whispered on your face, his hand coming to play with the hair that frames your cheeks sweetly. “let’s get you to bed now, hm?”

before you can protest, he’s lifting you off the couch with ease, cradling you in his arms bridal style as if you weigh nothing at all. you clutch onto him.

you feel your insides fuzzy with the gesture, and you wiggle yourself closer in his embrace, looking up at him expectantly, “your bed?”

it breaks his heart having to disappoint you, tone firm as he tries to make up for it with his thumb brushing your thigh, “no, baby. you gotta go back to areum’s room.”

“but— but… i wanna sleep next to you,” you plead, your voice small and almost childlike as you pout up at him, hoping to sway him.

he looks away, focusing on the stairs as if looking at you would break his resolve. “we can’t, dove. you know we can’t.”

his words feel like a punch to the gut, and your voice hesitates. “we can’t?”

the silence that follows is louder than any answer he could have given, and it weighs heavy between you, suffocating. there’s no actual explanation to it, and the realization leaves both of you uneasy.

at areum’s door, he sets you down gently, making sure you’re steady on your feet. he’s careful with you, like he always is, his voice low, “go wash up. i’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“no…”

“c’mon, sweetheart. don’t make this harder.”

you frown in protest, keeping eye contact, but he doesn’t break. his gaze is steady, resolute.

you want to argue, want to push, but the exhaustion settles over you, and you slump, defeated, but you still sway sweetly for him, your hands tied behind your back, “okay… can you kiss me?”

your voice is small, muffled behind your pout as you seek for him with anticipation, a shy smile making its way on your lips.

when he doesn’t move closer, you get on your tippy toes and lean in his direction once again, your eyes almost fluttering shut before you hear him clear his throat, and take an awkward step back.

you’re back on your heels with a thump, the same one reverberating in your chest with your heart falling, your mouth hanging open with confusion written all over your expression.

you go to say something but he’s quicker, his voice solemn, “goodnight, ___.”

jeongguk smiles, but it’s nothing like the ones that took over his whole face just minutes ago on the couch, his eyes full of you. you’re not even sure if you can define it as a smile.

it’s polite, almost too polite, and it only results in feeling tremendously distant from him. he’s completely disconnected from you.

he retreats, long legs carrying him away, his back to you as he slips into his room. the door clicks shut behind him, the sound final, and it echoes in the hollow space.

you stand still, the weight of his absence pressing heavily on your chest. the spot where he left you feels like a grave, your feet sinking into the cold floor as if it’s pulling you under. the warmth he offered, the fleeting sense of safety, is gone, and you’re freezing.

you try to breathe, but the air feels sharp, your throat tight with the effort to hold back the tears welling in your eyes. it’s useless, though.

your bare feet shuffle against the floor, but you can’t move forward. you can’t go back. you can’t do anything except stand there and feel the weight of it all crash down on you.

you’d been so afraid this would happen. how could you have been so foolish? even in the midst of the sweetness, you knew it was too good to be true. a part of you always knew.

and yet, you let yourself believe for a fleeting moment that something real could come from it. that you could be enough.

you’d have done anything to prove it to him. to show him your loyalty, your willingness to make it work. you still would. you’d give him every part of yourself, if he’d only take it. if he’d only look at you the way you want him to.

the full weight of your reality sinks in. in the end, none of it was truly real.

a sob breaks free from your chest, raw and painful. the sound echoes in the quiet hallway, bouncing off the walls that now feel oppressive, like they’re closing in on you. this house, every corner, it’s all stained now, tainted by the lie you let yourself fall into.

and you? you feel tainted, too.

