#I’m also accepting requests too!

[phantomsies]

hey cherry! will u be continuing the musician erem au on here?

hi lovely! I absolutely will. working on a lil Halloween thing for him right now.

[appallinnballin]

waves!! hiiii so i wanted to ask if you could perhaps like, draw N or like J from murderdrones bc i love them and i think they would look so cool in your style!!

i love your art sm, byeee

hiiiiiiiiii i just did J but hope that is acceptable ^_^

[clearlydusty]

could you possibly do kyle crane from dying light as another character? he needs more love lmao /nf

I’m super sorry, but I’d prefer it if you could request a character from a series I know about, it’s just much easier for me to do ☹️ if you have any other character you’d like to request that lines up with what I’m familiar with (which you can see in my about me page) then I’ll gladly do that ! Again I’m really really really sorry! I hope you understand !!!

[choerypetal]

Love at first sight. / Squid Games!Men

summary; a little prompt for each men in squid game x reader.

also my english isn't my first language so i do apologize for a few errors! enjoys x

including; in-ho, thanos, myung-gi, dae-ho & gi-hun

In-ho: 

Praise yourself for catching In-ho’s attention amidst the chaos of the games. Not only did he manage to maintain his composure, but he also came to terms with the truth—it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him, but his heart betraying him. He had been ensnared in a dangerous blend of love and death. And no matter the cost, he was determined to ensure your survival, even if it meant faking your death and arranging for the guards to escort you to his shelter.

At first, his actions were subtle—a few fleeting glances, quiet assurances that you weren’t alone. He took it upon himself to ensure someone capable stood between you and danger. This resolve led him to seek out Gi-hun, cornering him with a whispered plea. “I’m not asking for much,” In-ho murmured, his voice low and firm. Gi-hun’s brows knit together as he glanced at you, understanding little of the request but sensing its weight. Though the urge to question why In-ho couldn’t protect you himself lingered, Gi-hun ultimately accepted—he, too, had his own plans to carry out.

Yet, watching Gi-hun hover near you ignited something unexpected in In-ho—a simmering, unanticipated jealousy. His blood boiled harder than he cared to admit.

It was Gi-hun’s proximity to you that set him on edge.

While 001 had extended a friendly hand, In-ho never anticipated him stealing you away entirely. The realization unsettled him, and during the chaos of the Carousel games, panic began to creep in. When he noticed you were nowhere to be found in the room, it nearly consumed him. The thought of losing you made his fists clench, and for a brief, irrational moment, he contemplated throwing a punch at Gi-hun. But it wasn’t until the final elimination, when the doors unlocked, that relief washed over him. There you were—your silhouette unmistakable behind Dae-ho.

In that instant, he didn’t hesitate. Rushing toward you, his breath hitched, words failing him. A shaky exhale escaped his lips, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. He almost laughed—a scoff of incredulity—before pulling you close, his hand instinctively cradling the back of your head. Without a second thought, he leaned in, his lips pressing a firm but tender kiss to your forehead.

“Silly,” he muttered, his voice tight with emotion. “I never should’ve trusted Gi-hun to keep you safe. Damn it, I thought I’d lost you.” The panic in his voice caught you off guard, the weight of his words sinking in. You hadn’t expected such raw vulnerability from him—not now, not like this. A soft chuckle escaped you, an attempt to lighten the moment. “It’s okay,” you reassured him gently. “Dae-ho found me right away and made sure I was safe.”

That revelation gave In-ho pause, but he filed it away for later. For now, none of it mattered. You were alive and unharmed, and that was everything.

The kiss on your forehead wasn’t just a gesture of relief—it was a silent declaration. You were his, and no one—not Gi-hun, not Dae-ho, not anyone—would ever take you from him again.

Thanos: 

Once a retired rapper, Thanos now found himself thrust into a life-and-death struggle. Among his generation, it was no surprise that some idolized him—his presence commanding a respect so intense, it bordered on worship. To them, he was pristine, untouchable. But this adoration didn’t sit well with everyone, especially loners like you, who preferred to navigate the chaos without attachments.

Ironically, that aloofness was one of the many reasons Thanos found himself drawn to you.

In the early days on the island, Thanos made no effort to reveal his interest. If anything, he mirrored your indifference, matching your cold detachment with his own. But when you began spending time with Myung-gi, the dynamic shifted. Thanos hadn’t expected it, nor did he like it. Watching you bond with someone else left a bitter taste in his mouth, awakening a tension he couldn’t ignore. The loner mindset had been his strategy for survival—a simple equation: fewer people, fewer complications. But your presence complicated everything, especially when it came to your effortlessly beautiful face, which he found himself stealing glances at far too often.

It didn’t take long for his resolve to crack.

Thanos had made himself a promise: to keep his distance, to ignore you as you ignored him. But that promise shattered the moment Nam-Gyu let slip a confession Thanos had sworn him to secrecy about. That little fucker, Thanos thought bitterly, though his anger was tempered by necessity—he needed Nam-Gyu to survive. Yet, when the truth reached you, it unraveled him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Instead of drawing you closer, the revelation pushed you further away. Your avoidance became more deliberate, more pronounced than ever before. It stung more than Thanos cared to admit. For the first time in a long time, he was unprepared—for your reaction, for the way it tightened a knot of frustration and longing deep inside him.

Which only added more tension between the two of you.

The final games loomed, a trial where survival would demand more than just cunning—it called for a kind of ruthless cleansing. Thanos knew, without hesitation, that when the moment came, he’d be the first to grab your hand and shield you. Even if it meant overreacting, even if it jeopardized his own chances, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Certainly not to Myung-gi, if it came down to that.

“You know...” he murmured late that night, his voice low and almost hesitant. Your back was turned to him, your body stiff on the thin mattress. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, couldn’t even steal a glance. Not after everything. The weight of his breath lingered against the back of your neck, and you flinched slightly, betraying your nerves. His presence, so close and unyielding, was suffocating yet magnetic.

“Tomorrow is... big,” he continued, his words faltering as his gaze shifted across the dimly lit dormitory. For a moment, his eyes locked on Player 333, who sat sharpening a weapon in the corner—a stark reminder of the danger waiting ahead. Thanos clenched his jaw, then turned his focus back to you.

“If we’re not careful...” he trailed off, his voice softening, almost breaking. “Who knows if I’ll ever get to see your beautiful face again?”He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself, as if admitting even that much was a risk. “I know it’s—” 

Your head snapped toward him, your brows furrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut through the tension between you. For a moment, silence hung in the air, charged and heavy. Then, your voice broke it, calm yet biting. “If you keep this up, you might be the one ending up with a bullet in the face,” you said, your tone so nonchalant it bordered on cute—a contrast that left Thanos momentarily stunned. He blinked, almost scoffing in disbelief, one hand pressing dramatically against his chest.

“Ouch,” he drawled, his lips curling into a grin. “I’m hurt, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed into daggers. “Do. Not. Call me sweetheart.”

Before you could say more, Nam-Gyu chimed in from his corner, a mischievous smirk playing on his face. “I bet she’s in love,” he teased, his words practically dripping with mockery.

Thanos’s cocky grin widened at that, his eyes gleaming with a maddening mix of pride and amusement. The sheer arrogance in his expression made your fingers twitch, itching to slap that smug look right off his face. But instead, you gave him one final glare—a death wish in your eyes, though to Thanos, it looked like the beginning of a love story.

“I bet she is,” he echoed, his voice soft but certain, the words carrying a weight of truth that made your chest tighten. He didn’t try to stop you as you turned and walked away, but his gaze lingered, following every step you took. Oh, how you had him wrapped around your finger without even realizing it. A wimp for you, and you alone.

Myung-gi: 

Everyone knew who Player 333 was—you included. Unlike many in this room who were desperate to claw their way out of debt, you knew Myung-gi only by name. You’d heard the rumors: how he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant, how his past was littered with mistakes and secrets. But something in you—a stubborn spark of hope, perhaps—whispered that he wasn’t as bad as everyone wanted him to be. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the stories let on.

Myung-gi had noticed you, though. He’d seen the way you were with Jun-hee—the way your smile seemed to ease her fears, how your arms would wrap gently around her petite frame after every game, grounding her, giving her the space to breathe. The quiet strength and warmth you brought to her felt almost unreal, a motherly presence in a place devoid of comfort.

It was that tenderness, that undeniable light, that struck him like a blow to the chest.

Myung-gi was in love.

And he hated every single moment of it.

Why? Because he knew himself. He knew what he’d done to Jun-hee—how he’d left her while she was pregnant with his child, drowning in debt and fear. He’d been a coward, an asshole, and he knew it. That self-loathing festered, a constant reminder of his failures. And yet, it was exactly why he didn’t expect you to see him as anything other than the man he despised.

But fate had other plans.

Your first real interaction with him came after he saved you—something neither of you had anticipated.

It happened during the Bathroom games, where survival left no room for personal grudges. Confronting Thanos wasn’t at the forefront of Myung-gi’s mind, but then he heard it—your name, slipping from Thanos’s lips with such filth that it ignited a rage Myung-gi didn’t know he was capable of.

Everyone knew your past as an escort within the crypto community. Your name wasn’t hard to find, whispered in private conversations and occasionally tied to scandalous wallets. But Myung-gi knew better than to judge. Still, hearing Thanos—the retired rapper—speak of you like that, as though you were nothing more than a commodity, was the last straw.

“She was good for a foreigner. Not many—”

That was as far as Thanos got before Myung-gi’s fist collided with his jaw, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sickening crack of impact echoed through the grimy bathroom, followed by a faint splatter of blood. Myung-gi emerged from the stall alive but seething, his knuckles raw and his breath ragged. As he stepped out, his gaze immediately locked with yours. Jun-hee stood beside you, clinging to your arm for reassurance, but the look on your face was unreadable—a mix of surprise, understanding, and something softer.

A small, almost imperceptible smile crept across Myung-gi’s lips.

In that moment, he made a silent promise: no matter what it took, he’d make sure both of you got out of this alive.

Dae-ho: 

Dae-ho never believed in love at first sight. With everything he’d endured in his life—the trials, the sacrifices, the relentless pursuit of strength—he saw himself as a knight in shining armor, bound by duty but never destined for romance. That belief held firm until he met you.

It happened during the Carousel game. Like In-ho, he’d noticed you before—your stoic demeanor during Green Light, Red Light had left him quietly impressed. The way you moved, swift yet calculated, managing to evade the statue’s unrelenting gaze with precision, was nothing short of remarkable. It was then that something shifted in him. Against all reason, Dae-ho found himself believing in love at first sight.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. He even considered pinching himself, blinking twice to dispel the notion. But the feeling persisted, undeniable and maddening. It wasn’t until later, when you tended to his wounds after one of the brutal games, that he finally saw you up close—and the full weight of your beauty struck him like a blow. Your lashes fluttered delicately as you focused on your task, your fingers gentle but firm as you dabbed rubbing alcohol onto his injuries. He hissed at the sting, his lips parting in a soft groan of pain.

“Be still, please,” you murmured, your tone calm but commanding. Something about the way you said it—the quiet strength in your voice—silenced his protests. He nodded, his muscles relaxing under your care, though the tension in his chest was harder to soothe.

For the first time, Dae-ho felt vulnerable—not because of his wounds, but because of you.

“You know…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, but there was a softness to it that made you pause. You could’ve sworn his lips curved into the faintest smile. “I never would’ve thought I’d see you like this—healing me. Back at the Carousel, I swore to myself I’d keep you close, that we’d find the door as quickly as anyone else. But then… the next thing I knew, Thanos had taken you before I could…”

He trailed off, his words tinged with shame. The vulnerability in his voice made you glance up at him, your fingers stilling as you finished securing the bandage. His eyes widened at your sudden attention, and he immediately began to stammer.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

You interrupted him with a soft sigh, sliding the remaining bandage back into your pocket. “Don’t apologize. We just weren’t lucky, that’s all. I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle it—that I wasn’t just someone who had to count on others.” Your gaze softened as you added, almost reluctantly, “But… I have to admit, not having you there in that room—it was horrible.”

Your quiet confession was enough to undo him. Without a word, Dae-ho wrapped his arms around you, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wounds. Still, he didn’t let go. His embrace was warm, protective, and when he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, it felt like a promise.

“Nevertheless,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet reassurance, “I’m just glad we made it through. That you’re here with me.” His lips quirked into a small grin as he added, with a teasing lilt, “And that I get to cuddle with you for another night.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his words, the tension between you easing for a moment. For now, at least, you both had each other.

Gi-hun: 

Unlike the others, you weren’t a player. But you knew Gi-hun from the previous game he was in. He was so certain you had died right in front of his eyes back then that when he saw the mask ripped off your face—revealing you as one of the Guards—his shock was palpable. Another Guard had been taken hostage by the remaining candidates, and though you could have cursed every word that came to mind, you found yourself frozen, your voice stolen by the chaos.

In-ho was the first to recognize you. He knew you were on shift at this hour, but what he hadn’t expected was the look of sheer horror that crossed Gi-hun’s face when your name escaped his lips.

“Y/N...?” Gi-hun’s voice trembled, disbelief heavy in the air as though he was trying to confirm he wasn’t dreaming.

“You know them?” one of the players sneered, their stolen gun now aimed squarely at Gi-hun. Bodies of your co-workers—faces you barely had time to register—lay scattered across the floor, lifeless, just feet away. The metallic tang of blood filled the air.

But this time, Gi-hun wasn’t about to let anyone lay a finger on you. He remembered the vow you both had made:

"We belong to each other. And I will get you home."

With those words etched into his resolve, Gi-hun made his move. Chaos erupted as the gun exchanged hands, bullets flying. The air was filled with deafening roars of defiance and the sickening splatter of blood.

In the end, In-ho stood back, his heart cold and unyielding, as he watched Gi-hun fall. The final shot rang out, and his lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Blood speckled your cheek, and you stared in stunned silence at the empty shell of a man you had once loved.

From the shadows, a familiar voice cut through the carnage, low and mocking.

“Welcome back home, love.”

You turned toward the source, and there he was Gi-hun—his gruesome smile sending chills down your spine.

[streetlamp-amber]

never ending night

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 1.7k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: pregnancy, pure fluff NOTES: hello hi i’m ailís and i’ve been meaning to start a blog where i can post some one shots that i’ve been thinking of as a way to motivate myself to finally write down my ideas so this is it. i’ll be double posting my stuff on ao3 (which you can find in my bio) and will eventually make a masterlist as well as a navigation post with a list of fandoms/characters i write for. also, english isn’t my first language.

It was close to three in the morning when Bruce finally joined you in bed after a long night of patrolling and fighting bottom of the barrel criminals all night. He showered in the bathroom on the first floor of the manor to avoid making too much noise and waking you up, but when he finally walked in your shared bedroom, you were already awake, sitting up against the headboard.

“Darling, what are you doing still up?” Bruce asked you as he reached his side of the bed.

The room was dark par for the moonlight filtering through the gap between the curtains, meaning your husband had yet to notice the state you were in.

“Dick had a nightmare,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper due to how tired you were. “It took me two hours to get him to fall back asleep and when I finally came back here, this little one started kickboxing me and keeping me awake for another hour,” you continued rubbing your round belly in hopes of soothing your baby to finally catch some sleep.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here to help,” Bruce apologised, planting a kiss on your temple as he held you close to his body.

“It’s alright, Gotham needs you,” you dismissed, not at all angry.

“Still, you’re six months pregnant. You’re growing our child inside your body, you need all the rest you can get,” he softly argued. “I would've come home earlier but all the amateur criminals came out tonight.”

“Bruce, it’s fine,” you brought your hand up to his cheek and he leaned his head into your touch. “You’ve already been cutting your patrols shorter since we found out about the baby. As long as you keep coming back home to us, alive, then I’m not mad.”

Not knowing what to say – his gratefulness for having someone so accepting of his duty as Batman was almost overwhelming, even after all those years – Bruce kissed your palm while staring at you with the same look full of love that he has been sporting since the first time he met you six years ago.

“How’d I get so lucky to fall in love with the most understanding and selfless person I know?” He asked while grabbing your hand on his cheek, wrapping his fingers around yours and squeezing them gently.

“Now that’s a lie,” you rebutted, a loving smile on your lips, lowering your joined hands on the bed. “You’re more selfless than I am. You’re the most selfless man in the world.”

“Let’s not start this never ending argument again,” Bruce chuckled, now his turn to hold your face as he brought you in for a kiss.

You happily sighed against his lips, the feeling of home that overtook you every time you tasted them was a nice welcome in this interminable night. But the kiss was cut short as you felt your baby kick again and you let your head fall back as you groaned.

“She’s still kicking?” Bruce asked you, he couldn't see the movements under your skin due to the darkness of the room and your hand on your belly.

“We don't know it's a she,” you reminded him instead of answering. You had both decided to wait until the birth to know the gender.

“And I’m telling you, I know it's a girl,” your husband repeated for what could be the hundredth time.

You also secretly hoped it was a girl, but Dick really wanted a little brother. Bruce and you were still in the process of warming him up to the idea of a little sister and it was slowly starting to work.

“As long as she doesn't come in my room,” your eight year old son had said last week, with his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

“I doubt she’ll be doing that for the first few years, chum,” Bruce reassured him, fighting off a slightly amused grin.

“And the baby will have its own room with its own toys,” you added.

“Will I still be able to play with the baby?” Dick asked after a moment, uncrossing his arms and a hopeful look filling up his blue eyes.

“Of course you will, bubs,” you said, your fingers threading through his black hair that fell over his forehead.

“But only with her toys at first, some of yours are not suited for a baby,” Bruce pointed out, ever the overprotective father.

Bruce had lowered himself down under the blanket so he could be laying head levelled with your belly, his hand now replacing yours over the bump.

“Hey trouble,” he whispered to your child and the baby kicked again, making him smile lovingly at the movement he felt under his hand. “You shouldn't be awake this late at night, you know.”

“You're one to talk,” you commented, tone almost reprimanding.

“She doesn't know that,” Bruce looked up at you as he defended himself before his gaze fell back on your belly. “Mommy is really tired,” he continued talking to your baby, his hand now rubbing soothingly over your round stomach, “and she needs her rest to do all the work so you can come out all healthy and beautiful. Well, you're definitely gonna be the most beautiful baby if you end up looking like your mother, but that's not the point.”

You smiled at the cheesy comment and your fingers found their place in Bruce’s hair, brushing through it and nails occasionally scratching his scalp.

“Your brother Dick can't wait for you to come around,” he carried on. “Said he will teach you all sorts of acrobatic tricks once you know how to walk. And he asked Alfred if he could help paint the nursery when we finally decide on a colour.”

“And I keep telling you we should do soft green,” you argued.

“I’m not changing my mind from primrose pink,” he told you with a sly grin.

“The room won’t be pink, even if it’s a girl. And that’s final,” you firmly said. Your husband will not be winning this one argument, no sir.

Bruce sighed, rolling his eyes before focusing back on your belly. “I hope you’re not as stubborn as your mother,” he whispered to the baby, as if he was having a private conversation with them and that you weren’t there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the many reasons why I fell in love with her, but I won’t be able to say no to you even when I have to, so it would save me a lot of reprimanding from Mommy if you’re not as tenacious as her.”