[itneverendshere]

it's all you're good for, right? - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

rafe knew you wouldn’t take his disrespect lightly.

you never did.  

he’d expected you to blow up the second he pulled that ignoring shit at the dinning. he was ready for it—your texts coming in hot, maybe you showing up at his house, ready to tear into him like you always did when he pushed too far. he'd never say it out loud, but a part of him almost liked it, the way you’d get all fired up, spitting mad. it was hot.

but you didn’t call. not a single text. you didn’t show up to the party that weekend, and when he tried to hit you up, just looking for a booty call—because fuck, he was so hard thinking about you—it went straight to voicemail. he stared at his phone like an idiot, calling again. blocked.

you? block him? nah, that wasn’t supposed to happen. rafe was the one with the power here, or at least, that’s how it used to be. it was always this push and pull, but he was the one pulling the strings, right? no fucking pogue was ever going to order him around. right?

wrong. the next weekend rolls around, and there you are at one of his parties, looking good as ever, laughing with your friends like nothing happened. and still, not even a glance his way. for two weeks now, you’ve been completely ignoring him, and it’s starting to get under his skin. more than it should.

he watches you from across the yard like a fucking creep, sipping his drink and trying to act like he doesn’t give a fuck, but inside, he’s low-key losing it. he half-expected you to walk right up to him and give him hell like you always do. but no, you’re just... doing your own thing. 

but what’s really making his head spin is what you're wearing. the outfit is pure trouble—skin-tight and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. a barely-there black mini skirt, riding up just enough to make his jaw clench, paired with a tiny top that’s more like a bralette than an actual shirt. it’s low-cut and clings to your curves, thin straps barely holding it in place, and the way it hugs your body?

yeah, he’s fucked. the way the skirt moves when you walk, teasing just enough thigh? it’s like you knew he’d be watching.

he hates how much it turns him on.

every guy at the party notices. he can see the way their eyes follow you as you move through the crowd, laughing, like you don’t even care. but it’s the way you’re ignoring him that’s really pushing him to the edge. normally, rafe loves the attention despite the look of disgust he always greets you with when you show up. loves knowing you’re secretly going to end up in his bed. but tonight? he’s not so sure and it’s killing him.

by the time he corners you, all he can think about is tearing that outfit off. the silent treatment? that shit was way worse than anything you could've said. 

“alrigh’, i get it,” he starts, throwing his hands up like he’s already done with this conversation. “jesus christ.”

you just blink up at him, completely unfazed, like he’s not even worth a reaction. his words might as well be bouncing off a wall. the fact that you’re standing there looking so fucking good, and acting like he doesn’t even exist, is messing with his head more than anything you could’ve said.

he’s pissed, yeah, but more than that, he’s desperate. desperate for a reaction. for anything. but you just brush past him, your body touching his for the briefest second, like you’re doing it on purpose just to make him snap.

rafe stands there for a second, blinking in disbelief. did you just really blow him off like that?

before he even realizes it, he's following after you, shoving through the crowd like a man possessed.

“are you serious right now?” he hisses when he catches up, grabbing your wrist lightly but firm enough to make you stop. the emotion in his voice is undeniable, and everyone nearby is pretending not to watch the little scene. “you're really just gonna walk past me like that?”

karma’s a bitch.

you finally turn to him, but the look in your eyes isn’t anger—it’s indifference. that cold, detached stare that fucks with his head more than any of the shouting matches you’ve had in the past. you pull your wrist free with ease, like his grip is nothing.

“’m over it,” you say coolly, like you’ve already moved on from the whole thing, “whatever this is? it’s not worth my time.”

that does it.

he’s used to the back and forth, the fire between you, but this, you acting like you don’t care at all—it’s new, and it pisses him off more than he thought possible. he steps closer, dropping his voice lower so no one else can hear.

“bullshit,” he says, eyes narrowing. “you’re pissed, i get it. but don’t act like you’re done with me. you aren’t.”

the smirk that curls on your lips is almost cruel.

“watch me.”

you turn and walk away, leaving rafe standing there. he knows he should let it go, but every time he tries to convince himself of that, the way your body looks in that outfit, the way you shut him down so easily, keeps replaying in his head.

and instead of walking away, he’s right back where he started, chasing after you like he can’t stand the idea of not having you anymore.

before you even get two steps away, he snaps.

his patience has run out, and all that pent-up frustration? yeah, it’s got him seeing red. he doesn’t even think about it—just moves. his hand wraps around your arm, and in one swift motion, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing, slinging you over his shoulder.

“what the fuck, rafe!” you shout, your fists pounding on his muscular back, but he doesn’t stop. eyes burning, jaw clenched—he doesn’t give a shit who’s watching. not his friends, not anyone at the party. right now? he’s too pissed off and turned on to think straight. 

you wriggle in his grip, your legs kicking, but he holds you tight, marching through the party like it’s no big deal, even though everyone’s definitely staring. he’ll deal with the fallout later.

“put me down!” you’re practically growling, and maybe under any other circumstances, he would’ve listened. but not tonight. tonight, he’s done playing nice, done pretending like he’s not obsessed with you or your body, done trying to act like he’s got control over this situation when clearly, you’re the one pulling all the strings.

his grip on you is tight, and possessive, and you’re too furious to care about how turned on you secretly are. he doesn’t stop until he reaches his room, kicking the door shut behind him with one solid thud. the sound of the lock clicking is loud in the tense silence. then, he throws you onto his bed, like you're nothing more than a ragdoll.

you bounce once, staring at him with wide eyes.

“what the fuck is wrong with you!” you snap, sitting up on the bed, glaring at him.

he’s pacing now, running his hands through his hair, wild-eyed, like he’s trying to calm himself down but can’t. he turns to you, his face twisted in frustration, like he’s been holding something in for way too long. and when he speaks, his voice cracks just enough to show how on edge he really is.

“you!” he explodes, pointing at you like you're the only thing in the room. “you’re what’s wrong with me!”

his pacing slows down, and suddenly he stops. he turns back to you, both his hands shooting up to his temples, fingers pressing into his head.

“you get in my fucking head,” he admits through gritted teeth, jabbing his fingers into his temples like he’s blaming you for every thought he's had for weeks. “i can’t think straight because of you. every fucking time, you crawl into my head and just—won’t—leave.”

instead of letting his little meltdown get to you, you lean back on your hands, with a bratty scoff. “how is that my fucking problem?” you snap, crossing your arms like you couldn’t care less about his breakdown. “that’s on you, not me. maybe you should try, i don’t know, leaving me alone.”

rafe stares at you, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched tight, “you think this is a joke?” he growls, stepping closer, closing the gap between you two, his presence almost suffocating. “you think you can just sit there and act like none of this is your fault?”

you give him a fake sweet smile, leaning forward just enough to be in his face, “maybe you shouldn’t have fucked me in the first place, hmm? god forbid your friends find out you’ve been slumming it with a pogue.”

it’s the fake docility in your smile that makes him want to break something. he steps even closer, his breath hot and heavy as his eyes lock onto yours, blue and furious.

"that’s what this is?" His voice is low, almost a growl. “you seriously don’t get it, do you?" he leans in, his face inches from yours, his expression almost daring you to keep pushing. "this—whatever the fuck this is between us—this isn’t about them. it’s about you." his hand shoots out, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. "don’t act like you didn’t know what you were getting into from the beginning."

you yank your chin free, rolling your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he's getting to you. “right. you ignoring me at the dinner? guess i was supposed to just sit there and take it, huh? maybe you wanted me to be a good little bitch and not make any noise.” 

you might be pissed, but you're not just angry—you're hurt, and that fucks with his head more than he cares to admit.

rafe huffs, running a hand through his hair in frustration, looking away for a second before turning back to you. “what the fuck do you want from me? huh? you want me to call you my girlfriend? you want me to fucking introduce you like this is some kind of relationship? be fucking serious.”