You smiled to yourself as you continued listening to your husband talk to your unborn child as you threaded your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness it had after a shower. Bruce usually gelled his hair to appear more professional when he was working in the day, and then it would get all mixed up with his sweat under his cowl when he was working as Batman. When he would come back to you after the day was over, you would refuse to touch his hair until he had showered, the texture of the gel and sweat too gross on your fingers for you to ignore.

As Bruce continued talking to your baby, his voice started lulling the two of you to sleep. The baby hadn’t kicked in over almost ten minutes now, and the peace you had waited for so long to arrive made you aware of how heavy your eyelids were. You slowly lowered yourself down the bed, getting in a comfortable position with Bruce’s help where you could finally lay your head on your pillow and it didn’t take long for sleep to catch up on you.

At the sound of your soft, barely audible snores, Bruce turned his head away from your bump to find you asleep with your free hand raised next to your head on your pillow, the other one still tangled in his hair.

He planted a soft kiss on the exposed skin of your belly, eyes closed as he took a moment to absorb the fact that a baby that was half you and half him would be joining your world in a little more than three months. Bruce wasn't known to cry, the only time you ever saw him cry was as you walked down the aisle at your wedding, but tonight, a lonesome tear rolled down his cheek and fell on your stomach, where your child was growing, because Bruce never believed he would ever get to experience again the amount of love he hadn't felt since he was eight years old.

As he observed you, sleeping soundly with his child coming to life inside you, after you comforted Dick back to sleep, Bruce, for a moment, felt overwhelmed by all the love in his life. When he became Batman, he crossed out the idea of ever having a family (other than Alfred), of settling down with someone he loved and who loved him back.

But somehow, the universe put you on his path, as a miracle or a guardian angel or simply as an anchor to life outside of Batman, he didn't know. You walked into his home, into his life, to remind him that he, Bruce Wayne, was also deserving of love, of family, of happiness. Then Dick came along, rather unexpectedly but still no less welcomed, and Bruce started entertaining the idea of having children with you. He definitely wasn't opposed to it, but it wasn't something he wanted to jump right into, especially with Dick having just entered your lives. You were both young, he in his early thirties and you in your late twenties, you could allow yourselves a couple of years just the three of you (four with Alfred) before expanding the family.

So it was rather shocking when two months after you and Bruce had officially adopted Dick that you found out you were pregnant. It both took you by surprise but after talking through it together, you couldn't be happier. And the two of you haven't stopped being happy about this new little addition ever since.

Bruce rose up from his position next to your belly, your limp hand fell from his head as he did so, and he laid on the bed next to you. He delicately kissed your forehead, then your nose before falling back on his pillow and whispered “I love you” as he curled around your body, his hand resting on your belly as he fell asleep.

[shy9-29]

When The Calls Stopped [p.hs]

“Even through the distance, I knew we’d find our way back to each other.”

SOMAR𝒊O ─── Sunghoon promised nothing would change when he left to chase his dream, and at first, he kept that promise—answering every call with warmth, filling the distance with laughter and late-night whispers. But slowly, the calls grew shorter, his replies delayed, and some nights, he didn’t answer at all. Still, you called, same time, same hope, until one day… you didn’t. At first, he barely noticed, too caught up in his hectic world, but as the silence stretched on, unease settled in. Why weren’t you calling? Why weren’t you texting? And why did the quiet feel heavier than he ever expected? 박성훈 𝐱 𝑓. reader ✉️ wc. 19.9k ✶ careful ! skinship, kissing, nicknames, long distance relationships, etc 🔖

requests open | masterlist

The moment Sunghoon tells you he got accepted, his eyes shine with excitement, his breath unsteady as if he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I did it,” he says, his hands gripping yours tightly. “I got in.”

For a second, time stops. You’ve always known this day would come—he’s worked too hard, sacrificed too much for it not to. But now that it’s real, your heart clenches in a way you weren’t prepared for. “Sunghoon, that’s amazing,” you say, forcing your lips into a smile, even though there’s a lump forming in your throat. “I knew you would.”

His grin is wide and bright, but it falters as he studies your face. “You’re happy for me, right?”

You nod quickly. “Of course I am.” And you are. You really, truly are. But you’re also terrified.

He sighs, squeezing your hands like he’s reassuring himself as much as you. “I’ll be busy, but I swear nothing will change between us. I’ll call every day. No matter what.”

You hold onto that promise like a lifeline. “And I’ll call too,” you say, trying to sound certain. “We’ll make this work.”

A small smile tugs at your lips as you poke his chest lightly. “And I’ll be your number one fan. No matter what happens, I’ll always be cheering you on.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You already are.”

The day he leaves, the airport is filled with noise—people moving, voices overlapping, announcements droning over the speakers—but all you can hear is your own heartbeat. It’s too fast, too loud, too unsteady. Sunghoon stands in front of you, his bags slung over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he says softly, as if reading your mind. “It’s just… see you later.”

You manage a small, shaky laugh. “Yeah. See you later.”

His arms wrap around you, pulling you in, and you cling to him, trying to memorize the way he feels. The warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne. “I’ll miss you so much,” he murmurs into your hair, his hold tightening.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Me too.”

Neither of you moves for a moment. You want to stay like this just a little longer, just until the ache in your chest fades—but the world doesn’t stop for you. His name is called. He steps back.

One last look. One last smile.

And then he’s gone.

You take a deep breath, gripping your phone in your hand. Every day, you remind yourself. No matter what.

The first night without Sunghoon feels strange. Your room is quieter, emptier. You lie in bed, your phone resting on your chest, staring at the ceiling as you wait for his call. He promised he’d call every day. You know he will, but the seconds drag on too slowly.

Then, finally, your phone rings.

You answer instantly. “Sunghoon!”

“Y/N!” His voice is slightly breathless, like he rushed to pick up. “I’m here. I made it.”

A relieved smile tugs at your lips. “How is it? How’s your dorm? Your members? Did you eat? Oh! What about your schedule? Are they making you run laps already?”

He chuckles, the familiar sound sending warmth through your chest. “Whoa, slow down! One question at a time.”

You listen as he talks about his first day—how he barely had time to settle in before being thrown into meetings, how his members are all nice but just as nervous as he is, how their dorm is smaller than he expected but still comfortable. He tells you about the rules: no phones during training, strict curfews, early mornings.

“It’s… a lot,” he admits after a pause. “I knew it would be hard, but it’s only the first day, and I’m already exhausted.”

You hear the tension in his voice—the weight of his dream settling on his shoulders. You wish you could be there, to see him, to tell him in person that he’s got this. Instead, you hold your phone a little tighter and say, “That just means you’re working hard. And you always work hard, Sunghoon. You’ll get used to it. Soon, it won’t feel as overwhelming.”

He exhales, and you can almost picture him closing his eyes, letting your words sink in. “Yeah… you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” you tease. “I am your number one fan, after all.”

His laugh is softer this time, more at ease. “You really are.”

Then, he suddenly groans. “Y/N, I swear, all the guys here are so good-looking. It’s kind of unfair.”

You blink before laughing. “And? Don’t forget you are too.”

He scoffs. “I don’t know… Compared to them, I—”

“Sunghoon,” you cut him off, your tone firm but affectionate. “You’re literally one of the most handsome guys I know. And I know a lot of people.”

He huffs out a shy laugh. “That’s not even true.”

“It is true,” you insist. “And don’t let anyone, not even your ridiculously good-looking members, make you forget that.”

There’s a short pause before he murmurs, “You always know what to say.”

“I just tell the truth.”

Sunghoon suddenly groans again, but this time, his voice is more playful. “But seriously, Y/N… Heeseung hyung? He’s so good-looking. It’s actually insane.”

You hum in thought. “Huh. He kinda is.”

Silence.

“…Excuse me?”

You bite back a grin, waiting for his reaction.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me!” he exclaims, sounding completely betrayed.

“I’m just saying,” you tease. “You’re right, he’s pretty handsome.”

You hear rustling on the other end, followed by a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “I’m telling Heeseung to stay away from you.”

That’s when you finally burst into laughter, and after a second, Sunghoon joins in too, the sound soft and warm.

Even with exhaustion creeping in, neither of you want to hang up just yet. You talk for as long as you can, lingering in the comfort of each other’s voices.

And when Sunghoon finally murmurs a sleepy “goodnight,” you hold onto his promise a little tighter.

It’s different now. The distance is real.

But at least, for now, nothing has changed.

The second night without Sunghoon feels a little easier. Maybe it’s because you know he’ll call, or maybe it’s because the sound of his voice last night still lingers in your mind.

When your phone rings, you pick up immediately. “Sunghoon!”

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” he teases, his voice laced with amusement.

You roll your eyes. “Obviously. My favorite trainee calls once a day—I have to clear my schedule.”

He chuckles. “Good. I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

His tone is light, but there’s an underlying exhaustion in his voice. It’s only been a day, but you can already tell the training is wearing him out.

“So, how was today?” you ask, settling into your bed.

He exhales, and you hear him shifting, probably lying down as well. “Intense. We had dance practice all day. My body hurts everywhere.”

You wince in sympathy. “Did you at least eat?”

“Yeah, but I barely had time. Everything’s so fast-paced here. The second you finish one thing, there’s already something else waiting.”

“Sounds stressful,” you murmur.

“It is,” he admits. “But… it’s exciting, too. I mean—” He suddenly stops himself.

You frown. “What? What were you gonna say?”

A long pause. Then, a nervous chuckle. “I, uh… I can’t tell you.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a secret.” His voice is smug now, like he enjoys keeping you on edge.

“Sunghoon.”

He laughs. “Okay, fine. I can tell you this much—I’m preparing for my debut.”

Your breath catches. “Already?”

“Well, not officially,” he corrects himself quickly. “But training’s getting more intense because they’re getting us ready. It’s still early, though, so nothing’s confirmed.”

“That’s amazing,” you say, your chest swelling with pride. “You’re already so close, Sunghoon.”

“Yeah…” His voice is softer now, almost like he’s processing it himself. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

You smile. “It is real. And soon, the whole world is gonna know Park Sunghoon’s name.”

He groans, embarrassed. “You always make it sound so dramatic.”

“Because it is dramatic! You’re literally gonna be a K-pop idol! I can say I knew you before you were famous.”

“That’s the only reason you’re keeping me around, huh?” he teases.

“Obviously,” you joke. “Gotta secure that ‘childhood friend of a celebrity’ title.”

He laughs, but then he sighs. “I just wish I could tell you more. It sucks that there are so many rules.”

You nod in understanding, even though he can’t see you. “I get it. But it’s okay—you don’t have to tell me everything. I’ll be here cheering for you, even if I don’t know what I’m cheering for yet.”

There’s a brief silence before he quietly says, “That means a lot.”

You smile. “It’s because I’m your number one fan, remember?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”

The conversation shifts after that. He tells you about his members again—how Jungwon is way too mature for his age, how Niki keeps making everyone laugh, how Jay seems intimidating but is actually super nice. You listen, taking in every word, because even though you’re not physically there with him, you want to be part of his world in whatever way you can.

Eventually, his voice grows sleepier, and you know he’s fighting to stay on the phone.

“You should sleep,” you say softly.

“Mhm.” He sounds half-asleep already. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Of course,” you whisper.

The line goes silent, and for a moment, you just hold your phone to your ear, as if the connection alone can bridge the distance between you.

The next evening, when your phone rings, you can already tell by the tone in Sunghoon’s voice that he’s had a long day. You answer quickly, trying to mask the worry creeping up on you.

“Hey, how was today?” you ask, trying to sound upbeat, though you can hear the fatigue in his voice.

“I’m starving, Y/N,” he says, his words coming out in a rush. “They’re putting us on a diet to get us ready for the debut. I can barely eat anything.”

You frown, the concern rising in your chest. “What? Are you okay? How can they expect you to work so hard and not let you eat?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, a tinge of frustration in his voice. “They said it’s part of the training. I’m just trying to push through, but… I’m so hungry, Y/N. I just want to eat something that’s not just protein and vegetables.”

“Sunghoon,” you say, your tone gentle but firm. “You need to eat. I know they’re pushing you hard, but you can’t run on empty. Don’t starve yourself.”

You hear him sigh, the weight of everything pressing on him. “I’m fine. I can handle it, Y/N. It’s just… so much right now. I don’t know how to keep up with it all.”

“I get it. I know it’s tough,” you reply softly, “but your body needs fuel. If you starve yourself, I’m going to be really mad at you.”

“Really?” he asks, sounding amused but still stressed.

“Yes, really,” you say with a playful but serious tone. “If you starve yourself, I will too. I’ll just sit here eating my feelings, okay?”

He laughs, but it’s light, lacking its usual energy. “I can’t let you do that. But I guess I’ll try to eat more. I’ll sneak a snack or something when no one’s looking.”

“Good. Just promise me you won’t push yourself too hard. I can’t be the only one who’s worried about you.”

“I promise. I won’t starve myself. But the training, Y/N… it’s just nonstop. I’m exhausted, and I don’t know if I can keep up with all of it.”

You pause, your heart aching for him. “You can. You’ve been working toward this your whole life, Sunghoon. You’re stronger than you think.”

“I don’t know. It feels like I’m always falling behind. There’s so much pressure.”

“I know, and I can’t imagine what it’s like right now, but I believe in you. I always have.”

There’s a soft silence on the other end, and you can almost hear him letting your words sink in.

“I… I really needed to hear that,” he says quietly. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply with a small smile. “I’m your number one fan. That’s what I’m here for.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah, you really are.”

You continue talking for a little longer, but by the time the conversation starts to wind down, you can tell he’s beyond exhausted. His words become slower, more drawn out, as he struggles to stay awake.

“You need to sleep,” you remind him, your voice soft.

“Yeah… I know.”

“Goodnight, Sunghoon. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” he mumbles, and for a moment, you can hear the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “Sweet dreams.”

The call ends, and you find yourself lying there, your phone pressed to your chest, your heart heavy with all the things he didn’t say.

The next evening, you’re getting ready for bed when your phone rings. Sunghoon’s name flashes on the screen, and you pick it up almost instantly, eager to hear his voice.

“Y/N!” His voice sounds much lighter today, more energized, though you can still detect the edge of exhaustion beneath his words. “Hey, how’s your day been?”

You smile at the sound of his familiar tone. “It’s been good. How about you? You surviving the diet and the training?”

Sunghoon laughs, but it’s a little strained. “It’s been… tough, but I’m making it. You know, Jay’s been teasing me a lot about the diet. He keeps calling me the ‘hungry trainee.’”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he talks about his members. “I bet he’s being dramatic about it, huh?”

“Yeah, totally,” he says, and there’s a bit of laughter in his voice. “But he’s actually kind of right. I am starving half the time.”

“Well, you better eat something tonight. Don’t make me come over there and force-feed you!” You joke, but you’re half-serious.

Sunghoon chuckles, but before he can respond, you hear a voice in the background.

“Wait a minute,” the voice says. “So this is the famous Y/N? The one Sunghoon’s always talking about?”

You blink, surprised, but Sunghoon quickly calls out. “Jay! Don’t interrupt, man!”

Jay’s voice sounds teasing, and you can almost picture the grin on his face. “Oh, I see now. You’re real. I thought you were just some fake girlfriend Sunghoon made up to seem cool.”

You laugh, not at all offended. “Well, I’m glad I’m real. I guess Sunghoon’s not just making up stories to impress you guys, huh?”

Sunghoon groans from the other end, clearly embarrassed. “Jay, I swear, if you keep this up—”

But Jay cuts him off, clearly having too much fun with this. “Nah, I’m just kidding. But seriously, Sunghoon never stops talking about you, so I was starting to wonder if you were just some figment of his imagination.”

You can hear Sunghoon muttering something about how Jay is the weird one, and you laugh, feeling the warmth of the moment. It’s nice to hear Sunghoon in such a comfortable environment, surrounded by people who care about him.

“I promise you, I’m not a figment,” you reply playfully. “But tell Sunghoon that if he doesn’t start eating properly, I’ll come and find him myself.”

Jay bursts out laughing. “I think he needs to hear that! Hey, Sunghoon, don’t make her come over here. She’ll beat you into eating.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sunghoon mutters, clearly fighting to hide his smile. “I get it, I’ll eat.”

“Good,” you say, your tone more serious now. “Take care of yourself, Sunghoon. I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard.”

There’s a brief pause, and then he sighs, a little softer this time. “I will. Thanks, Y/N.”

“I mean it,” you reply quietly. “I’m always here. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “You’re the best, Y/N.”

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “I love you, Sunghoon,” you say, your words filled with so much sincerity that you can feel them resonate in your chest.

For a moment, there’s a soft silence on the line, and you wonder if he’s heard you correctly. But then he answers, his voice just as gentle, “I love you too, Y/N.”

Jay, not missing a beat, interrupts again. “Aww, look at that. Sunghoon’s all soft now. It’s cute.”

“Shut up, Jay,” Sunghoon mutters, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Alright, alright,” you say with a grin, “I’ll let you guys go. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

Sunghoon laughs. “We’ll try not to. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“You bet,” you reply. “Sleep well, Sunghoon. Both of you.”

The call ends, and you can’t help but smile to yourself. You’re glad Sunghoon’s surrounded by people who make him laugh, who help take the edge off the stress. But you also know that no matter what, you’ll always be there for him—cheering him on through every part of his journey.

The following evening, as the call connects, you immediately notice something’s different. Sunghoon’s voice sounds tired, more worn out than usual. The usual warmth isn’t as present, and he answers after a few rings, his greeting slower than before.

“Hey, babe…” he says, a slight sigh in his tone.

“Hey, Sunghoon. How’s everything? You sound a little off.” You try to keep the concern out of your voice, but it’s hard not to notice.

“I’m fine,” he responds quickly, but it’s clear he’s not. “Just… a long day, you know? Practice and all that. It’s been non-stop. I’m pretty drained.”

You can tell he’s trying to push through it, but it’s obvious that the exhaustion is catching up to him. His usual spark is dimmed, and you wish you could do more for him.

“Sunghoon, you need to take care of yourself,” you say gently. “I don’t want you running yourself into the ground.”

He laughs softly, but it’s weak. “I’ll be okay. Just… a bit of a rough day, that’s all.”

You can hear him shift in his seat, probably leaning back and trying to get comfortable, but it only worries you more.

“Are you eating enough? Please tell me you’re not starving yourself again,” you ask, your voice a little firmer now.

“I had a little to eat,” he replies, though you can hear the hesitation. “I’m just really stressed about everything… I’m supposed to be prepared for this comeback, but there’s so much to remember, and the pressure is intense.”

You frown, feeling the weight of his words. “I know it’s tough, but you can’t let the stress take over. You’ve got this, Sunghoon. You’re amazing, and everyone is rooting for you.”

“I just feel like I’m barely keeping up,” he admits. “I’m trying, but it’s hard.”

A silence falls between you two, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. But then, you hear his voice again, softer this time.

“Y/N…” His voice catches slightly, like he’s mustering the strength to say something important. “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” you say quickly, trying to ease the tension. “I’m always here.”

“You know I love you, right?” He says, though his voice is quieter than usual, almost as if he’s saying it for comfort more than anything.

The words make your heart ache, hearing him say them so softly, knowing how much he’s carrying right now. “I love you too, Sunghoon,” you reply, making sure your words are full of sincerity and warmth. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m always here for you, okay?”