"be fucking serious?" you repeat, "you gave me a 200$ tip, you fucking asshole!" you shove him hard in the chest, catching him off guard. “like ’m some kind of fucking whore!”

rafe's eyes widen as he stumbles back a step, “wait—what? no, no, no. that’s not what it meant.”

you glare at him, shaking your head in disbelief. “of course, it fucking was!” you shout, shoving him again, harder this time. “what else would it mean, huh? you throw money at me like it’s supposed to make everything okay, like ’m some kind of... some kind of pogue you can pay off and keep quiet.”

he looks stunned, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to figure out what to say. “that’s not—fuck, that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t thinking about it like that, okay? i was trying to help you!" he blurts out, his tone defensive, like he can’t believe you’re twisting his intentions into something they weren’t.

you laugh, but it’s sharp, biting. “help me?” you stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “oh, please. shut the fuck up. why would you ever want to help me, rafe? be real.” he tries to speak, but before he can you’re already stepping back. “if you want to fuck me, just get on with it. i need to leave. so, make it quick.”

what?

“is that what you think this is?” he doesn’t move to touch you, but the tension is strong enough to feel suffocating. “you think ’m just here to—”

“to fuck me? yeah. that’s what this has always been about,” you cut him off, “and you know what? it’s okay. let’s not drag it out. do what you do best—take what you want and leave me the fuck alone.”

he’s not ready to admit that this feels more than just a hookup. he’s not sure if he will ever get there. rafe’s chest heaves as he stares at you. he’s done trying to explain himself. 

“fine,” he snaps, stepping closer until his chest is almost brushing yours. “if that’s what you want.” 

your breath catches in your throat, but you don’t back down. not when you're this annoyed. “yeah, it is. stop wasting my time.”

in one swift motion, rafe pulls you to him by the waist, with his usual roughness that makes you drip between your thighs. his lips claim yours with a bruising force. it’s not soft or sweet—this is raw, messy, all tongue and teeth. his hands are everywhere, gripping your hair, your ass, pulling you flush against him like he can’t have any space between you. you’re both moving with frantic, desperate eagerness, like this is less about desire and more about proving a point.

“is this what you want?” rafe snarls against your lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank your top over your head, throwing it somewhere in the room. “to get fucked stupid and leave? that it?”

you let out a breathless laugh, but it’s overflowing with venom. “that’s all you’re good for, right?”

so much for making peace.

TAGLIST: @drewstarkeys-world @maibelitaaura @maybankslover @jkrafe @willowpains

[halosdiary]

Strawberry Shortcake | Toji x Bratty!Reader | 呪術廻戦

synopsis: You have to breed with the Zen'in clan's biggest liability. You refuse and he plays some games with you.

Contains: jealousy, mind games from Toji's side, humiliation, breeding, doggy, full Nelson, BASICALLY HATE FUCKING.

Word count: 3k

Toji doesn’t want to marry you. Not because it’s you, just because, well, he doesn’t want to marry anyone. He doesn’t want to listen to the Zenin clan at all. Marrying him off to the highest bidder, your parents, because he wasn’t a sorcerer. He hates you by association, even though it’s not your fault. But this marriage, should be rather, interesting.

“They expect me to breed with you?”

Toji asks you after the ceremony, sprawled on the futon. The Zenin clan had asked you to take his last name: Fushiguro.

All you did was ignore him, you hated this arrangement, All you wanted was freedom. You sighed as you walked over to the window looking at the view of the city. 

He watched you for a moment, studying your back as you move towards the window. He wasn’t expecting you to be friendly; neither of you wanted this.

He stood up from the futon and walked over to you, stopping a few feet behind you.

“You hate me,” he stated, his arms crossed over his broad chest as his eyes continued to look you up and down intently.

“You don’t even want to spend a single night with me, do you?”

"Hate is a strong word " you stated to him, giving him a side eye.

You turned back around to look at the view of the city. You looked down at the ring on your finger, so much shit has past you by and all you did was blink.

He stepped forward, standing right behind you, so you can practically feel his body heat. He lets out a quiet chuckle as his eyes move to your hand, where the ring is.

“The ring looks good on you, darling.” His breath fans over your ear and he places a hand on the window, effectively trapping you between the window and him.

“At least I get to look at this pretty face every day now.”

"You're so thoughtful." You said to him sarcastically.

You walk away from the window and roam into the kitchen. Not much was going on. You whipped out your phone and started texting friends.

There wasn't really much you or your new husband could do. It was clear as day you two weren't exactly fond of this wedding arrangement. As soon as you said "I do" and we're officially married, you immediately took the money your parents gave you and cut contact.

He followed you into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and watching you silently. He was trying to get a read on you. You didn’t speak to him much, and he had no idea how you might take things.

He wasn’t expecting to be met with sarcasm, that was for sure. Toji smirked, leaning against the counter. “Are you gonna act like that every time I open my mouth?” he called out to you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Or should I just get a ball gag ready for you every night?”

You scoffed at his suggestions, and tried to shoo him off. He was unbelievable. For a man who didn't wanna be tied down he's really committed to his role as the husband. You scanned him up and down, if it weren't for the fact he wa s apiece of work, you admitted he was pretty attractive. 

"Real immature. Are you sure you can keep up with me, old man?"

He chuckled, finding your irritation entertaining. “Who’s old?” He pushed himself off the counter and slowly stalked towards you. “If you think I’m old, you think wrong, darling.”

He reached you, putting a hand on either side of you on the counter, trapping you once again. He loomed over you, his face was nearly touching yours as he tilted his head slightly. “And I think I’ll be able to keep up with you just fine, wife.”

"I have a name, old man." You sneered at him trying to get away from him.

He was entertained with the way you kept trying to get away from him. But every time, he’d find a way close the distance. He liked taunting you, seeing you get all riled up.

He chuckled again, putting a finger on your chin and forcing you to look at him. “I know you do, darling,” he said, using the nickname to annoy you even more. “But I like calling you wife.”

All you could was frown at him, you continued to text on your phone. Checking messages and looking at old pictures. You looked at the ring again, and sighed.

“Who are you texting?” He asked, looking over your shoulder at your phone. “New lover you’re gonna hide from your husband?”

He pushed his body against yours, trying to get a glimpse of your phone.

"Get over yourself, Fushiguro." You snapped at him, "I have more class than that. I'm not one of your floozies."

He smirked at that, putting a hand on your waist and pulling you close to him, making you drop your phone.

“Floozies?” He was amused. “Are you jealous, darling? Are you scared I’m going to have women coming over night after night?”

"Why would I be jealous of a cocky old man?" You smack him away from you.

"Be so fucking for real right now."  You walk off in a huff to a different room and slam the door.

He let out a low chuckle and smirked at your reaction. He was pushing your buttons, that was for sure, but he was enjoying it.

He casually followed you to the room you stormed off to and knocked on the door. “Come on, open the door, *wife*." He purposely used the word again, knowing you’d get annoyed. “Don’t you know it’s not nice to lock yourself away from your husband?”

"Let's face facts, you obviously want your freedom, so why don't you just go?"

He pushed open the door and walked into the room, standing at the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“And go where, exactly?” he replied with a smirk. “I’ve been told by the head of the clan that it’s my duty to breed you. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not, darling.”

"Go stick your sword up your ass, geezer." You hug your knees and just look away from him.

He chuckled at your words. “Is that anyway to talk to your husband?” he replied, his voice taunting.  “What a filthy mouth.”

He pushed himself off the bed and walked towards you, grabbing your chin in his hand and forcing you to look at him. “Watch it, *wife*. I can punish you for that attitude.”

You move yourself away from him once more. You weren't in the mood for this bullshit. You give your husband the middle finger and stepped out the apartment for a while. He watched you storm out with a smirk. It was too easy to rile you up, but it was also kind of fun, messing with you.

He got up and walked to the window, pulling the curtains back slightly so he could see you. He didn’t plan on letting you stay out for the rest of the night, but he would at least let you cool off first. You wandered off into the nice, cool night. You looked around, and people were just chatting away, dancing and laughing. The work day was over for most people, as normal they were heading to bars and have some fun.

He watched you walk off through the streets of the city. He didn’t plan on letting you be out for too long. He wanted to see if you’d make an attempt to get away.