He pauses for a second, as if processing your words, then adds with a sigh, “Promise you’ll keep saying that to me? I need to hear it right now.”

“I promise,” you say firmly, your voice steady and full of affection. “I’ll always tell you. I love you, Sunghoon, and you’re doing amazing. I know it’s hard right now, but you’re getting through it.”

You can hear him exhale, like he’s finally able to relax a little. “Thanks, Y/N. That means a lot.”

You smile softly, even though you know he can’t see it. “Anytime, Sunghoon. I’m always here. Get some rest, okay? Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I will,” he replies quietly, but there’s still a trace of exhaustion in his voice. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” you say. “Sleep well, Sunghoon. You deserve it.”

“I will. Goodnight, Y/N. Love you.”

“Love you too,” you whisper, the words feeling like a promise to both of you.

The next day passes, and when your phone rings, you’re excited as usual to hear from Sunghoon. But when you answer, there’s something different in his voice right away.

“Hey, babe! What’s up?” he greets, a little too cheerfully.

“Hey! You sound excited,” you say with a grin, already sensing there’s something new going on. “What’s going on? Did you finally get a good meal or something?”

He laughs, but it’s clear there’s a little more to it. “Well, actually… I got a new haircut today.”

Your heart skips a beat. You’ve seen Sunghoon change up his look from time to time, but hearing that he’s got a new hairstyle has your curiosity piqued.

“Really?” you say, feigning surprise. “I bet it looks amazing. You were already handsome enough, but now you’re just showing off, huh?”

He chuckles, but you can tell he’s excited to hear your reaction. “I’ll send you a picture. Hold on.

You hear the sound of him shifting around, and a few seconds later, a picture message pops up on your phone. You eagerly open it, only to see a shot of Sunghoon with a fresh, slightly messy hairstyle—his hair styled with a bit of volume and some subtle layers, giving him an effortlessly cool vibe.

Your eyes widen, and you immediately burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, Sunghoon! What did you do to your hair?” you tease, your voice full of playfulness. “You have like—the stereotypical idol hair cut. Are you even real?”

He laughs, clearly amused by your reaction. “What? You don’t like it?”

You’re still laughing, unable to stop yourself. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I mean… wow, you look good, but you’re definitely going to make all the fans swoon even harder now. You’re making it unfair for the rest of them.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that,” he replies, sounding a bit shy now, though the amusement in his voice is still there. “I just wanted to try something different. You think it suits me?”

You pause for a second, pretending to think about it seriously, then grin. “Hmm, well… it’s not bad. I mean, it’s not like you were ever ugly, but now… I’m going to have to fight off all the fan girls who’ll be falling even harder for you.”

“Stop it,” he says with a playful groan. “You’re going to make me embarrassed.”

“I’m just saying the truth!” You laugh, shaking your head even though he can’t see you. “You really are trying to make everyone else jealous now, huh?”

Sunghoon lets out a soft chuckle. “Well, as long as you’re not jealous, I think I’m doing alright.”

You can’t help but grin, your heart feeling lighter at the playful moment. “Don’t worry, Sunghoon. I’m your #1 fan, and I’ll always be here for you, no matter what hairstyle you go for. Just… no more drastic changes, okay? I might not recognize you next time.”

“Deal,” he says, and you can hear the relief in his voice. “I’ll keep it simple next time, I promise.”

You smile, feeling your heart swell with affection. “You look great, Sunghoon. I’m happy you’re trying new things. Just… don’t forget I like you just the way you are, no matter what your hair looks like.”

“I won’t forget,” he says softly. “I promise.”

“I love you,” you say, a soft, genuine smile on your face.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice quieter now, and there’s a warmth in it that makes your heart flutter.

The next day, you’re both on FaceTime, and you can’t help but smile when you see Sunghoon’s face light up as soon as he picks up. His hair looks great as always, and he’s looking slightly more relaxed, though still busy with everything going on.

“Y/N!” he greets, his usual smile spreading across his face. “How are you? I miss you so fucking much I think I’m going crazy”

“It’s been alright. I miss you too hoon,” you reply with a grin, but then you hesitate, glancing at yourself in the reflection. You’re not exactly feeling confident, especially after a long day, and you barely managed to throw on something comfortable. You decide to only show half of your face on camera, hiding the side you’re not happy with.

“Hey, why are you only showing half your face?” Sunghoon asks, his voice filled with playful curiosity. “Come on, let me see all of you.”

You shake your head, feeling self-conscious. “No way. I look terrible today. I’m just not in the mood to show all of me.”

Sunghoon pouts dramatically. “I don’t believe that for a second. Let me see all of you, please? You know you’re beautiful.”

You laugh, even though his words make your heart flutter. “I’m serious, Sunghoon. You don’t want to see it. Trust me.”

He gives a soft chuckle, clearly not buying it. “Y/N, you’ve got to stop hiding. Just show me, and I promise you’ll feel better. I know you look great.”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling the pressure of his persistent words, but you still resist for a moment. After a few seconds of silence, you finally roll your eyes and, with a reluctant sigh, shift the camera to show your full face.

“See? Told you,” you mutter, bracing for the inevitable teasing.

But then Sunghoon’s eyes widen, and you hear his voice soften. “Wow, absolutely stunning” His tone is sincere, and you can tell he genuinely means it.

You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “What?”

“I said you’re cute.” He grins, and there’s a playful gleam in his eyes as he leans closer to the camera. “Really cute, actually. Like, ridiculously cute. Can’t believe you’re my girlfriend.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, and despite yourself, you smile. “Stop it, Sunghoon. You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not,” he says, his voice lowering slightly, his eyes now locked on yours. “I’m serious. You’ve got no idea how gorgeous you are.”

You try to fight the blush rising to your cheeks, but it’s hard when his gaze is so intense. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’m not the one hiding my face,” he teases, but then his expression softens. “I just want to see all of you. You don’t have to hide, ever.”

You look down, feeling a little shy. “You’re way too sweet.”

Sunghoon gives a soft laugh, but then his voice drops into something more playful, more flirty. “I’m just telling the truth. But if you’re this cute even when you’re hiding… I can’t even imagine how amazing you look all put together.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “You’re really laying it on thick today, huh?”

“I’m just stating facts.” His grin grows wider. “And I’m telling you, if you keep looking this cute, I’m going to be even more smitten with you.”

Your heart flutters, and you’re suddenly at a loss for words. You never quite get used to the way he can make you feel so special with just a few words.

“Alright, alright,” you say, trying to brush off the sudden rush of warmth in your chest. “I guess I’ll take the compliment, but only because you’re my favorite.”

Sunghoon winks at you through the screen, his eyes sparkling with affection. “Good, because you’re mine too. But I think you knew that already.”

You smile, a little shy but full of affection for him. “I guess I did.”

There’s a comfortable silence between you two for a moment, both of you just enjoying the moment. The teasing fades, and for a while, it’s just the two of you, connected despite the distance.

“I really do think you’re cute, Y/N,” he says softly after a beat, and you feel the sincerity in his words even through the screen.

You smile, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks, Sunghoon. You’re not so bad yourself.”

He grins. “I know. I’m a keeper, right?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You might just be.”

When Sunghoon picks up, you can immediately tell something is off. His face is shadowed, his usual smile absent. His eyes look heavy, and there’s an exhaustion in his voice that he tries to hide, but it’s clear he’s been pushing himself too hard.

“Hi, Y/N,” he greets, his voice low and slow, as if every word is a struggle.

“Hey, Sunghoon,” you reply, concern creeping into your tone. “You don’t sound like yourself. You okay?”

He sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes. “I’m just really tired… It’s been a long day. We’ve been rehearsing non-stop, and it’s been hard to keep up. I haven’t really had much sleep the past couple of days.”

You can’t help but frown. You’ve seen him work hard before, but this is different. He’s always been energetic, full of life when talking to you. But now, he sounds like he’s barely keeping his eyes open.

“Hoonie,” you say softly, “you need to rest. Don’t push yourself too much. You know I want you to take care of yourself, right?”

“I know,” he mumbles, but the words don’t seem to have the usual fire behind them. “I’ll be fine… just need to get through this.”

A long pause settles between you two, and you try to gauge what’s going on in his mind. You can hear the faint background noise of the dorm—footsteps, someone laughing in the distance—but it only adds to the sense that he’s not fully present with you.

“Are you eating enough?” you ask, your voice firm with concern. “If you’re not eating, I swear I’ll—”

“I’m eating, Y/N,” he interrupts, but it’s sharp, the kind of snap that catches you off guard. “Stop worrying about me so much.”

You freeze, startled by the sudden change in his tone. It’s not like him to snap at you. You can tell he’s frustrated, but you can’t help but feel hurt by how quickly his patience seems to have worn thin.

You try to keep your voice calm. “I’m just worried about you, Sunghoon. I know you’re stressed, but—”

“Yeah, I know,” he cuts you off again, his tone more defensive. “I’m just… tired. Can you give me a minute, please?”

The request stings, and you try to hide the disappointment creeping in. He hasn’t snapped at you like this before, and though you know it’s just stress, you can’t help but feel a pang of hurt in your chest.

“I… I just want you to be okay,” you whisper, fighting the tightness in your throat. “I love you so, so much.”

There’s a pause on his end. You can hear him breathing heavily, and then he exhales deeply. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice softer now, regret evident in his words. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just really drained right now. It’s not you.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “It’s okay. I know you’re stressed, but you’ve got to remember you can’t do everything on your own. Don’t forget to take a step back sometimes.”

“I know… I just feel like everything’s piling up, and I don’t want to let anyone down,” he admits, his voice a little shakier now. “I’m sorry for snapping. I really didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s alright, Sunghoon,” you say softly, your heart aching for him. “I know you’re doing your best. Just… please don’t wear yourself out completely. I care about you.”

“I’ll try,” he responds, though the exhaustion in his voice still lingers. “I’ll rest soon… I just need to finish up some stuff first.”

“Promise me you’ll rest after?” you ask, your voice gentle.

He sighs again, but it’s a little more peaceful this time. “Promise.”

There’s a moment of quiet before you speak again. “I love you, Sunghoon. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“I love you too,” he says, his words more sincere now, even though you can tell he’s still a little worn out. “I’m sorry again for snapping. I didn’t mean it.”

You smile softly, knowing how hard he’s been working. “Don’t apologize. Just get some rest, alright? You’ve got this.”

He nods, though you know he’s probably too tired to keep his eyes open much longer. “Talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Definitely,” you reply, your voice warm. “Sleep well, Sunghoon.”

“Goodnight, Y/N. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Sunghoon answers the call, something feels different. His usual warmth, the energy he once had when he saw your name light up on his screen, seems dimmed. He’s quieter, his responses slower, like he’s barely present in the conversation.

“Hey, Sunghoon,” you greet, trying to keep the cheerfulness in your voice, but there’s a subtle tightness in your chest as you notice the shift.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice flat. It’s not the usual excitement or affection that you’re used to hearing. “What’s up?”

“How’s everything today? How’s the comeback prep going?” You ask, trying to break through the silence, your concern creeping in with every word.

“It’s fine,” he answers, but there’s a detachment in his tone. “Same as usual. Busy. A lot to do.”

You pause, the words hanging in the air, and you feel the distance between you grow, even though you’re both on the phone. “Sunghoon, you okay? You sound kind of… off.”

There’s a long pause on his end, like he’s debating whether to answer honestly. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired, but he doesn’t say much.

“Yeah… just a little tired,” he mutters, almost dismissively.

You can sense that he’s shutting you out, and it hurts. “I know you’re busy, but you can talk to me, you know. If you need a break or anything.”

“I’m fine, really,” he responds, a little too quickly. “I’m just dealing with some things… but I’ll be alright.”

You can feel the gap between you widening with every passing second. Normally, Sunghoon would reach for your hand, even through the phone, but now it feels like he’s pulling away. You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

“I’m here if you want to talk, Sunghoon. You don’t have to keep everything inside,” you say softly.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his tone still distant, not offering much more. “I’ll talk to you later.”

The words strike you hard, like a cold wave. You want to reach out, ask him if something’s wrong, but he’s already pulling away from you. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to push back the hurt that starts to bubble up.

Before the call ends, you quickly add, “I love you, Sunghoon.”

There’s a long pause. You hold your breath, waiting for him to say it back, but instead, there’s only silence.

“Sunghoon?” you say, a little softer this time, hoping for the reassurance you always get, but he doesn’t respond.

“I love you,” you repeat, quieter now, your heart sinking. Still, nothing.

“Talk to you later, Y/N,” he says quickly, cutting through the silence, his voice tinged with impatience, and the call ends before you can say anything else.

You stare at the screen, the absence of his usual “I love you” echoing in your mind. Your chest feels heavy, and for the first time, you wonder if the distance is becoming more than just physical.

You try calling him again later that evening, hoping for a better conversation. When he picks up, his voice is more rushed than usual, and there’s a faint background noise of chatter and shuffling.

“Hey, I can’t really talk right now,” Sunghoon says quickly, his tone tight and distracted. “I’m in the middle of something.”

You blink, surprised. “Oh, okay… I didn’t realize you were busy. Everything okay?”

He sighs, and you can hear the tension in his voice. “Yeah, just practice and other stuff. It’s a lot to juggle right now. I really can’t take a long call.”

You try to hide the disappointment, but it’s hard. “I get it, Sunghoon. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“I know, but… I just don’t have the time right now,” he says a little apologetically, but there’s still a sense of distance in his words. “I’ll talk to you when I can. Sorry, Y/N.”

There’s a brief pause before you speak again, trying not to let the hurt show. “Alright, take care of yourself, okay? Don’t push too hard.”

“I will,” he says, though his tone is distracted. “Talk to you later.”

You hesitate for a moment, but before the call can end, you quickly add, “I love you, Sunghoon.”

There’s a silence on the other end, just long enough for you to second-guess yourself. He doesn’t respond right away, and it makes your heart ache. Then, his voice comes through, quieter than before.

“Yeah… I’ll talk to you later,” he says, but his words feel rushed, and the usual warmth isn’t there.

You sit there, staring at the screen, the weight of the silence lingering in the air. The distance between you feels bigger now, and you wonder if the connection you once had is fading away.

The following day, you call Sunghoon, needing someone to talk to. A lot’s been weighing on your mind, and you just want to vent to him. It’s been a rough day for you—your boss had been incredibly difficult, and a few personal things have left you feeling down. You just want to hear his comforting voice.

When he picks up, you immediately start talking, eager to unload. “Sunghoon, you won’t believe what happened today. My boss was so unfair with me, and it just… it feels like everything’s going wrong. I tried to stay calm, but nothing I did was good enough.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end, and when he responds, his voice isn’t as warm as usual. “Oh… yeah?” His tone is flat, as though he’s distracted, and it catches you off guard. You push on, not noticing the change at first.

“Yeah, and then my friend was being distant too, which just made everything worse. Like, I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong, but it’s been a lot. I just want to get it off my chest, you know?” You’re pouring your heart out, hoping he’ll be the support you need right now.

“I mean, that sucks,” Sunghoon responds, his voice a little distracted. “But it’s not like there’s much you can do about it, right? You’ll be fine.”

His words sting more than you expect. You try not to let it show, but the impatience in his voice is unmistakable. “Yeah, I guess. But it just feels like everything’s hitting at once, and I can’t catch a break.”

You expect some sort of comforting reply, something to ease the tension in your chest, but instead, he sighs. “Yeah, well… I don’t really have time to talk about this right now. We’ve got practice, and I really need to focus.”

You freeze, your words hanging in the air. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond. The distance in his voice is more evident now than ever. You take a deep breath, trying to hide the disappointment that threatens to show. “I… I understand, Sunghoon. I just wanted to talk to you. It’s okay.”

There’s a pause before he replies, his tone still somewhat distant. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? I really have to go.”

“Alright…” you say quietly, the words barely leaving your lips. You feel like you’ve been cut off mid-sentence, but you don’t know how to push further.

The call ends abruptly, and you sit there, the weight of his impatience lingering. The feeling that something’s not quite right between the two of you grows heavier with every passing second.

Later that evening, you try calling him again, hoping for a chance to talk more calmly now that he might have a break. But as the phone rings, you can feel the knot in your stomach tighten. He doesn’t pick up.

You wait for a few more rings, then the voicemail picks up.

“Hey, it’s Sunghoon. Sorry, I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

His voice sounds distant, almost robotic—nothing like the Sunghoon you know. You stand there for a moment, staring at your phone, feeling your chest tighten. You had hoped things would feel a little more normal tonight, but now, the silence on the other end only deepens the gap between you.

You swallow the lump in your throat and try to shake off the feeling of abandonment, but it lingers.

“Hey, Sunghoon… It’s me. I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to talk. I… I miss you. I miss your voice, your presence—everything. Call me when you can, okay? I’ll be here.”

You end the message, and for a second, you just stare at your phone. The call didn’t go the way you hoped, and as you hang up, you can’t shake the feeling that something is slowly slipping away. You wonder if he’ll ever call back.

Later that evening, you try calling him again, hoping for a chance to talk more calmly now that he might have a break. But as the phone rings, you can feel the knot in your stomach tighten. He doesn’t pick up.

You wait for a few more rings, then the voicemail picks up.

“Hey, it’s Sunghoon. Sorry, I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

His voice sounds distant, almost robotic—nothing like the Sunghoon you know. You stand there for a moment, staring at your phone, feeling your chest tighten. You had hoped things would feel a little more normal tonight, but now, the silence on the other end only deepens the gap between you.

You swallow the lump in your throat and try to shake off the feeling of abandonment, but it lingers.

“Hey, Sunghoon… It’s me. I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to talk. I… I miss you. Call me when you can, okay? I’ll be here.”

You end the message, and for a second, you just stare at your phone. The call didn’t go the way you hoped, and as you hang up, you can’t shake the feeling that something is slowly slipping away. You wonder if he’ll ever call back.

Later that week, another wave of bad news hits you. Your friend, who you’ve been trying to support through some personal struggles, completely shuts you out. It’s frustrating, confusing, and you’re feeling completely drained from trying to be there for everyone else while no one seems to be there for you. You reach for your phone, desperate to talk to Sunghoon, hoping he’ll be the support you need, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

When he picks up, you immediately start venting, your emotions spilling out faster than you can control them. “Sunghoon, I don’t know what to do. My friend… she’s been shutting me out, and I don’t know why. I tried to be there for her, but now it’s like I’m just invisible. Everything feels like it’s falling apart, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

There’s a pause, and then Sunghoon’s voice comes through, colder than you expected. “Again with the drama, Y/N? I’m really not in the mood for this.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What? I’m just telling you what happened. I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”

“You’re always making it about yourself,” he snaps, his tone sharp. “Everything’s always about you. You’re the one who needs attention, who needs someone to fix everything for you. I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with that right now.”

His words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, you don’t know how to react. You thought he’d be there for you, even if it was just to listen. But now, it feels like the weight of your emotions is too much for him, too much for anyone.

“You don’t even care, do you?” you say quietly, your voice shaking with hurt. “I’m just trying to talk to you, Sunghoon. I didn’t expect you to fix it, I just needed to tell someone.”

“I can’t always be there for you like that,” he says coldly. “I have my own things going on. Maybe you should start thinking about that instead of making everything about you.”

Your heart sinks, and before you can respond, you hear him exhale sharply.