There were plenty of bars and other people around, and the thought of you sneaking off with one of them didn’t settle well with him. He couldn’t exactly blame you, he wouldn’t want to be with him either, but he was your husband now. It was his duty to keep you by his side and it was your job to obey.

You were alone in a bar, drinking your sorrows away. You hated this arrangement. But something about you seemed to attract a lot of unwanted attention. 

A few men in the bar had taken an interest in you as you sat there drinking alone. Their eyes were on you, their gazes lingering on your form. Some glanced at you and smirked, while others sent winks your way.

You decided to ignore the attention and drink away. You don't know why your "husband" always managed to get under your skin, but he did it a little too well.

The attention was starting to get annoying. It was obvious they were hitting on you, but you just wanted to drink alone and deal with your problems in peace, not be bothered by some lowlifes.

One of the men approached you, sliding into the seat next to you. “Hey there, beautiful. You alone?” he said with a smirk.

"Look, whatever you want, I'm not entirely interested at the moment." You dismissed them and looked at your drink.

It was a strawberry shortcake martini, your favorite. 

The man raised his arms up in a surrender motion, laughing at your response. “Just asking. Can’t blame a guy for wanting to chat up a pretty girl like you.” He put his arms on the counter and leaned on them, looking at you intently.

”You look like you can use some company, though. You don’t look very happy.”

"It's a long story. You wouldn't wanna hear it." You just muster.

“Oh, but I’m a very good listener. I promise, a pretty girl like you could tell me all her problems,” he smirked and leaned a bit closer to you. He clearly didn’t understand your dismissive attitude.

Some of his friends looked over, one of them whispering something to the other, glancing over at the two of you.

"I'm stuck in an arrangement with someone and I just wanted to enjoy the single life a little longer."

The man nodded with a hum, listening intently. “Arrangement, huh? Sounds like a shitty deal, being tied down to someone you don’t really wanna be with.”

He paused for a moment. “Who’s this person that has you tied down, if you don’t mind me asking?” He gave you a smirk. “Some rich old geezer?”

"Some asshole named Toji Fushiguro." You answered bluntly.

The man’s eyes widened slightly at hearing the name. “Toji Fushiguro, huh?” he repeated. “And he’s your husband now? Must not be that great of a guy if you’re drinking away your troubles.”

His eyes darted over to his friends at another table, who were watching carefully. They both seemed to be whispering and nodding to each other while glancing over occasionally.

"He's such a pain in the ass. I SWEAR." You continued to shit talk him, not acknowledging Toji's presence behind you. You then noticed the man you're talking to go pale.

"What?" You said to him

The man quickly looked behind you, seeing Toji now standing behind you. He paled and quickly averted his gaze, looking back at you.

“E-er, no reason.”

By now, Toji was clearly pissed off. He had been standing there for a while listening to you talking about how annoying he was and his hand was clenched into a fist.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's just an asshole." You laughed still not knowing he's behind you.

The man in front of you laughed along with your statement, but it was a clearly nervous laugh.

Toji had enough of listening to you talk badly about him. He reached over and put his hand on your shoulder, grip tight as he leaned down over your shoulder.

“Don’t you think that’s a little rude, wife? Calling your husband an ‘asshole’.”

"OH—" You yelled out and fell from your seat. You felt your heart beating out your chest.

Toji caught you before you could actually fall to the ground. He chuckled at you, an arrogant grin over his face as he held you against his chest. One of his hands was gripping your waist to keep you up while the other held your shoulder.

The man in front of you looked at the two of you, clearly startled and intimidated now that Toji had appeared.

"JESUS." You yelled out,

"Thanks for the heart attack—"

Toji smirked at your words and pulled you closer to him. He wasn’t gonna let you keep bad mouthing him to other people.

“Sorry, princess. But you really should watch what you say.”

He nodded his head to the man you were talking to, who was now just staring at the two of you. “You shouldn’t talk about your husband l like that in public, right?”