“I gotta go,” Sunghoon says abruptly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Before you can even say another word, the line goes dead.

The phone still pressed against your ear, your heart racing in your chest. The words echo in your head, and the distance between you feels like an insurmountable gap. The person you thought you could rely on, the one who promised to be there, just hung up on you, leaving you alone with nothing but the weight of his harsh words.

The next day, your phone rings, and when you see Sunghoon’s name, your heart skips a beat. You hesitate before answering, still reeling from the harsh words he had said yesterday. But when you finally swipe to answer, his voice comes through, and it’s immediately clear something is wrong.

“Y/N…” His voice cracks, and you hear the unmistakable sound of tears. “I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have said those things. I was just so… overwhelmed. Everything’s falling apart, and I… I didn’t know how to handle it.”

Your heart tightens at the sound of his pain. You weren’t expecting this at all, but the sincerity in his voice makes the anger and hurt you felt yesterday fade. You stay quiet for a moment, letting him speak, and when he continues, you can hear the exhaustion in his words.

“I’ve been so stressed with practice, with everything going on, and I just… I lost it. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You can’t help but feel the weight of his apology. You know how much he’s been dealing with, how hard everything must be for him. Despite how hurt you were, you take a deep breath, your voice gentle as you reply.

“It’s okay, Sunghoon,” you say softly, trying to comfort him. “I understand. You’re under so much pressure, and it’s a lot to handle. But that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me about it. I’m here for you, always.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end, and then you hear him sniffle. “I don’t want to push you away, but I’ve been pushing everyone away. I don’t even know how to deal with this anymore.”

You feel your heart break for him. “You don’t have to deal with it alone, Sunghoon. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You can vent to me, and I’ll listen, okay? You don’t have to keep it all inside.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I really messed up, Y/N.”

“No, you’re allowed to have your moments. You’re human, Sunghoon,” you reassure him, your words soft but full of care. “It’s okay to be stressed and overwhelmed. I get it. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through it together.”

He sighs heavily, as if the weight on his shoulders has lifted just a little. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m really sorry for how I acted.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Just take care of yourself, okay? And if you need to talk, I’m always here.”

“Thank you,” he says, his voice more stable now, though you can still hear the lingering tension. “I’m really lucky to have you, Y/N.”

“I’m lucky to have you too,” you reply, your voice full of warmth and affection. “Just remember, we’re in this together. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

You can hear him take a shaky breath, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a sense of peace between the two of you. Even through the stress and distance, you know this moment—this understanding—will bring you closer.

A few days pass, and you try to stay positive, especially after the heartfelt conversation you had with Sunghoon. You thought things were going to improve, that the distance between you two was finally closing. But when you call him again, you feel that familiar weight of uncertainty creeping back.

When he picks up, the usual warmth you’ve come to expect isn’t there. His voice is distant, almost emotionless. “Hi,”

“Hey, Sunghoon,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “How are you today?”

There’s a long pause before he answers, and when he does, his response is flat. “I’m fine.”

You furrow your brows, sensing something off. “You sure? You don’t sound like it. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says quickly, but there’s no conviction in his voice. It feels like he’s just saying the words to get through the conversation. “Just busy, you know? Lots of stuff going on.”

You try to push through, wanting to hear more, wanting him to open up to you like he did before. “I get it. You’ve been working a lot. But you know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know,” he says, but there’s no real emotion behind it. “I’ll talk to you later. I don’t have much time now.”

You feel the sting of his detachment, and your chest tightens. “Sunghoon… I’ve been really worried about you. You’ve been distant lately, and I don’t know what’s going on. Is it me?”

There’s another pause, longer this time, and you hold your breath, hoping for something—anything—that’ll show you he still cares. But when he responds, his words come out cold and brief.

“No, it’s not you. I just don’t have time for this right now. I’m too tired.”

Your heart drops. His words cut through you, and the sudden shift from the Sunghoon you know to this distant version of him leaves you speechless. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, but it feels like your chest is caving in. “Okay… if you need space, I understand,” you say quietly, trying to hold it together.

“Yeah,” he says, his tone distant, like he’s already mentally checked out of the conversation. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Before you can say anything more, he hangs up.

You gaze at your screen, the words he didn’t say hanging in the air. He didn’t even say “I love you” this time. The silence feels louder than ever, and a sinking feeling fills your stomach.

You call Sunghoon, you’ve got something lighthearted to share, hoping it might bring some energy back into your conversations. You’ve just bought a new set of makeup, something you’ve been wanting to try for a while, and thought it’d be fun to try it on while on the phone with him. Maybe he could offer his opinions—or, at the very least, cheer you on.

When he picks up, his voice is quieter than usual, and you can immediately feel that familiar distance hanging in the air. “Hey,” he says, his tone flat, barely any emotion behind it.

“Hoonie!” You try to sound upbeat, forcing a smile even though you’re not feeling it. “ I bought some new makeup today! I was thinking of trying it on while we talk. Maybe you can tell me if it looks good?”

There’s a slight pause on the other end. You can hear him sigh softly before he replies. “Uh, okay…”

You go on, excited despite the unease in his voice. “I got this cute blush and a new lippie, and I thought I’d do a quick little look. You can rate it or whatever. It’ll be fun, right?”

You pull out the makeup, feeling a bit nervous but also wanting to share something fun with him, hoping it might make him a bit more engaged. As you start applying the blush, you glance at the screen to see if Sunghoon’s paying attention. But when you look up, he’s staring off to the side, looking distracted, his hand running through his hair absentmindedly.

“Sunghoon?” you say, trying to pull him back in. “What do you think so far? Do you think it looks cute?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Another pause. You can feel your heart sink just a little, but you could see a slight smile on his face.

“I… don’t know,” he mutters, sounding distant. “I can’t really tell from here. Maybe it looks fine.”

You try again, brushing a bit of eyeshadow on, hoping he’ll at least show a little excitement. “Come on, Sunghoon, you can at least say something. You know I love when you notice the little things.”

But instead of the encouraging words you were hoping for, you hear him sigh again, his voice a little frustrated. “I’m just… kind of tired, okay? I don’t really feel like giving opinions on makeup right now.”

Your smile falters, and you can feel the excitement you had draining away. “Oh, okay… I just thought it’d be fun to share with you.”

“I know,” he says, but his tone is distant, detached. “I’m just not in the mood for it. I have a lot going on.”

There’s a slight edge to his voice, and it stings more than you expected. You’re left holding the makeup brush in your hand, feeling like you’re talking to a wall.

“Alright, I get it,” you say softly, trying not to let the disappointment show. “I just wanted to do something fun… but I understand.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches between you both. It’s like the distance you’ve been feeling in his voice is now physically present, filling the space where your excitement used to be.

“Sorry,” he mutters finally, though it feels like an afterthought. “I’m just really tired. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and whisper, “Yeah, okay. Take care of yourself, Sunghoon.”

Before he can say anything else, the call ends. You stare at the phone screen, makeup half-applied, the weight of his lack of interest heavy in the air. The silence that follows feels like a painful reminder of how far apart you’ve grown.

The next time you call Sunghoon, you try once again to bring back the warmth that’s been slipping away. You went shopping earlier and picked up a few new outfits—pieces you were excited about, ones you thought he might like. Maybe, just maybe, this could be a moment to reconnect, even if just for a little while.

When he picks up, his voice is the same as it’s been lately—tired, distant. “Hey.”

You push past the hesitation in your chest and smile at the camera. “Hey! Guess what? I went shopping today and got some cute clothes. Wanna see?”

There’s a slight pause before he responds. “Sure.” It’s not enthusiastic, but at least it’s not dismissive.

You grab the first outfit—a soft pink top and a white skirt—and step back so he can see. “What do you think? Cute, right?” You twirl a little, hoping for some kind of reaction from him.

Sunghoon watches through the screen, his gaze lingering for a moment before he nods. “Yeah… it looks nice. It suits you.”

You feel a flicker of warmth at his words, even though his tone is subdued. Encouraged, you switch into another look—baggy jeans and a black zip-up sweater. “And this? I thought it was a cute, casual look.”

Again, he takes a second before responding. His eyes scan over you, and for a brief moment, the old Sunghoon peeks through—his lips twitch, as if he wants to smile, and there’s a softness in his gaze that you haven’t seen in a while. “It’s cute. You always look good in stuff like that.”

You light up at his words, but just as quickly as that warmth appears, it fades. Sunghoon shifts slightly, rubbing the back of his neck, and the distance in his expression returns. “Sorry, I’m just kind of out of it today,” he mutters.

Your heart sinks a little, but you don’t let it show. “It’s okay,” you say gently. “I know you’re busy. I just wanted to share something fun with you.”

He nods, but he doesn’t say much after that. The conversation feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, no matter how much you try to hold onto it.

Still, at least for a moment, he looked at you the way he used to. And even if he’s distant, you can tell—deep down, he still thinks you’re pretty. He still thinks you’re cute. But is that enough to hold onto?

When you call him again, you’re craving even the smallest bit of warmth—some kind of reassurance that things between you aren’t slipping away completely. So, you try something different, something playful, hoping to pull a smile from him the way you used to.

“I miss you,” you say softly, shifting against your pillow. “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

There’s a pause on his end, and for a second, you think maybe you’ve caught him off guard in a good way. But when he finally speaks, his voice is flat. “Yeah.”

Hoping to lighten the mood, you call him again, determined to make him smile—really smile, like he used to. When he picks up, his face looks just as exhausted as before, his expression blank. But at least he answered. That’s something, right?

“You look tired,” you say softly, trying not to sound too worried. “Rough day?”

“Mhm,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Practice was brutal.”

You nod, thinking for a moment before reaching for the bag of chips sitting beside you. “Alright, since you’re too tired to talk, I’ll entertain you instead.”

He raises a brow, barely interested. “What?”

You grin, bringing a chip close to your phone’s mic. “ASMR,” you announce dramatically before biting into it with an exaggerated crunch.

Sunghoon blinks, clearly caught off guard. Then, to your relief, the corners of his lips twitch just the slightest bit.

“You’re so weird,” he mumbles, but there’s a tiny glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

Encouraged, you take another loud bite, chewing obnoxiously slow. “This one’s for you, Park Sunghoon. May it bring you strength in these trying times.”

This time, a small, fleeting smile appears on his face. It’s not much, but it’s something.

“Also ridiculous,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly. But the exhaustion in his voice remains, and just as quickly as that tiny smile appeared, it’s gone.

You keep munching, hoping to keep the moment alive, but Sunghoon just leans back against what looks like his dorm bed, staring at the ceiling.

And in that silence, you realize something.

You can still make him smile. But it doesn’t reach him the way it used to.

Determined to lift his mood, you keep going, crunching dramatically into another chip. “This one,” you say between bites, “is the ultimate, most perfect crunch. Listen closely.”

You take the slowest, loudest bite yet, exaggerating every sound.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such a dork.”

You gasp. “Excuse me? This is high-quality ASMR content. People pay for this, you know.”

He lets out a soft chuckle—small, but real. “Yeah, yeah. You’re still ridiculous.”

You smile, relieved to finally hear something other than exhaustion in his voice. “But you love it.”

He pauses for a moment, then mutters, “Yeah… You’re cute.”

Your heart skips. It’s been a while since he’s said something like that, and even though his voice is still quiet, still tired, the warmth in his words makes your chest ache.

“Damn right I am,” you tease, trying to keep the moment light. “The cutest, actually.”

Sunghoon hums in agreement, but just as quickly as the warmth appeared, it fades again. He shifts, rubbing his face tiredly. “I should probably go soon.”

Your smile falters, but you nod. “Yeah… okay.”

He looks at you for a moment, as if he wants to say something else. But in the end, he just sighs.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

And just like that, the call ends.

He called you cute. He smiled. But something still feels off. Like no matter what you do, he’s slipping further and further away.

You don’t want to overthink it. You tell yourself he’s just tired, just busy, and that things will feel normal again soon. So when you call him the next day, you try to act like nothing’s wrong.

When he picks up, he looks even more exhausted than before. His hair is damp, probably from a shower, and he’s lying in bed, his face barely illuminated by the dim glow of his phone screen.

“Hey,” you greet, keeping your voice soft. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” he mutters.

You hesitate before trying to lighten the mood. “Well, lucky for you, I’m here to entertain you. No ASMR today, but I can sing you a bedtime story.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face, but it doesn’t last. “That’s okay,” he says, his voice distant. “I don’t really feel like talking much.”

Your stomach twists. “Oh… that’s okay,” you reply, forcing yourself to sound understanding. “Do you just want me to stay on call with you, then? We don’t have to talk.”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “I think I just wanna sleep.”

You hesitate, gripping your phone a little tighter. “Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll let you rest. But… Sunghoon?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

Silence.

Too long of a silence.

Then finally, in a voice so quiet you almost don’t hear it, he mumbles, “Night, Y/N.”

And just like that, the screen goes dark.

He didn’t say it back. Again.

And this time, you’re not sure if he ever will.

That’s it. Just “yeah.” No teasing remark, no soft chuckle, no quiet “I miss you too.”

You swallow, ignoring the sting. “Nothing to say about that? You used to get all shy whenever I said stuff like this.”

He sighs. “I don’t know, Y/N. I’m just really tired.”

You try not to let the disappointment show in your voice. “I get that… I just—I feel like we barely talk anymore. I just want to feel close to you.”

Another pause. This one drags on a little too long.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he finally says, and this time, there’s no frustration, no sadness—just distance. Like he’s already somewhere else.

Your heart tightens. “Do you not want to talk to me?”

“It’s not that,” he mutters. “I just don’t have the energy right now.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. Even though you don’t really believe him.

“…Okay,” you whisper. “I love you.”

He doesn’t say it back.

And for the first time, you don’t even have the energy to ask why.

Sunghoon stares at your name flashing on his screen, the vibration of your call buzzing in his hand. His break has just started, and he’s sitting with the other members, chatting and laughing, trying to unwind for a few minutes before going back into practice. He wants to answer, he really does, but he knows he doesn’t have the energy right now. His mind is too tired, his thoughts too scattered.

He glances over at his friends, who are talking about something ridiculous, and decides to let the call go to voicemail. “It’s no one,” he mutters to himself, feeling a flicker of guilt in his chest as he hangs up. But the guilt is drowned out by the noise of the room, the ease of conversation, and the constant pressure of what comes next.

Back to you, the call still ringing, still waiting on the other side.

You sit there, phone in hand, staring at the screen for a moment longer than you should. The sound of it ringing empties the room, the space between you growing wider with every unanswered call. You sigh, closing your eyes for a second. The familiar ache in your chest is back, heavier than before, as you reluctantly end the call.

This distance, this silence—it’s growing harder to ignore. And yet, you keep dialing, hoping, praying that maybe this time, just once, he’ll pick up.

You try to push the unease down, telling yourself it’s just a busy moment. He’s probably overwhelmed with practice, maybe distracted, but deep down, something tells you that it’s not just that anymore.

You leave a voicemail, your voice soft and hesitant. “Hey, Sunghoon… it’s me. I called because I wanted to hear your voice. I miss you. I know you’re busy, but… just wanted to check in. Hope everything’s okay.”

After hanging up, you sit there, waiting for the tiny moment of hope that he might call back. But the minutes stretch on, and your phone remains silent. You stare at it for a while, the weight of your unanswered call pressing against your chest.

The uncertainty begins to gnaw at you again. He hasn’t been the same lately, and you’ve been ignoring the signs, hoping things would go back to normal. But with every passing day, it feels like a door is closing, slowly but steadily.

You toss your phone aside, but the ache doesn’t go away. It lingers, an unspoken question hanging between you both. What happened?

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. You try to keep yourself busy, but the empty space he’s left behind in your heart feels louder with every minute that passes. You can’t help but think back to when he would call you every night, excited to hear your voice, to tell you about his day. Now, it feels like you’re clinging to something that’s slowly slipping away, and you don’t know how to hold on.

By the time you try again, it’s late. The day’s gone, and you’re sitting in bed, scrolling mindlessly through your messages and photos. You know you should probably let him have his space, but you can’t help it. You miss him. You miss the old him—the one who would answer your calls with a grin and talk to you like you were the most important part of his day.

This time, when you call, you stare at the screen, almost bracing for the rejection, the unanswered ring. But something inside you doesn’t want to give up. Not yet.

It rings.

And then it stops.

He picked up.

“Hello,” his voice sounds tired, hoarse, but you’re relieved to hear it at all. It’s been too long since the last time. You can barely contain your relief.

“Hi, Sunghoon,” you say, trying to sound casual, but you know your voice gives away the knot in your chest. “I’m glad you picked up. I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you today.”

There’s a long pause, and for a second, you wonder if he’ll hang up again. You can almost hear the gears in his head turning. “Sorry,” he finally murmurs, his voice low. “I’ve just been… busy.”

You nod even though you know he can’t see it. “I get it. But you’ve been busy a lot lately. I just… I miss talking to you. Like we used to.”

“I know,” he says quietly, his tone distant, yet tinged with something almost apologetic. “I’ve just had a lot on my plate. But you’re right. I’m sorry for being… distant.”

His words hang in the air, but they don’t feel like the apology you need. They’re words, yes, but there’s no warmth, no reassurance in them. You fight to keep your voice steady.

“I don’t need an apology,” you say, your heart beating faster. “I just want you. I just want us to be… us again.” You bite your lip, trying to hold back the rush of emotions threatening to spill. “I want to be there for you, Sunghoon. I want to be that person who makes you feel better when everything’s hard, but… I don’t know how to do that when you’re shutting me out.”

Another long pause. Then he exhales heavily, like he’s trying to find the right words. “It’s not you, Y/N. It’s just… everything. It’s harder than I thought. Being here… and everything that comes with it.”

Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to take a deep breath, pushing down the feeling of being left behind. “I know it’s hard. I get it, Sunghoon. I do. But you don’t have to go through it alone. You’re not alone in this.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and that silence feels more deafening than any of the words exchanged.

“I need to go,” he says quietly, his voice almost breaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”

Before you can respond, the line goes silent again.

You stare at your phone for what feels like an eternity, the weight of it sinking deep into your bones. Another call that ends before it even really starts. Another goodbye that isn’t really said.

You want to scream, to throw your phone across the room, but you don’t. Instead, you clutch it tightly to your chest, willing yourself not to break. You thought it would get better, but now you’re not so sure anymore.

You only wish he’d realize you’re still here. Still waiting. Still holding on, even though it’s getting harder every day.

You try to push the weight of his absence aside, but it lingers, pulling at you with every word he says, or doesn’t say. The silence feels deafening when the call drops again, and you sigh softly, trying to keep things light. You hate that you’re always the one to reach out, always the one to try and make him smile. But it’s a fight you’re not ready to lose yet.

“Hey, can you turn on your camera?” you ask, your voice soft, but full of longing. “I miss seeing your face, Sunghoon. Just… turn it on for a bit?”

You hear him shift on the other end, and there’s a pause that stretches far too long. “No,” he answers quickly, his voice flat.

The response stings, and your chest tightens at the coldness in his voice. “Why?” you ask quietly, trying to push past the hurt. “I just want to see you. Just for a second.”

He sighs heavily, sounding exhausted. “I don’t feel like it, okay? Just… not today.”

You bite your lip, forcing the disappointment down. You try to laugh it off, but it comes out empty, more of a nervous chuckle than anything else. “Alright, fine. But you know I miss seeing your face. It’s not the same without it.”

There’s no response at first, and you wonder if he even heard you. You wait for a few moments, and just when you think he’s going to end the call without saying anything else, he mutters, “I’m sorry… I’m just… tired.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it, and keep your voice gentle. “I know you are. But… just remember, you can always turn on your camera for me. It doesn’t have to be perfect, I just want to see you, okay?”

He doesn’t say anything back. Instead, the line goes quiet again, and the conversation falls into that familiar emptiness—silent, distant. A space between the words, between the feelings, between the two of you.

The days blur together, and each time you call, you feel like you’re reaching out to someone who’s becoming harder and harder to hold onto. Sunghoon’s responses have grown shorter, and each time he picks up, it’s like you’re talking to a version of him that’s further and further away. You tell yourself he’s just busy, overwhelmed, that things will get better—but the silence between you is growing deafening.

You try again, the hope still there, the quiet voice in your mind that whispers that maybe today will be different.

The phone rings, and for a moment, you hold your breath, hoping for a familiar voice. When it finally picks up, it’s not the warm, enthusiastic “Hey!” you’re used to. It’s flat. Distant.

“Hey,” Sunghoon says, his tone lacking the usual excitement.

“Hi, Sunghoon,” you try to sound upbeat, but the strain in your voice betrays you. “I miss you. I feel like I haven’t heard from you properly in so long.”

He sighs heavily, and for a second, you think he might say something comforting, might try to reassure you. Instead, there’s nothing. Just that quiet, suffocating silence.

“I’ve been busy,” he mutters, barely audible over the static.

“I know you’re busy,” you reply, forcing the patience into your voice. “But I don’t want to feel like I’m chasing you all the time, Sunghoon. It’s like… like I don’t even matter to you anymore. ”

You can feel his shift, hear him pull back even further. “I didn’t say you didn’t matter,” he says, his voice cold now, like he’s irritated with you for feeling this way. “I’m just dealing with a lot right now, okay?”

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion or the frustration building up inside you, but something snaps. “Don’t you think I know that? I’m not saying it’s easy for you, but I miss you. I miss hearing from you. You promised me you’d call. You promised we’d talk every day, Sunghoon!”

He doesn’t answer at first, and you can feel your anger building, that familiar ache in your chest turning to something sharper. “I’ve been trying, Y/N,” he finally says, his voice barely controlled. “You think I don’t want to talk to you? I’m just tired, okay? I have a million things to do, and I don’t need you making this harder.”

You clench your fists, biting back the frustration that’s threatening to boil over. “Making it harder? I’m just trying to be here for you. But you—you’re acting like I’m some inconvenience. Like you don’t even want to talk to me anymore. You’re shutting me out, Sunghoon!”

“I’m not shutting you out,” he snaps, his voice rising. “I just can’t deal with this right now, okay? I can’t deal with you needing so much from me when I’m barely hanging on myself.”

You feel your breath catch in your throat, the sting of his words sharper than you expected. “So now it’s my fault?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m the one who’s ‘too much’ for you now? That’s what this is?”

Sunghoon’s silence feels colder now, like he’s turned away from you completely. “I didn’t say that.”

“Well, it sure feels like it,” you snap, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “You don’t have time for me anymore. You’re always too tired, too busy, too everything. And I’m just supposed to sit here and pretend like everything’s fine?”

He exhales sharply, sounding exhausted, but his tone is still distant. “I can’t always be there for you, Y/N. I’m not perfect. I’m just trying to get through this.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not asking for perfection,” you say, your voice thick with frustration. “I’m asking for you to be here. For me. For us. But all you’re doing is pushing me away.”

The silence that follows feels like a wall between you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to make it better, and the weight of that realization hits you harder than anything else. You can feel the distance between you two, like an ocean that you can’t cross no matter how hard you try.

Finally, Sunghoon speaks again, but his words sting. “Maybe you should just move on, Y/N. You don’t need to deal with this. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You stare at your phone, unable to respond, your throat tightening as the tears you’ve been holding back start to rise. “Is that what you really want?” you whisper, but he’s already gone, the line going dead before you can hear his response.

You sit there, phone in hand, feeling like you’ve just lost the person you loved, even though he’s still on the other side of the world. You wanted to fix things, to make it right again, but right now, you’re not even sure what’s left to save.

And just like that, the call ends.

The days drag on, each one blurring into the next. You tell yourself to be patient, that things will get better with time, but each call you make—each unanswered ring—chips away at the hope you’re clinging to.

You start calling every day, at the same time, like a routine, but every time you hear the familiar beep of the voicemail, it feels like a dagger to your chest. The voicemail greeting, his voice a distant memory, echoes in your ears like a cruel reminder of how far away he’s become.

“Hey, it’s Sunghoon. I’m not available right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” the robotic message says. And every time, you leave a message, pouring your heart into each word, hoping, just hoping that he’ll hear it, that he’ll pick up, that things will go back to the way they used to be.

“Hey, Sunghoon,” you say in the first voicemail, trying to keep your voice steady. “I miss you. I’ve been trying to reach you, but… it feels like you’re not even trying anymore. I just want to talk. Please pick up the phone. I don’t want to feel like I’m the only one fighting for us.”

The next day, you try again, hoping he’s had time to think about it. Maybe today will be different, maybe he’ll answer this time. But again, the same voicemail greeting. Your heart sinks a little lower.

“Hey, it’s me again,” you say, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m still here. I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Sunghoon. I miss you. I need you to pick up. Please… please let me in again.”

Every message feels like a plea, like a desperate attempt to reach him through the wall he’s built. But it’s always the same. Voicemail after voicemail. Nothing.

You can’t remember the last time he picked up, and the emptiness of each unanswered call is starting to suffocate you. But still, you keep calling. Because you can’t bring yourself to stop. You tell yourself it’s just a phase, that it’s only temporary, that maybe he’s just busy, overwhelmed. But the silence is too loud now, and the uncertainty gnaws at you.

And still, you keep calling.

Sunghoon scrolls through his phone, his thumb hovering over the missed calls from you. Each notification is a reminder of the silence between you two, and he feels a pang in his chest each time he sees your name on the screen. Days pass, and he tells himself that he’ll call back soon, that he’ll make things right, but the weight of everything—his schedule, the practice, his exhaustion—keeps him from picking up the phone.

It’s been a while since he last heard your voice. He used to look forward to your calls every day, the way you’d brighten his mood with just a few words. But now, it feels like something is different. He’s caught up in the whirlwind of his own world, and he tells himself that it’s all temporary. You’ll understand, he thinks. You’ll be patient.

But then, one day, there are no more calls. No more texts. The notifications stop coming, and it hits him harder than he expects. The silence feels strange, unsettling even. You always used to reach out—every day without fail. And now, there’s nothing. No missed call. No “hey, I miss you.”

Sunghoon stares at his phone, unsure of what to feel. There’s a part of him that wants to reach out, to apologize, to ask you what’s going on, but he doesn’t know where to start. He wonders if you’ve finally given up on him, on the relationship, on the person he’s become. The thought lingers in his mind, but he’s frozen, unable to make the first move.

He could call, but every time he picks up his phone, he hesitates. What would I even say? He can’t find the right words. And the longer he waits, the harder it becomes to reach out.

The silence is deafening. And as the days go by, he starts to realize that he might’ve let you slip away. He wonders if it’s too late, if you’ve already moved on, if he’ll ever be able to fix this. The thought eats at him, but the fear of confronting it head-on paralyzes him.

He’s lost track of time. He doesn’t know how many days it’s been since the last time you tried to call, but it’s long enough for him to feel the distance between you, the absence where there used to be a connection.

Maybe he’s the one who’s been pushing you away all along. And maybe, just maybe, it’s too late to fix it.

You’ve been staring at your phone for what feels like forever, waiting, hoping for something—anything—from Sunghoon. The days without his calls have been suffocating. The silence between you two is louder than anything else, and it’s starting to settle in your chest like a heavy weight.

You’ve almost convinced yourself that it’s over, that he’s moved on, that maybe he doesn’t care anymore. You’ve stopped calling. You don’t even know if he noticed the absence, but you couldn’t keep doing it. You couldn’t keep chasing after someone who didn’t seem to want you anymore.

But then, your phone lights up.

It’s him.

For a second, your heart stops. You stare at his name flashing across the screen, a mixture of hope and hesitation flooding through you. Part of you wants to pick up and hear his voice, to hear the explanation you’ve been waiting for. But another part of you feels scared—scared of what he might say, scared of what you might hear.

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before you finally press accept, the sound of your breath catching in your throat as you bring the phone to your ear.

“Hey,” Sunghoon says, his voice sounding tired, but it’s still familiar, still comforting in a way. But there’s something off about it. His tone is different. “I… I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can feel your heart beating louder than before, the anticipation and the hurt mixing in your chest. “I didn’t think you would call,” you manage to say, your voice quieter than you intended.

��I know,” he replies, sounding almost apologetic. “I’m sorry for not reaching out sooner. I don’t know how to explain it.”

You can feel the lump in your throat as you try to hold back the words you’ve been dying to say. “Why didn’t you?” You let out a shaky breath. “I kept calling, Sunghoon. I kept trying to reach you, and… you just kept ignoring me.”

There’s a long silence, and when he finally speaks, it’s almost like he’s struggling with his words. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, his voice softer now, as if he’s finally realizing the weight of what’s happened. “I’ve just been… caught up. Everything’s been so much. And I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“Drag me into it?” The frustration creeps back into your voice, but you try to keep it in check. “I was already in it, Sunghoon. I’ve been here, waiting for you to just… talk to me. You promised we’d always talk, but you stopped trying. And I just… I just feel so alone right now.”

He’s quiet again, and you wonder if he’s even listening. But then, you hear him take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve tried harder,” he admits, the guilt in his voice unmistakable. “I didn’t mean for things to get this way. I’ve just been so stressed, and I didn’t know how to juggle everything.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. The sadness in his voice is so raw, so real, and despite everything, you can feel a small part of you softening, wanting to forgive him.

“I don’t want to be angry anymore,” you say quietly, trying to steady your emotions. “I just need you to be here, Sunghoon. To actually be here with me. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I can’t keep doing this alone.”

Sunghoon’s voice cracks, and for a second, it sounds like he’s struggling to hold back tears. “I know. I know, and I’m so sorry. I’ll do better. I’ll make it right. I promise.”

Your chest tightens, but you let out a soft breath. “I hope you do, Sunghoon. I really do.”

You stay silent for a while, listening to each other’s breathing. The call feels like a fragile moment, like something that could either fix everything or break it all apart. But for now, at least, you’re talking. At least, for now, you have him back.

As the days go by, things start to shift, slowly but surely. The calls with Sunghoon become more frequent, and you can feel the connection growing between you two again, even if it’s over the phone. There’s a certain ease when you talk now, a comfort that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s because he’s finally starting to open up, or maybe it’s because the silence you both felt for so long has finally started to lift.

One evening, you’re on FaceTime with him, and as soon as he picks up, you can’t help but laugh a little. “Hey, what’s up?” you ask, your voice playful.

Sunghoon grins, holding up a piece of fried chicken to the camera. “I’m having dinner,” he says, already knowing what you’re thinking.

“Fried chicken again?” you tease him, raising an eyebrow. “Well at least you’re not starving yourself baby.”

He shrugs, looking innocent. “I just really like it. Besides, it’s K-fried chicken! You have to appreciate that.” He then leans closer to the camera, his grin widening. “You want some ASMR?”

You laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Of course! You’ve never heard K-fried chicken ASMR before?” he says, before biting into the crispy chicken. The sound of crunching fills the screen, and you can’t help but giggle. It’s so silly, but it’s so… him.

As if on cue, you hear a voice in the background. “What are you two doing?” Jake’s face suddenly pops up in the corner of the screen, interrupting the moment. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, amused.

“Hey, Jake,” Sunghoon says, a bit sheepish, but his smile is still there. “Just having some fried chicken with my girlfriend.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, a smirk creeping across his face. “Ah, I see. You two really are cheesy as fuck, huh?”

You laugh, trying to hide the pink creeping up on your cheeks. “Nuh, uh. Just trying to make the most of it.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes playfully at Jake before turning his attention back to you. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous of my fried chicken skills.”

Jake laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure that’s it,” he teases before making an exaggerated gagging sound. “Just promise me you’re not going to do this every time, Sunghoon. I’m pretty sure we all don’t want to hear your ASMR.”

Sunghoon chuckles. “We’ll see. Maybe next time I’ll do some kimchi ASMR.”

Jake just laughs and shakes his head before walking off, leaving you and Sunghoon alone again.

You smile at Sunghoon. “You know, you’re so cheesy.”

He smiles back, his eyes softening. “Only for you.”

The playfulness between you two feels different now, more natural, like you’re both letting your guards down a little bit. Every day, it feels like the distance is slowly fading away, and you find yourself looking forward to these moments—just the two of you, talking about the most random things, but feeling more connected than ever.

“Next time, I’ll do a real ASMR for you,” Sunghoon says with a wink, the teasing edge to his voice, but there’s an undeniable warmth in his smile.

And for the first time in a while, it feels like everything might just be okay.

The next time you FaceTime Sunghoon, there’s a familiar, but still comforting energy in the air. The tension that had been present before seems to have eased a bit, but it’s still clear that things aren’t completely back to normal yet. Despite the lingering distance, Sunghoon greets you with a soft smile.

“Hey, remember that makeup you showed me last time?” he asks, his voice light. “I want to see it again and give you my real review.”

You laugh softly, raising an eyebrow. “Your real review? Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

He grins, a playful glint in his eyes. “I promise, I’m not going to hold back this time.”

You shake your head, amused, as you grab the blush and lip tint you showed him earlier. You hold them up to the camera, showing him both products. “Here it is. The blush and the lip tint.”

Sunghoon leans in, his face so close to the screen that you can see the concentration in his eyes as he inspects them. His gaze flickers back to you, and a teasing smile spreads across his face. “Hmm, I can’t even focus on the makeup,” he says with a chuckle. “You’re just so cute.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I’m trying to show you makeup here, Sunghoon. Focus!”

But he just continues to stare at you, his eyes soft and filled with admiration. “I’m focused. You know, that blush is nice, but I think the real highlight is you. I swear, you’re too pretty for your own good.” His tone is flirty, and it makes you feel a little warmer inside.

You laugh, feeling your cheeks warm up, but you play along. “Really? You’re just saying that.”

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon says, his voice lowering a bit as he leans in closer to the camera. “I can’t even think straight when you’re this cute.” He pauses for a moment, looking at you like he’s memorizing every little detail of your face. “You look even better on camera than you do in person. I can’t decide if it’s the makeup or just you.”

His words make your heart skip a beat, but you try to keep your cool. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, laughing.

“No, really,” he insists, his voice teasing but with an undeniable sincerity. “You’re just… amazing. Everything about you is perfect.”

You’re about to respond, but before you can, he interrupts with a grin. “Okay, okay, now that I’ve given you my real review—” he pauses, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “—you’re absolutely killing it with that makeup. But I’m still more into how you look without it.”

You bite your lip, feeling a little bashful. “Sunghoon…”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, winking at you through the screen. “You’ve got that natural beauty. I don’t know how you do it. But I love it.”

You smile at him, feeling a rush of affection. “Well, I love you too, you know.”

Sunghoon’s eyes soften, and he suddenly looks a little more serious than usual. “I love you more,” he says quietly, a tender smile on his lips.

The playful banter gives way to something deeper, a warmth between you two that’s undeniable. Even though the calls have had their ups and downs, moments like these remind you that it’s all worth it.

The week of Sunghoon’s comeback has finally arrived, and with every update he posts on social media, you can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and longing. Watching him rehearse, getting closer to the big day, it’s all so thrilling, but at the same time, it makes the distance between you two feel even more intense. You wish you could be there with him, supporting him in person.

The idea hits you out of nowhere one night as you’re scrolling through his posts. You’ve been waiting for the right moment to see him, and this feels like the perfect time. His comeback is such a monumental event in his career, and you want to be there to cheer him on—not through a screen, but in person.

You’re standing outside the building, the anticipation making your heart race. You can’t stop smiling, even though you’re nervous. The plan is simple: sneak in, find Sunghoon, and surprise him. You just hope he’ll be as excited as you are when he sees you. But there’s a small part of you that wonders if it’s too much—if it’s too soon, too unexpected. Still, you push that doubt away. You came all this way for him, and this surprise is going to be worth it.

Before you can get too lost in your thoughts, you see a familiar face approaching: Ni-ki. He smiles at you as he walks over, his usual cool demeanor making him look like he’s ready to break into a dance at any second.

“Y/N,” Ni-ki greets you, his voice light and playful. “You really came. Sunghoon’s going to be shocked.”

You nod, a little too excited. “I know. I can’t wait to see his face when he realizes I’m here.”

Ni-ki gives you a mischievous grin. “He’s in his room right now, so we’ll just go in and surprise him.” He leads you through the hallways, and every step feels like a drumbeat in your chest.

As you reach Sunghoon’s door, Ni-ki pauses, a teasing look in his eyes. “Ready for this?” he asks, his voice soft so you don’t alert Sunghoon yet.

You nod, your heart racing. “Let’s do it.”

Ni-ki pushes the door open just a bit, giving you a glimpse of Sunghoon sitting on his bed, his head down, focused on his phone. He doesn’t even look up when the door creaks open.

With a quick glance at Ni-ki, you step inside, your heart pounding as you make your move toward Sunghoon. You take a deep breath before calling out his name. “Sunghoon!”

His head jerks up, his eyes widening in surprise. “Y/N?” His voice is soft, almost as if he’s still trying to process the sight of you standing in front of him. For a split second, it feels like everything is perfect. But then you notice something—there’s no excitement in his eyes, no rush of joy, like you expected. Instead, he just stares at you with a blank expression.

You smile nervously, feeling the unease growing inside you. “I wanted to surprise you. I’m here for your comeback, Sunghoon.”

He looks at you for a moment longer, and then, his gaze shifts. His lips press into a thin line as if he’s holding something back. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even seem remotely excited, despite the obvious shock of you being there. His posture is stiff, distant.

“Yeah… thanks for coming, I guess,” Sunghoon mutters, his tone flat.

The words sting, and you suddenly feel smaller than you should. You’ve traveled all this way, wanting to be there for him, to show him how much you care—but this coldness, this distance in his voice, catches you off guard.

Ni-ki steps back, sensing the tension in the air, and quietly mutters something about leaving you two alone before disappearing down the hallway, giving you space. You’re left standing there, feeling like an outsider in your own surprise. The silence between you and Sunghoon is palpable, making your heart sink even deeper.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words feel trapped in your throat. “Sunghoon, is everything okay?” You try to sound calm, but there’s a shakiness to your voice that you can’t hide.

He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture almost too familiar, and sighs. “I’m fine. It’s just… it’s been a long day. I’m tired.”

The excuse feels weak, like he’s brushing you off. You can’t ignore the way his words seem to distance him even more. The Sunghoon you talked to on the phone—the one who always smiled and laughed, the one who joked around and called you cute—feels like a distant memory now.

You take a step closer, your heart sinking further. “You don’t seem fine, Sunghoon. I came all this way to see you… to surprise you. Don’t I at least deserve a little more than this?”