"You don't even like me, why do you even CARE?" You raised your brow to him.

“Care?” Toji laughed at that, pulling you a little closer to him as he spoke.

“Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean you can go around bad mouthing me, darling.”

He put a hand on your cheek, eyes looking down at you with a mocking gaze.

“I’m your husband, now. And I have a reputation. So you better keep that pretty little mouth of yours from calling me an ‘asshole’ again in public.”

"If I don't?" Your arms were crossed still waiting for some type of result.

Toji’s smirk only widened at your question. He leaned down more near your ear, hand still grabbing your cheek as he spoke lowly.

“Try me, wife.” His tone darkened, a hint of a warning in his voice. “Go on. Call me an ‘asshhole’ again.”

You leaned in closer to him and doubled down on that promise.

"Ass..hole." you said as a sly remark.

Toji’s grip on your waist and cheek only tightened at your words. His eyes darkened and he let out a scoff.

”Oh, you’re really pushing my buttons, you know that?”

His voice was low, almost a growl. His lips were near your ear and his hand on your cheek moved to grip your chin, forcing your head up to look at him. You glare at him, and all he had was that a shit eating smirk on his face. The way you wanted to humble this man was atrocious. Before you could say or do anything he threw you over his shoulder and just stared at the man you were just chatting with.

You were kicking and yelling at him to let you go. You then notice as he started working, he was walking towards a bathroom.

The man just stood there as Toji picked you up and threw you over his shoulder. He was a bit in shock, watching as Toji began to walk towards the bathrooms.

You continued to kick and yell at him, attempting to get away from him, but he just held you firmly.

He pushed open one of the bathroom doors and walked into it before kicking it shut behind him, locking the door for privacy.

"What the hell are you—" your sentence stopped as his lips violently crashed into yours. You were in for a shock.

His lips were rough, pressing against yours with force as he grabbed you tightly. The suddenness of the kiss completely caught you off guard, and his grip on you showed he wasn’t letting up.

He pushed you up against a wall, pinning you, and his lips only pressed harder into you.

You tried desperately to pull back, but you felt him bringing you back.

He only continued to press you against the wall, pinning you with his body. His hands gripped your hips and held you tightly, not letting you get away.

The kiss was rough and aggressive, his lips pressed hard against yours, tongue forcing its way into your mouth and claiming it.

The more you pulled back, the more rough he got, eventually you just let it happened. He groaned against your lips when he felt you stop resisting, his tongue claiming your mouth still. His grip on your hips got tighter, body pressing against yours as he began pushing his thigh in between your legs.

It felt like one second you were clothed, the naked you were bent over in the stalls. You could feel his length and girth slowly going inside you. He groaned and growled as he bottomed out into you.

"Fuck.." he groaned to you.

Toji’s thrusts were slow, but packed a forceful thrust. Your moans  and skapping skin were echoing the bathroom, he had a firm grasps of your hips as he just watch your ass jiggle for minutes.

"What's the matter, wife?" He asked you as he pounded deeper into you. "You're awfully quiet, no shit talking?"

The faster we went, the more he got to see your ass jiggle. At this part you were like putty to him. You watched as he switched positions and you felt like you were going to explode. Toji groaned loudly as he unloaded inside you. You felt his  warm seed inside of you, you were speechless.

Time had passed, and you were the first to come out the bathroom, your clothes a bit messy, but you basically got yourself prepped and ready.

Toji followed after you shortly, his clothes also a bit messy, but he looked relatively collected. He ran a hand through his messy hair and watched you.

“You know,” he said, his voice a bit low. “You’re a lot more fun when you lose the attutde, wife.”

"Shut up." Was all you could muster, but also couldn't help but feel your cheeks heating up.

Toji chuckled at your response, a smirk over his face. “You’re still so feisty though. You never give in, do you?”

He stepped closer to you, putting an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. He leaned down close to your ear, his voice a low whisper. “But I do like that cute little flustered look on your face.”

All you could do was groan in embarrassment, as he laughed it off and took you home.

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