His gaze shifts, avoiding yours, and he mumbles, “I said I’m fine. I just need some space right now.”

You feel the distance between you two growing, wider and wider with every word that leaves his lips. It feels like you’re talking to a completely different person—the Sunghoon you used to know, the one you’d talk to every day, isn’t here. Instead, there’s a coldness you don’t recognize.

For a moment, you stand there, unsure of what to do. The excitement you had when you first arrived has drained from your body, replaced by a sense of confusion and hurt. Why does he seem so distant now? What happened to the Sunghoon who was always so kind, so playful?

“I’m sorry. I thought this would be a good surprise,” you say quietly, your voice cracking slightly.

Sunghoon’s eyes flicker to you for a brief second, but then he looks away again. “I didn’t ask for this… I didn’t ask for you to come here.”

His words hit you harder than you expected. You try to mask the hurt, but it’s impossible. You’ve never felt this far away from him, and you can’t help but wonder if this distance will continue to grow, no matter how hard you try.

You swallow, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I thought I could help, but… maybe it was a mistake.

The room feels suffocating as Sunghoon doesn’t say anything more. You wish he’d just look at you the way he used to, with affection, with love. But right now, you feel completely invisible to him.

You slowly back away, not knowing what to say or do. The surprise you thought would bring you closer has only pushed you further apart.

You get a rush of adrenaline as you think about it: What if I just surprise him?

The thought of flying to Seoul without telling him sends a little thrill through you. No heads-up, no warning—just a surprise that shows up when he least expects it. The thought of seeing his face light up when he realizes you’re there for his comeback makes your heart flutter. You can imagine his shock, his joy. It would be the perfect way to show him how much you care and how proud you are, without needing to say a word.

You don’t waste any time. You start making the arrangements, booking the flight and planning the logistics. It’s a bit last-minute, and you know it’s risky. But at this point, the excitement is too much to hold back. You pack a small bag, just enough to get you through the few days, and make sure to grab something small for him—a surprise gift to make it even more special.

The whole time you’re planning it, you keep it to yourself. You don’t want to ruin the surprise. No texts, no hints, just silence. You’re counting down the days until you’ll see him, and every minute feels like it’s dragging on. But the moment you board the plane to Seoul, it finally feels real. You’re doing it. You’re going to see him.

The flight feels like it lasts forever, but the anticipation only grows as you finally land in Seoul. You take a deep breath as you walk through the terminal. You’re here now, and you can’t wait to see Sunghoon’s reaction when you show up at his rehearsal or his dorm, wherever you’ll find him.

You don’t tell him where you are or what you’re doing, letting the surprise unfold when the time is right. Every step you take towards surprising him feels like a step towards rekindling everything that’s been lost between you two. You smile to yourself, knowing that when he sees you, it’ll be all worth it.

Ni-ki gives you one last reassuring smile before standing up. “I’m going to grab you some snacks,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “Just stay here and take a breather. I’ll be right back.”

You nod slowly, wiping your eyes and trying to calm your breathing. The room feels a little quieter now, the soft hum of the building around you making the space feel a little less heavy. As Ni-ki leaves, you lean back in the chair, trying to steady yourself. You’re still shaken, the lingering hurt from Sunghoon’s coldness making your heart ache, but you’re grateful for the small moment of peace that Ni-ki’s presence offered.

After a few moments, Ni-ki comes back, pushing a small cart with an assortment of snacks—chips, fruit, cookies, and bottled drinks. “The building provides these for us,” he says with a small smile, setting the cart next to you. “You can help yourself.”

You offer him a faint smile, though it’s clear you’re still struggling. “Thanks, Ni-ki.”

He pats your shoulder before giving you a soft look. “I’m gonna need a second. Don’t worry, I’m going to talk to Sunghoon. He needs to hear this.”

You look up at him, confused but too tired to ask more. “What do you mean?”

Ni-ki’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression turning more serious. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way, Y/N. No one should make you feel like this, especially not Sunghoon. I’m going to make sure he understands that.”

Before you can respond, he turns and heads toward the door. “Just stay here and take care of yourself for now. I’ll be back in a bit.”

With that, Ni-ki exits the room, leaving you alone with the snacks and your swirling thoughts. The silence stretches around you, the sound of your own breathing louder in your ears. You don’t feel hungry, but the thought of something familiar, something simple, is comforting. You reach for a bottle of water, but your mind keeps drifting back to Sunghoon—what’s going on with him? Why was he so distant?

Ni-ki’s words echo in your mind. “No one should make you feel like this.”

You hope he’s right—that maybe Sunghoon just needs to be reminded of how much you mean to him. But a part of you wonders if things are already too broken to fix.

As you sit there, slowly nibbling on the snacks Ni-ki brought, you try not to overthink it. But the uncertainty is hard to shake. When Ni-ki returns, you’ll probably have more answers, and maybe you’ll finally understand why Sunghoon shut you out.

Meanwhile, somewhere upstairs, Ni-ki is on his way to find Sunghoon, hoping to give him the wake-up call he needs.

Ni-ki walks away from the small practice room and heads upstairs to where Sunghoon is. The building is quieter now, the soft echo of footsteps on the floors the only noise. He makes his way down the hall to Sunghoon’s room, his steps deliberate. As he reaches the door, he hesitates for just a moment, but then he knocks lightly.

“Hyung,” Ni-ki calls, his voice steady but carrying an edge of concern. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

There’s a brief pause before the door creaks open. Sunghoon stands in the doorway, his face tired, his eyes not meeting Ni-ki’s. He’s wearing the same blank expression that’s become all too familiar lately. Ni-ki looks at him with a mix of frustration and sympathy.

“What’s up?” Sunghoon mutters, sounding distracted, his voice flat.

Ni-ki sighs, stepping inside without waiting for a response. “It’s about Y/N.”

Sunghoon furrows his brows slightly but says nothing, just leans back against his desk, clearly not interested in whatever Ni-ki has to say. He’s been distant lately, almost cold, and Ni-ki isn’t sure what Sunghoon’s thinking anymore.

“Y/N’s upset,” Ni-ki continues, crossing his arms. “She’s in tears right now.”

Sunghoon’s gaze flickers to him briefly before drifting away again. “What about?” he asks, his tone still flat, like he doesn’t really care.

Ni-ki clenches his jaw, trying to keep his frustration in check. “Because of you, Sunghoon. She came all this way to surprise you, and you… you barely acknowledged her. You shut her out, and now she’s questioning everything. She’s hurt.”

Sunghoon stays quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on something in the distance, his posture slumped. He doesn’t seem to grasp the gravity of what Ni-ki is saying.

“I didn’t mean to… hurt her,” Sunghoon mutters, though his words don’t seem to carry the weight of genuine remorse. “I’m just—there’s a lot going on right now.”

Ni-ki steps closer, his voice firm. “I get that. I know you’re stressed, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat her like that. She’s been calling you every day, Sunghoon. She cares about you. But you’ve been pulling away, and it’s obvious.”

Sunghoon’s eyes meet Ni-ki’s for the first time, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He doesn’t respond, just looks away again, rubbing his temple like the conversation is giving him a headache.

“You need to fix this,” Ni-ki says, his voice softer now, but still laced with concern. “She’s not some kind of distraction. You can’t just keep shutting her out when things get hard. If you keep doing this, you’ll lose her.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer immediately. He seems lost in thought, like he’s weighing something in his mind. Finally, after a long silence, he sighs deeply. “I don’t know what’s happening. I… I don’t want to lose her, Ni-ki, but everything is overwhelming right now. I don’t know how to balance it all.”

Ni-ki watches him for a moment, his eyes softening. “I get that you’re struggling, Sunghoon. But you need to show her that you care. Don’t shut her out. Don’t let this become something bigger than it needs to be.”

Sunghoon finally looks up at Ni-ki, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and something else—regret, maybe. “I’ll talk to her,” he says, his voice quieter now, like he finally understands the weight of what’s going on. “I’ll fix it.”

Ni-ki nods, though he’s not entirely convinced. “You better. Or you’ll lose her for good.” He gives him one last look before turning to leave. “Don’t waste any more time.”

As Ni-ki exits the room, he can’t shake the feeling that Sunghoon has a long way to go. But at least now, maybe, he’s starting to realize just how much he stands to lose.

Sunghoon’s heart pounds as he stands in front of the small practice room. The conversation with Ni-ki still lingers in his mind. He knows he messed up, knows that he’s been distant, and he can’t keep letting you slip away. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever comes next.

He hesitates for just a moment before opening the door and stepping inside. There you are, sitting with your arms crossed, looking down at your phone, your expression a mixture of exhaustion and sadness. Your eyes meet his for the briefest of seconds, and he feels his chest tighten.

“Y/N,” Sunghoon says softly, stepping closer. He watches as you lift your head, your eyes wary but hopeful. He can see the pain in them—pain he caused—and it makes his heart ache.

“I… I know I’ve been distant. I’ve been so caught up in everything, and I’ve hurt you because of it,” he says, his voice thick with regret. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything at first, just stare at him, taking in his words. Sunghoon feels the weight of the silence between you, like every moment he hesitates, he’s pushing you further away.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve been an idiot. I let everything else distract me, and I pushed you aside without even realizing it. But I’m not going to let that happen anymore. I care about you… so much, Y/N.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “I’ve been trying, Sunghoon. I’ve been calling you every day, I’ve been trying to be there for you, but it feels like you just… didn’t care. I came here to surprise you, to be with you, and it felt like you didn’t even notice.”

“I noticed,” he says quickly, stepping closer to you, his eyes soft. “I just… I didn’t know how to handle everything. I was too focused on all the wrong things, and I didn’t see how much I was hurting you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N. Please don’t think I don’t care. You mean the world to me.

You look at him for a long moment, the walls around your heart slowly starting to crack. The distance between you both, the pain, the confusion—it all feels like it might finally be fading.

“Do you really care?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, vulnerable. “Because it’s been hard, Sunghoon. I don’t want to feel like I’m just… an afterthought.”

He takes a deep breath, stepping closer until he’s right in front of you. “I care more than you know,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “And I’m going to show you. I promise, I’ll make it right.”

You look up at him, eyes searching his face for any trace of doubt, but all you see is sincerity and regret. And for the first time in days, you feel like you can breathe again.

Sunghoon hesitates, his hand reaching out slowly, fingers brushing against your cheek as if he’s waiting for you to pull away. When you don’t, he gently cups your face, his thumb brushing over your skin as he leans in, his breath mingling with yours.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he whispers again, his voice barely audible as he closes the distance between you. His lips meet yours gently at first, a soft, tentative kiss, like he’s testing the waters, hoping you’ll kiss him back.

You do, pressing your lips against his, and everything else falls away. There’s no more distance, no more uncertainty. Just the warmth of his kiss, the feeling of his arms pulling you closer, and the quiet understanding that things are going to be okay.

When the kiss breaks, you both stay close, foreheads resting against each other as you catch your breath. Sunghoon’s eyes are full of softness, his expression tender as he looks at you.

“I’ll make sure I never hurt you like this again,” he promises quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

“I know you will,” you whisper back, your hands resting on his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath your fingertips. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says with a smile, his eyes lighting up. And for the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels right again.

You both stand there for a moment, letting the silence between you feel comfortable for the first time in days. Sunghoon gently holds your hand as you both walk out of the practice room, the weight of everything that’s happened finally starting to lift. The distance, the misunderstandings, the pain—they all seem smaller now, fading with every step you take toward something more solid, more real.

“I’m never letting you go, Y/N,” Sunghoon murmurs as you both walk together. His grip on your hand tightens, and you can feel his sincerity in every word.

You smile up at him, feeling lighter than you have in so long. “I’m not going anywhere, Sunghoon.”

There’s a warmth in your chest as the two of you make your way out of the building. For the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels right. You know there will still be hard days ahead, but you also know that with Sunghoon by your side, there’s nothing you can’t handle.

As you step out into the world together, hand in hand, you realize that the future may be uncertain, but for once, you’re not afraid. Because with him, you know you’ll make it through anything.

requests open | masterlist

[sumbarbietingz]

Onlyfans!Toji is the most popular content creator on the platform right now, due to his heaven sent physique and his impressive sexual performance

Onlyfans!Toji gets shitloads of collaboration requests daily, and he accepts depending on how popular the girl is. If she doesn’t have at least 400k followers on Twitter, she can forget about ever getting a response. Which is, often the case. He’s a paper chaser after all.

All it takes is a 10-second sneak peek of Onlyfans!Toji fucking his pocket pussy, or his new partner for him to gain hundred of subscribers, thousands of likes and comments.

Onlyfans!Toji is the type to write captions such as “You wish I used you like I’m using this fleshlight don’t you dirty girl?” and get everyone in his comments riled up, crying and begging to be used by him too

Onlyfans!Toji is thinking about accepting another collab but when he scrolls down his tl, he sees you. You posted a naked picture of your upper body, your brown breasts covered in cream and sprinkles with the caption “Come clean it off baby👅” followed with thousands of likes, comments and retweets. With his dick already hard from the pic, he checks your profile, and finds out you’re also on OF. And you have as much followers as he does.

While scrolling down your page, Onlyfans!Toji’s cock gets even harder as his eyes land on a video of you shoving a dildo in your fat pussy, your lips gripping your thick toy as it stretches you. The only sounds coming out from his speaker are your beautiful wanton moans and the suction noises your pussy makes as you’re fucking yourself.

Onlyfans!Toji usually doesn’t ask for collaborations, but after spending the last minutes watching your content while jerking off like a teenager, he decides it’s time to dm you. You’re a bombshell, you make some dope content and you’re popular? Why not having fun while making banks?

Part 2 is out!!!

[starfilmz]

FEMININE URGE | a rafe cameron fic.

— when a pogue takes a liking towards a certain kook. named it “feminine urge” because everything she’ll do here comes from that.

a/n: no update for thoroughfare and famous!rafe today so here’s something. half text half smau which is actually pretty fun to do. (not proofread)

01 | 02 | 03

you couldn’t help but giggle at sarah’s reply on your tweet but chose to close your phone as you placed it inside the pockets of your apron. as much as you hated to admit it, jj was right. adding topper to your private instagram was a bad decision, and you’ve already removed him after seeing his comment on your latest post—though you couldn’t really blame him; if it were any of your friends who said it, you would’ve accepted.

topper was a nice guy; at least you assumed he was after he gave you a fifty dollar tip last week, but you weren’t shocked when he used it as some sort of leverage to get your socials. he had his chance, and he blew it up, so it’s his own fault.

you hummed as you cleaned the sticky countertop of the bar you’re working at. you're one of the few bartenders left in the place, the last one’s desperate to stay anyway. Sip N’ Dine paid well, which is why you chose to take the job, but you weren’t aware at the time the whole reason for their generosity was because kooks like topper and his friends raided the place almost every party they host. you met topper at one of his, another reason why you complied on his request to get to know you.

the night was still young, but luckily for you and the rest of your coworkers, no kooks seemed to have any interest in partying tonight. so, you took your sweet time organizing everything around you, unaware of the new presence behind your counter.

it was only when you heard a knock against it did you turn around. you almost tripped on your own two feet when you saw who it was.

“open a tab for me, will you?” rafe cameron said, sliding the card against the table, keeping his eyes on you—specifically your slightly unbuttoned uniform, revealing the layers of necklaces you wore. and maybe a bit of your tits.

with a swallow of nothing, you gave him your usual costume service smile as you went up to your station. “alright, what can i start you with?” you asked as you grabbed for his card, keeping it under the counter in a shelf where most of the cards are kept.

“your name would be nice, just so i know who to call,” he smiled, though it was closer to a smirk as it doesn’t exactly reach his eyes.

looks like someone had a bad day.

“most people call me ‘bartender’ since, y’know, i’m the only one here,” you glanced around between the two of you, raising an eyebrow at him. was this your attempt at flirting? yes, unfortunately. “but if you’re dying to know, my name’s y/n.”

“was i that obvious?” rafe replied with the same tone, and you might just throw yourself at him if you didn’t have an ounce of shame left in your body. “alright, y/n, i’ll have a miller lite first.”

“starting of easy, i see,” you commented almost instinctively, as it was encouraged by your boss to ‘challenge’ your customers so they’d buy more. “one miller lite, comin’ right up.”

you grabbed a pint glass from behind you, as well as one of your many miller lites on the shelves, placing it down in front of rafe as you poured the alcoholic drink in.

“holler if you need anything else.” you thought it was best to keep your distance before it became too obvious how nervous you were from his piercing gaze. you took this opportunity to entertain under customers arriving.

a few minutes have passed, and you’re already dealing with a bunch of drunks trying to take you home, though they weren’t the ones making you uncomfortable.

rafe, from the time he arrived, only called for you to refill his cup. nothing more, nothing less. you also know whenever someone’s staring at you from a mile away, so it wasn’t hard to realize rafe’s still on you this whole time.

“y/n?” he called, holding on to the bottom of his empty pint glass. just as you served two more shots for a customer, you went back to him with a smile, already grabbing for the miller lite.

“you don’t have to get that,” he said from behind you, making you turn around as he took a deep breath. “i’m closing my tab.”

“right, okay,” you mumbled to yourself as you grabbed his card. “enjoyed your beer?”

you wondered why you even attempted to make casual conversation as you swiped his card, but it was rafe cameron for fuck’s sake. you were creeped out by his constant staring, sure, but you couldn’t help but like the attention he’s giving you.

“i did, thank you,” he hummed as you handed his card back to him, your hands brushing against his calloused ones. “it helped me while i think of why topper, the loudest guy i know, would swear to secrecy just for a pogue.”

you physically froze as he smirked at you, standing up from his seat. “honestly, i was a bit weirded out by the comments, but now that i’m looking at you,” he tiled his head, scoffing out a grin. “maybe i’ll make an exception.”

with that, he left, leaving one hundred dollars under his glass.

“oh, shit.”

[solxamber]

Platonic heartslabyul with fem!Yuu who managed to memorize ALL the rules because she hyperfixated on it. It's a new universe so why not study their customs?

it ended up gender neutral, hope that's okay!

Memorizing the Queen's Rules with Heartslabyul

Ace Trappola

At first, Ace thought your ability to quote the rules on demand was a joke. Then, it became the bane of his existence.

"Hey, it’s not a big deal if I sneak just one tart out of here!" he’d say, already halfway to the door.

"Rule #142: No pastries shall leave the premises of the tea party unless explicitly authorized," you’d insist, crossing your arms and blocking his path like an unyielding wall of justice.

Ace groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "Why do you even know that? Who memorizes all the rules?!"

"Someone who doesn’t want to end up collared for your nonsense."

He tried to get clever, testing your limits by bending obscure rules. Once, he brought a banana to a tea party.

"You realize Rule #53 bans bananas at tea parties, right?"

Ace stared, mouth agape. "That’s not real. You’re making that up."

"It’s real. Page 47 of the rulebook," you replied with a satisfied grin.

At that moment, Ace realized he could never outsmart you. Begrudgingly, he admitted, "You’re terrifying. I’m never crossing you."

Of course, that didn’t stop him from trying to prank you. But the look on his face every time you countered him with the correct rule was priceless.

Deuce Spade

Deuce was equal parts impressed and intimidated by your encyclopedic knowledge of Heartslabyul law.

"Wait, so… Rule #317 says I can’t use my left hand to pour tea unless it’s Tuesday?" he asked, staring at the teapot like it had betrayed him.

"Correct. It’s Wednesday, so put it down," you replied, barely glancing up from your notes.

Deuce’s determination to follow the rules skyrocketed thanks to you. He started coming to you for advice on everything.

"Is it okay if I use a spoon to eat this tart instead of a fork? I don’t want to mess up!"

You paused. "Technically, Rule #223 says forks are preferred, but spoons are acceptable if no forks are available."

Deuce sighed in relief. "Thanks, prefect. You’re like my personal tutor for dorm survival."

He became your staunchest supporter, often citing your knowledge to back up his own actions. When Ace tried to sneak an extra tart, Deuce would immediately shout, "Rule #142! You can’t do that!"

"Juice, no one likes a snitch," Ace grumbled.

"I like them," you said, giving Deuce a thumbs-up.

Deuce beamed.

Trey Clover

Trey found your obsession with the rules both amusing and endearing.

"You’re the first person I’ve met who rivals Riddle’s knowledge of the rulebook," he said one day as you adjusted the spacing between roses in the garden.

"Someone has to uphold the standards," you replied, squinting at a rosebush. "This one’s two centimeters too close to the other."

Trey chuckled, leaning against his spade. "You know, not even Riddle notices stuff like that."

"Then it’s a good thing I’m here," you said matter-of-factly, pulling out your measuring tape.

Trey quickly realized you were also a fantastic mediator. Whenever Riddle’s temper flared, you calmly cited rules to de-escalate the situation.

"Rule #405: forgiveness is encouraged for first offenses," you’d say, placing a hand on Riddle’s shoulder.

"Fine," Riddle would huff, storming off.

Trey gave you a knowing smile. "You’re a lifesaver."

Cater Diamond

Cater thought you were hilarious. Your ability to recite rules on command made you a walking meme in his eyes.

"So, you’re like, a human rulebook?" he asked one day, phone in hand.

"Pretty much."

"Say something rule-y for my Magicam!" he said, already recording.

You rolled your eyes but played along. "Rule #98: no singing at tea parties unless the Queen of Hearts requests it."

Cater doubled over laughing.

He constantly teased you about your rule knowledge but secretly found it impressive. Anytime he needed an excuse to get out of trouble, he’d turn to you.

"Uh, is there a rule that says I can skip cleaning duty if my phone dies?"

"No, but nice try," you replied.

Still, he loved having you around, especially when you used your rule expertise to put Ace in his place.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was in awe of you.

"You’ve memorized all 810 rules?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Of course," you said, shrugging. "Why wouldn’t I?"

Riddle’s respect for you skyrocketed. You became his unofficial right-hand person, often helping him enforce the rules.

"Rule #327 clearly states that tea must be brewed at exactly 96 degrees Celsius," you said during one tea party.

"Exactly!" Riddle exclaimed. "Finally, someone understands!"

You were the only one who could occasionally talk him down when he went overboard.

"Rule #512 says punishments should fit the crime," you reminded him gently.

Riddle adjusted his gloves, looking sheepish. "You’re absolutely correct. As always."

He even started consulting you for rule interpretations, trusting your judgment implicitly.

"Do you think Rule #600 applies here?"

"Only if you interpret it broadly," you replied.

"Brilliant," Riddle said, nodding.

To him, you were a paragon of order and discipline—a perfect addition to Heartslabyul.

Masterlist

[sugarwarachan]

reading your touch starved hc’s are not enough i need them injected into my bloodstream. if it’s not a problem could you do shinsou or aizawa next 👉👈

also i really enjoy your writing, i’m looking forward to seeing what you put out next 🫶

as a writer, this is the highest of compliments—into thine bloodstream?? i hope this is worthy 🙇‍♀️

touchstarved!shinsou who’s used to people not trusting him fully. he observes you from afar at first, trying to tamp down the already overwhelming need to just know more about you

touchstarved!shinsou who looks forward to those parts of his day when he gets to talk to you. he adores how much you tease him—lives for that moment when you touch his shoulder or forearm when you're in the middle of a heated discussion

touchstarved!shinsou who finally realizes you might be teasing him on purpose

touchstarved!shinsou who knows exactly how to get back at you by bringing you to the edge of release over and over again, cooing in your ear when you're too fucked-out to even cry or beg—"what’s the matter baby? forget how to use your words?"

touchstarved!shinsou who has to resist the urge to slam his dick inside you the minute he feels your pussy start to suck him in

touchstarved!shinsou who knows he’s addicted to the feeling of your cunt fluttering around him, the incoherent string of words falling from your lips as you cum, "that’s it, angel, go fuckin' dumb all over my cock"

‎♡⃕ touchstarved!mha headcanons here. accepting requests <3

[reidrum]

glory of the snow

note: the return of insecure!reader my beloved <3 i had a bunch of requests to bring her back so i hope we like it! this is really just a gentle reminder from spencer that we should be kinder to ourselves. also i wanted to have them actually fuck but it didn't seem right to fit that in here so ,,, part 2 question mark who is to say. anyways my inbox is always open for any thoughts, comments, questions, musings all of it! love y'all mwah

summary: you freak out when spencer walks in on you accidentally, and he just loves you too much to let it go

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fingering, masturbation (r, just mentions), heavy petting/kissing, comfort, talks of intimacy issues, self-deprecating reader

wc: 3k

“Oh, sweet girl.”

Three words, maybe two and one syllable, that in any other instance would have had you melting into a puddle at the softness it reared. Words that have so easily turned you into a preening cat but are now aimed at you, albeit no judgement from his end, with no room for escape.

Spencer had come home after a long day of paperwork when he first heard it. He would have brushed it off if it didn’t happen again moments later, and louder. Concerned, he walks toward the bedroom, a flush rushing to his face as he comes to recognize what it is. A small crack of the door allowed him the glorious sight of you in the center of the bed, hand between your legs, eyes shut in ecstasy. You’re mesmerizing to him and he really can’t bring himself to look away, and he doesn’t notice himself subconsciously leaning on the door causing a faint creak that alarmed you to his presence. In that moment, however, he’s less worried about scaring you, and more about the overwashing look of shame on your face.

The soft creak of the door pulled you out of your daze, screaming when you saw the figure behind the door. Your eyes are bulging out of their sockets nearly, heartbeat still racing with adrenaline from when you haphazardly threw the blanket over yourself. You were conflicted, but getting caught doing something that is a common and completely normal instance in relationships really shouldn’t make you feel this guilty. Although you do know the guilt was created by a previous version of you where you had told Spencer that you wanted to take the pace of your relationship slowly, and had little to no desire to engage in such activities for the time being. Or so you said.

He cautiously steps closer, careful not to startle you further, “I’m not upset, or anything.”

You’re not upset either, you’re mortified. “I lied to you.”

“You did…but I don’t think you meant to, right?”

There had been a time where you were tangled all up in him, and poor Spencer, his hands were in the wrong place at the wrong time to no fault of his own and entirely yours, and your shutdown was unavoidable. The blood in your veins seized up like crystallizing water turning into ice, paralyzing both the physical and mental before you could realize.

Intimacy for you was a complicated concept. While it wasn’t novel or unwanted, physical intimacy was something you struggled to accept with open arms. Call it a consequence of your self perception, but it was hard to accept the soft touch of love when you felt like you didn’t deserve it. Spencer never minded, although his heart ached to make you see yourself the way he saw you, he was always more than willing to meet you where you were.

It almost pains you with how understanding Spencer was of the whole situation because you knew any other person would be deeply upset. Every other person was upset.

Spencer never was just any other person, you suppose.

“I don’t know how to explain this.” Another lie, you could easily explain the reason.

It’s not that you weren’t ready, it’s that you didn’t feel like you looked ready. The thought of subjecting Spencer to the one dark cornerstone of your being in the early days of being together seemed illogical and burdensome, and so it was more simple to play it off as wanting to take a slow pace.

But, as biology would see it you have needs and your boyfriend just happens to be so detrimentally attractive that the simplest act has been sending you into a hot fit as of late. The culprit this time was an innocent mirror picture of him at the store trying on new trousers. You had no chance.

You had found that your intimacy issues lie within extending it to others, and less with yourself. The solution of you finding release on your own quickly became a habit when you realized there was no fear on your own. There’s no one to let down if you’re alone.

Spencer perches at the foot of the bed, flat hand outstretched on the blanket towards you but keeping a comfortable distance, “You don’t have to explain anything, honey.”

“No I know, but—fuck—I should.” you bury your face, choosing to only speak to him from behind your hands for now, maybe forever.

He takes a moment to take inventory of your physical being—you don’t look in pain. Clearly you didn’t sound in pain. Your face is flushed, and though he’s sitting a little far from you, the heat radiating from your body hits him like a space heater.

“Sweetheart…I’m not upset.” he repeats, in hopes a reminder might provide reassurance.

It doesn’t. “You’re never upset at me, it’s concerning.” you mumble.

“You make it kind of hard to be upset at you, ever really.” Spencer braves and lays a hand on your leg.

You take a deep breath, the cold of his hand grounding you more and more. Spencer senses the calm it’s bringing you and rubs circles into your calf.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling?” he asks gently.

What are you even feeling? You ponder for a moment—anxious, nervous, bad.

“Embarrassed.”

“Honey, there’s nothing embarrassing about masturbating. In fact, it’s more than healthy to do it to keep cortisol levels low,” he explains, “I just don’t know why you didn’t…want to tell me.”

The guilt swirls in your gut, hearing the twinge of hurt buried beneath the comfort he’s laid out for you. He just wants to help you, but you won’t let him in and that hurts him more.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

“It’s just…I…Look it’s…You’re just so hot—“ you slip out, clamping your hand over your mouth before leaking any more intrusive thoughts.

A faint smirk ghosts his face, “I’m…hot?”

“No—Well, yes. I just…ugh.”

“Okay, okay calm down,” he scoots closer and gently brings the hands covering your eyes to rest in your lap, “You don’t need to be all secretive, you know I’d never judge you.”

“I know,”

“I just thought you wanted to wait.”

“I do.”

“But, not with me? It’s okay if it's not with me.”

“Spence, I do. It’s not that.”

“Am I missing something?”

You gulp, “I just…it’s a personal problem. With me. Not you.”

His brows furrow, “Like what, baby? Do you need to see a doctor?”

“Yeah, if a doctor can fix my shoddy self esteem and make me like myself again.” you chuckle.

He doesn’t laugh. 

The pause he takes seems to be ages long before he speaks again, “Angel, how long have you been feeling like that?”

You’ve been caught red-handed, water filling up the tank faster than you can tread, “It’s nothing, I was just joking.”

“Hey,” he says with a rare firmness, “How. Long?”

You deflate under his hard gaze, “A…while…long enough… for it to feel like a…like a default setting, I guess.” you trail off.

Spencer couldn’t hide the hurt on his face if he tried. Not hurt from your lack of admission, hurt that you had felt like this for so long, dealt with this for so long on your own, and he didn’t even know.

All he ever hoped and wanted was for you to be happy, and if he could be the source of that he would ask for nothing more in life. So to hear about you struggling with this, that you felt like you had to keep it to yourself, was heartbreaking.

Spencer remains in his head a little too long as he’s broken out of it by your small voice, “Are you sure you’re not mad?”

He sighs and moves to sit next to you, making sure he stays above the blanket for your comfort. His back is against the headboard of the bed, and he raises his arm a little, gesturing for you to fill the you shaped crevice. You hesitantly move into the space, hating how you feel every move you’re making is calculated, but all of that goes away the second your head meets his chest and his hand comes up to comb through your hair, the other smoothing your arm down, and all you’re left with is him.

“I promise I’m not mad,” he whispers softly, “Just wish you told me. I would have helped you.” He’s intentional in his wording—would, and not could. Could implies he has a choice, a want to do or not do something. I could have helped you, or I could have not helped you. Would is finite, he is doing it because it is programmed in him that caring for you is a need. I would have helped you because it is the only thing I know to be certifiably true, that you deserve to be cared for.

“It sounds stupid out loud but I was afraid you wouldn’t like me the same if you saw me like…that. It seemed logical for me to remove that option altogether.”

His heart aches painfully, and he wishes he could take everyone who’s made you feel that way to target practice. “You are the most beautiful girl in the world. I would spend every day of my life proving that to you.” he utters with unequivocal resolve.

You sigh out shakily, “You’re too kind to me.”

“I’m always kind to you. You deserve kindness. You deserve a lot of things actually…” he trails off.

“Like what?” you ask.

“Well, did you um—” he trails. You look at him quizzically, he continues, “Like before I came in did you…finish?”

Oh. “Oh. I…I don’t think I did, actually. It’s okay though, no big deal.”

He stares at you intently, “Do you want to?”

Your eyes widen, “Spence oh, no it’s okay really you don’t have to do that.  

“You’re encouraged to say no if you feel even an ounce of doubt, but I’m offering because I love you and I want to show you that you can feel safe with me, even when you feel otherwise.”

The familiar sting returns to your eyes as the tears pool up. You’re not used to anyone putting this much effort and concern for your comfort, it’s a novel feeling but if Spencer is willing to handle you with as much care as he is, you’re ready to welcome that sentiment in with open arms.

“Yeah, yes.” you waver.

He grins and leans down, gingerly pressing his lips to yours. His hand ghosts from your calf to your knee, testing the water before moving more intent. An unwelcome yet familiar onset slowly rises, trying to break through to you, “Wait—“

He retracts his hand immediately, “You okay? We can stop if you need to.”

You shake your head. “No, no I’m fine. I just need a second.” you breath out, trying to self regulate. 

He pulls back his hand but you stop him, “No keep it there, it helps. I just…” You don’t know how to phrase it. You think it’s because you’re not in control. When you’re alone it’s only you at the helm calling the shots. But when it really comes down to it, the lack of control is nothing compared to the lack of predictability that comes with the former. Explaining that out loud was daunting to even think about.

Yet Spencer understands what you need, because he always knows what you need. His hand returns to your knee, giving it a soft squeeze, “You tell me to stop whenever you need to.”

He continues kissing you while smoothing his hand up your leg, making wide and sweeping motions across the plush of your thigh so you can feel where he is and where his hand is going. The gesture is comforting and makes you feel grounded, but your head is in a dreamy haze at how good Spencer’s hands feel on you.

The haze leaves through your lips as Spencer feels you sigh against him, feeling you relax more and more as the seconds go by. His hand reaches your upper thigh, fingers ghosting on the inside. “Is this okay?”

You nod, feeling your nerves idling like a distant wave in the ocean. But Spencer’s presence is a lighthouse shining through the fog and guiding you to his shores while the calm washes over you.

His fingers lightly trace the fabric of your panties, ones that you had slid back up your hips upon his entrance into the room. The motion causes you to jump and he pulls back to gauge your reaction. When he sees no fear in your eyes, more so stunned by your wide eyed gaze, his fingers move with more precision, adding more pressure to your clothed core.

A gentle gasp leaves you as he strokes up and down your slit. You’ve given up on continuing to kiss him, the feeling of his hands being too overwhelming to have both sensations at the same time. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, your body involuntarily curving towards him as he draws symbols on you with his index. Your breathing gets heavier and faster the longer he goes, and soon small moans begin to escape you.

He drags his finger to the top of your panties and toys with the band, faintly asking, “You still with me, sweet girl?” You preen into the crevice of his neck as he keeps talking, “Want me to keep going?” 

He feels you nodding into him as you breathlessly whisper, “Please.”

His finger dips below the fabric and travels down to your entrance, gathering the slickness and spreading it all over you. “Fuck,” he curses softly, “Look how wet you are, baby.”

You whimper at his words and Spencer ascends to the heavens if there even is one, and if there is it’s the one where you sound like that for him. He circles back up to your clit, paying special attention to the bundle of nerves before sliding back your slit and repeating the whole sequence a few more times.

Your moans are coming out at a steady pace, and he’s been prodding around your entrance for some time now, teasing and edging you closer. “Gonna put a finger in now, okay? Doing so good for me, baby.” he murmurs.

The feeling of his finger entering you is satiating. But it’s not enough, and you need more. “Spence,” you manage to get out, “Can take another one, please.” His eyes shut tight as he revels in your desperation for him, and how cynical he must be to love having you at his mercy this much. He would confess the darkest of sins if you asked him in that tone, and he has no choice but to oblige. He stifles a groan at how easily the second finger slid in, his other hand moving up to play with your hair and cradle your head close to his chest as he works his ministrations.

The familar coil builds in your gut, but at an intensity you’ve never felt before. His fingers move in and out of you urgently, his thumb returning to your clit. He’s a man determined to get you there, and your moans and cries of his name only spur him on further. After a few minutes your moans and cries turn into whines and babbles, and he knows you’re close.

His head leans down to croon in your ear, “Shh, it’s okay. I got you, sweet girl. You can come, ‘m right here.”

It’s enough to push you over the edge and you come harder than you ever have on your own, the waves of your climax overtaking you completely. Spencer continues to pump his fingers through your orgasm, talking you the whole way down. Mutters of praises and kisses flow through your subconscious as the euphoria high takes its peak and you come back down to this realm.

His hand smoothes your hair back as you continue to pant against his chest, words unable to find you.

“You okay?”

You finally catch your breath, “That was—fuck—the most insane orgasm I have ever had.”

Spencer beams at this. For one, his obvious and impressive skills that have stunned you into oblivion. And two, because you look so relaxed. The stark difference of your anxiety filled face from when he first came into the room to the blissed out daze you have right now makes his heart swell five sizes up.

He hugs you closer and whispers, “I’m so proud of you, angel. Thank you for trusting me.”

Sleep is fighting you hard as you laugh airily and tuck yourself under his arm again, “I don’t know why I thought that would be scarier.”

He sighs, his smile faltering but still fond, “Past experiences and self perception complicate the anxiety around sex and intimacy. It’s a natural response based on your lived experiences.”

“Oh.” you mutter, slight deject in your tone.

“But we can work on it, if you want.” he adds, “It’s all up to you with what you’re comfortable with and how you want to do it. If you’ll allow me, I’d love to help you in any way I can, angel.”

You really don’t know how you got so lucky. Someone so kind, and patient, and willing to be with you as you navigate these things you normally would have kept to yourself. You feel grateful to be able to bare a piece of yourself to him, and know that he would receive it with open arms, wrapping it up and handling it with as much care as he can bear.

You cuddle closer, and mumble before your eyes succumb to sleep, “Love you. So much.”

Spencer looks down maybe two seconds later and you’re already out like a light. He chuckles softly to himself and whispers, “I love you more than you’ll ever know, sweet girl. Good night.”

[celestiamour]

Accept my Hyun-ju request and my life is yours 😩🛐 (/lh you totally don't have to accept it if you don't want to <33)

BUT. The part where Hyun-ju is about to leave to fight the masked guards. Throughout the games, fem!reader developed a crush on Hyun-ju and before she left to fight, reader decides to go for it and give her a goodbye/good luck kiss 🤭

I am SO obsessed with this queen omg

ft. cho hyun-ju x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ giving her a goodbye kiss before she leaves during the revolt┊0.8k words

setting: season 2, episode 7 contains: , angsty & open-ended, season 2 spoilers, canon-typical gun violence! love confessions, reader is sapphic obviously, mentioned homophobia/transphobic in conservative korea

➤ author's note: i’m so glad to see so many requests for this queen, i’m also obsessed

“goddamn it, where the fuck is dae-ho?!” you could barely even hear yourself over the sounds of shots being fired on both sides, hiding behind the pink walls which were steadily being painted red with the blood of your companions. 

the younger marine had left at some point to gather more magazines from the pockets of the deceased guards back at the barracks, but he was currently nowhere to be seen and the situation was becoming more dire by the second. although you had been conservative with your bullets to focus on accurate hits that would kill them on the spot, there were only a handful left at the moment and some of the other men were completely out. 

over all the ruckus, you could hear hyun-ju yelling into the walkie-talkie trying to get a hold of him, but he was nowhere to be seen or heard so she roughly shoved it into her tracksuit pocket and began to shout, “something must have happened! i’ll go down and check!”

“wait, let me come with you! it’s too dangerous to go alone!” you tried to get up from your position but was stopped when an oncoming bullet managed to graze your face, making you shriek in surprise as a shaky hand lightly brushed at the wound and found your fingers now smeared with blood. 

“it’s even more dangerous for you to move from your spot! i’ll be okay, i promise!”

her determination was awe-inspiring, yet your heart sank at the realization this might be your last time seeing her face. your affections toward her were unexpected even though you already knew you loved differently than most people did, something you both bonded over when being a part of the lgbtq+ community was still a taboo topic socially, but you found her to be beautiful inside and out with her caring personality and resilience in times of danger even though you were too scared of ruining your special friendship to admit it. you had no idea it was possible to become so attached to another in the span of less than a week, being so surprised at the realization you stayed up for hours when others were asleep to take it in. the only other person who knew about your feelings for her was young-mi, and she was…

suddenly hyun-ju was next to you wiping away the sole tear about to drip down the corner of your eye, holding on to you with a worried look on her face, “are you okay? i thought you went into shock for a second.”

god, you didn’t even notice with the battle going on around you sounding almost muffled with the two of you feeling like the only souls for miles around. everyone here insisted you should stay behind on account of being a woman even though you believed you had proven yourself to be tougher than most throughout the games, but she had faith that you could fight just as fiercely as a man and defended you each time they said you should turn back. (as annoying as it was, you don’t blame them since they were only looking out for you.)

you stared back at her for a second, blinking away thoughts of the past to focus on the present, the knowledge of this possibly being your last interaction with her once again coming to the forefront of your mind. taking in a deep breath, you decided “fuck it” with closed eyes and pulled her towards you for your first and possibly last kiss.

her eyes remained wide open in shock, trying to process the sudden action. it lasted for a few seconds but felt like an entire minute, feeling your soft lips against hers as she reciprocated the kiss and feeling her heart jump for joy. the earth seemed to stop spinning for those few moments until a voice called out to interrupt. “hey lovebirds! we’re kind of in the middle of something here!”

you finally parted with her, gazing deeply into her eyes and noting her blown-out pupils. “come back safe, and when we get out of here, we’re going to pay for your surgeries and move to thailand together, and i…” you closed your eyes again, taking a deep breath to muster up the bravery to utter the words you might never be able to say again, “i love you.”

now it was her turn to stare at you. you loved her? loved her as she is? she can’t remember the last time she heard those words after getting essentially disowned by her family. she always knew, deep down, she shared the same feelings for you, but was too scared she would end up alone again as she has been for so long so chose to push them down out of fear of rejection. yet when you’re by her side like this in the face of certain death, she feels courage. “i love you too. we’re going to get out of this together,” her confident voice made it sound like she was an oracle who already foretold your happiness in the future, “but first, you guys are going to have to cover for me.”

“don’t worry, i got your back!”

[pucksandpower]

La Regina

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Charles Leclerc x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: a girl raised at her father’s knee goes from rising star to princess to queen (or in which becoming a legend runs in the Schumacher family)

You bounce excitedly in the passenger seat of your papa’s car as he pulls into the parking lot of the karting track. At 5-years-old, you’re too young to race officially, but he promised to let you drive some practice laps after the scheduled competition today.

“Remember, Maus, listen closely to the instructors and stay safe out there,” Michael says, ruffling your hair affectionately before getting out.

You scramble out after him, having to jog to keep up with his long strides across the parking lot. You reach to take his hand, but freeze when a small crowd starts converging around your papa. Men in bright vests are rushing over, cameras flashing rapidly.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” You ask, startled by the commotion.

Before Michael can respond, a curly-haired woman thrusts a baby into his arms. “Oh my god, can you just hold her for one second? I need a picture!”

Your papa looks bewildered but graciously cradles the infant, giving an awkward smile as more and more people start shoving pieces of paper and pens in front of him.

“Excuse me, please, I have my daughter with me today,” he tries saying over the chaos, but no one is listening.

You shrink back, overwhelmed by the pushing crowd and flurry of voices pleading for autographs and photos. Where did all these people come from? This has never happened before when you’ve gone karting with your papa.

Sensing your unease, Michael gently passes the baby back to its mother and kneels down in front of you. “Hey, it’s okay, Maus. Why don’t you wait for me over there?” He gestures to a bench off to the side.

Part of you wants to cling to him, scared of all the strangers crowding around so aggressively. But you also don’t want him to have to worry about you on top of everything else. You nod bravely and make your way through the throng to the little bench, watching apprehensively as your papa tries politely handling the requests.

After what feels like forever, the crowd finally starts dispersing, though a few linger behind like stubborn cats begging for scraps. Michael shakes the last few hands and accepts some papers to sign before gratefully escaping over to you.

“I’m so sorry about that, Maus,�� he says, looking apologetic as he plops down on the bench. “I didn’t expect such a scene on what’s supposed to be our fun day.”

“It’s okay, Papa.” You lean against his side, still a bit rattled but comforted by his familiar warmth. “Who were all those people? Why did they want your … uhh …“ You can’t quite remember the word for the scribbles people ask famous people for.

“Autographs,” Michael supplies with an amused chuckle, wrapping an arm around you. “And they wanted photos too, I suppose. I’m … well, I’m quite a famous racecar driver.”

You cock your head, trying to process this concept of your papa being some kind of celebrity. As far as you’re concerned, he’s just your goofy, loving dad who takes you karting and makes the silliest voices for all your stuffed animals at home.

“Really? Like the famous famous people on TV?” You’ve seen the paparazzi swarming the actors and musicians during awards shows, but you’d never imagined that could happen to your own papa.

Michael nods, drawing you closer with a squeeze. “Yes, somewhat like that, though it’s a bit excessive at a small karting event.” He laughs again and brushes some of your wayward hair from your face. “But you’re right, to you I’m just Papa. I don’t expect anything more from my favorite Maus.”

You beam at the affectionate nickname, all the earlier stress melting away. Who cares if strangers want your papa’s autograph or photos? All that matters is you two spending the day together like always.

“Can we go get our karts now?” You ask eagerly, bouncing a little on the bench. “I want to show you how fast I can go!”

“Of course!” Michael jumps up and scoops you into his arms with a playful growl, making you shriek giddily. “My little speed demon is going to leave me in the dust.”

He swings you up onto his shoulders and you cling on tightly as he strides toward the pit area. A few more people spot him and make a move closer with cameras and sharpies extended, but seem to think better of it when they see you perched up high.

The two of you spend the next couple hours karting together, trading places taking warm up laps and cheering each other on. At one point, a young attendant working the pit area approaches Michael somewhat nervously.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Schumacher?” He’s clutching a crumpled baseball cap in one hand, ducking his head shyly. “I’m just such a huge fan, would you mind taking a photo and signing this for me after your session?”

Your papa smiles kindly at the young man and takes the cap. “Not at all, no problem.” As the attendant walks away, looking elated, Michael turns to you with a wink. “See? That’s how you politely ask for an autograph.”

You giggle and mime zipping your lips. “Don’t worry, Papa, I won’t let the fame go to my head when I’m a famous racecar driver too someday.”

Scooping you up once more, Michael presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “That’s my girl. Now, last few laps — let’s see who can go the fastest without ending up in the grass!”

As evening starts falling, the two of you make your way back through the now nearly deserted lot after returning the rental karts. Most of the other karters have cleared out, leaving just you two strolling unhurriedly back to the car.

“Well Maus, despite the, uh, overexcited fans, I’d call this day a success,” Michael says, swinging your joined hands idly. “We both had our fun on the track, and I think you handled that crowd back there like a champ.”

You smile up at him, still so proud just to be his daughter. “I don’t care about all those other people, papa. As long as I have you, that’s all I need.”

Stopping beside the car, Michael crouches down and cups your face in his calloused racing palms, looking at you with such fierce adoration.

“Maus, you have me, always. No matter what happens out there,” he gestures vaguely at the empty track, “When I’m with you, I’m just Papa. My greatest accomplishment, my biggest award, is being your father. Verstanden?”

You launch yourself into his arms, hugging as tightly as you can. “Verstanden, Papa. I love you.”

“Ich liebe dich mehr, Maus,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to your hair. “Now, what do you say we go get some victory ice cream?”

As the two of you climb into the car, you can’t keep the smile off your face, practically glowing with contentment. Sure, maybe your papa is some big famous racecar driver that everybody wants a piece of. But really, he’s just your papa — and you’re his whole world.

***

The ringing of the house phone cuts through the tense silence like a knife. You shrink further into the couch cushions as your mother rushes to answer it, shoulders visibly taut.

“Hello? No, I cannot make any comment at this time. Yes, I understand there is interest but-” Corinna breaks off, rubbing her temples wearily. “Please respect our privacy as a family right now. Thank you.”

She hangs up and leans against the wall, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. Before she can even draw a full breath, the phone rings again, shrill and insistent. With a muffled curse, your mother snatches it up.

“What? I told you, I cannot give any statements! This is a private matter. How did you even get this number?”

You watch apprehensively as she responds again, her voice rising in distress. In the days since your papa’s skiing accident, it seems like the entire world has been hounding your family, desperate for any scrap of information.

On the TV across the room, the endless cycle of news reports drones on lowly. Images of your papa’s broken, still body being rushed from the slopes into a helicopter. Flashing advancer texts speculating on his chances of recovery from the traumatic head injury.

It makes you feel ill.

Beside you on the couch, Mick sits blank-faced, looking nearly as pale and worn as your mother. At 14, he understands the gravity of the situation all too well. Your big brother has always idolized your papa, hoping to follow in his racing footsteps one day as well. The thought of him not being there to see the realization of that dream is devastating.

Gina is curled up in the armchair, her shoulders shaking every so often with muffled sobs. At 16, she’s arguably been taking this the hardest of all you kids. She keeps her face stoically dry in front of your mother, but you can see how red and puffy her eyes are from constant crying.

As for you, at 11-years-old, you’re somehow both numb and feeling everything all at once. Part of you still can’t fully process that this nightmare is real. That your hero, your papa, could be lying comatose in a hospital, hovering between life and death. The other part of you is overwhelmed in a tsunami of terror, panic, anger, sadness — any and every emotion crashing through you at all hours.

“Kids, I’m so sorry about this,” your mother says, defeated, as she rejoins you in the living room after ending her latest call. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened further overnight. “I know this is incredibly difficult and intrusive. But your papa is … he’s a public figure. People are concerned.”

“Incredibly insensitive is what they’re being,” Gina spits, uncurling herself from the chair enough to shoot your mother a resentful look. “We’re going through actual hell and all these people care about is getting a sound bite for the evening news!”

Corinna looks pained but doesn’t rebuke her. “I know, liebling, I know. But your papa has millions of fans all over the world who have followed his career for decades. Whether we like it or not, they care about him … and about us by extension.”

You think back to that day at the karting track all those years ago when you first realized your papa was what people called “famous”. How all those strangers clamored around him so aggressively just for a photo or an autograph. That level of fandom seemed exciting and novel at the time, when you were just a naïve 5-year-old. Now you see it for how intrusive and violating it is, this sense of entitlement people have to the private life of a public figure.

The phone starts ringing again, shattering the fragile quiet. Your mother squeezes her eyes shut and makes no move to get it this time. After four rings, the call goes to voicemail. A moment later, the tinny sound of an Italian voicemail being left blares through the speaker.

“Scusi, scusi, please, if there is any update on the condition of the great Michael Schumacher, any information at all! We are all holding vigils and saying prayers, but we must know how he fares! The world is watching and waiting!”

The words, pleading and demanding all at once, are like a slap across your face. The man’s voice is laced with such desperation, as if your papa’s life is mere entertainment to be consumedby the masses. You feel abruptly furious, incensed that a stranger’s morbid curiosity is given the same weight as your family’s anguish.

“Turn it off,” Mick mutters through clenched teeth, hunching over on the couch. “Just turn it off, Mama.”

Corinna nods numbly and reaches to end the voicemail, her mouth set in a grim line. Buzzing fills the room again as the TV drones on, the reporters’ voices a dull roar that you can no longer discern actual words from as your ears ring with white noise.

The shrill ringing of the phone cuts through once more, like a record scratching in your brain. Your mother flinches violently, hands coming up to clamp over her ears as she squeezes her eyes shut, finally at her breaking point.

Unable to watch this torture anymore, you surge to your feet and storm across the living room. You rip the phone from its cradle and hurl it against the far wall, the plastic casing shattering loudly. The ringing blessedly ends, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.

Mick and Gina stare at you with wide, stunned eyes. Your mother simply deflates, sliding down the wall to the floor as the adrenaline drains from her body. For several beats, no one dares breathe too loudly. Then, Gina starts to shake her head slowly, tears slipping free.

“Brava,” she murmurs, the barest hint of approval in her voice.

Your mother doesn’t scold you for the outburst. She merely reaches out a hand, silently beckoning you closer until you slowly cross the room again and sink to your knees in front of her. She cups your face in her palms, her own cheeks glistening with fresh tears.

“You’re right, liebling, you’re right,” she whispers brokenly. “This is about our family, not … not the world thinking they’re owed something.”

She pulls your head against her shoulder and you cling to her tightly as she begins to weep in earnest, great shuddering sobs wracking her whole frame. Gina scrambles over and tucks herself against your mother’s other side, and soon all three of you are tangled in each other’s arms, letting the tidal wave of grief crest over you.

Mick stays frozen on the couch, watching over your huddle with dark, haunted eyes. For the first time since this ordeal began, the four of you are united in simply feeling, truly letting yourselves shatter. No more putting on brave faces or pretending to be okay — from this moment, you can finally grieve as a family behind closed doors, blockading out the rest of the cruel, prying world.

Later that evening, after crying yourselves into an exhausted stupor, you drift up the stairs and sequester yourself in your bedroom. You bypass the framed photos of your papa on your nightstand, the sight of his bright smile and twinkling eyes too searing at the moment. Instead, you sink to your knees in the middle of the floor and clasp your hands tightly, bowing your head to murmur desperate pleas.

“Please, please let my papa be okay. I don’t care about all his fame or the stupid reporters. I just want him to get better and come home to us. He’s not just the famous Michael Schumacher to me. He’s Papa. He’s my whole world.”

The words spill out in a torrent, all the fear and longing you’ve been bottling up for the better part of a week erupting forth. You plead to any higher power that may be listening, bargaining away your future, your dreams, anything — as long as your papa pulls through this nightmare.

How many times had you taken for granted those moments of him just being your dad — making you pancakes on Saturday mornings, dozing on the couch during family movie nights, playfully tossing you into the pool when you grew too whiny in the summer heat? You’d give anything to have those simple, precious daddy-daughter moments back.

“The world can have his trophies and titles,” you whisper fiercely, tears slipping free to patter on the carpet. “I don’t care about any of that. I just want my papa. Please, please bring him back to us.”

You curl in on yourself, forehead pressing into the floor as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. All the adoring fans, the fawning media, the hangers-on clamoring for a piece of his glory — they only know the manufactured public persona of Michael Schumacher, legendary racer and famous celebrity. But to you, he’s always just been the quiet hero tucking you into bed at night, the gentle presence reading stories in funny voices, the mighty protector pulling you in for all-encompassing bear hugs.

You miss that wonderful, silly, tender father more than anything in the world. You don’t give a damn about his racing accolades or his fame. You just desperately need your papa back home where he belongs — with his family, the people who loved and treasured him most as simply Michael.

Just Michael. Your one and only papa.

The raw ache of that longing consumes you utterly. You lay there amid the fading light from your bedroom windows, dreams and memories of your papa flickering behind your eyelids as you plead to any benevolent force that may be listening. All you want is the chance to make more joyful memories with him, to hear his rich laugh, to keep basking in his unconditional love for years and years to come.

Please, you beg the universe silently, one last time. Please let this nightmare end. Don’t let the brightest light in my world be extinguished before its time.

Let me have my papa back.

***

A tense hush has fallen over the dining room table, the clinking of utensils against plates the only sound cutting through the thick silence. Gina avoids everyone’s eyes, pushing food around her plate listlessly. Mick stares down at his half-eaten dinner, jaw working like he’s chewing over something weighty. You pick at a bread roll, too knotted with anxiety to muster much appetite.

Your mother is the one to finally break the stifling quiet, clearing her throat. “Kids, I know these last few weeks have been … incredibly difficult for us all.”

You risk a glance up at Corinna. Her eyes are tight at the corners, her mouth a taut line. Just like all of you, the constant vigil at your papa’s bedside, combined with the relentless badgering from the media, has clearly taken its toll.

“But we have to keep trying to be a family, yes?” She reaches across the table to grip your hand. “We’re all Michael has right now. We have to … to stick together for him.”

You nod numbly, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat at the reminder of your papa’s unchanged condition. The waiting, the not knowing if or when he’ll wake up, is a special kind of torment you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Mick abruptly shoves his plate away, the porcelain scraping loudly across the wood. You all flinch a little at the harsh sound.

“I’ve been thinking ...” he starts, then seems to reconsider his words, shoulders tightening fractionally. “Well, Y/N, you know how I … how I race under Mama’s last name?”

You frown slightly, uncertain where he’s going with this. “Betsch, yes. Because you wanted to make your own name without the expectation and pressure of being Michael Schumacher’s son.”

He dips his chin once, looking almost pained. “Exactly. And I think … I think maybe you should consider doing the same.”

The words sit heavy and convolulenting between you all like a sack of wet cement. You blink dumbly, hardly comprehending what he’s suggesting at first. When the implication hits you, you actually recoil as if he’d slapped you across the face.

“What? No. No, absolutely not, Mick. How can you even say that?”

“Y/N, just hear me out,” he pleads, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “With Papa … with what happened, the paparazzi and the fans, they’re going to be watching our every move even more than before. Especially you since you’re planning to continue competing-”

“Don’t you dare make this about his condition,” you spit, fury thrumming through your veins like struck lightning. “And of course I plan to keep racing — it’s what Papa would want! I’m not going to hide from his name like it’s some shameful thing!”

Gina is watching the exchange with wide, startled eyes, her food forgotten. Mick runs an agitated hand through his hair, shaking his head firmly.

“It’s not about hiding or shame, it’s about protecting yourself! Don’t you see how crazy things have gotten? All the reporters harassing us, the fans leaving awful messages online hoping for updates ...”

He leans forward, expression almost desperate. “If you race as Betsch, you can compete without having that extra spotlight. You can just be a normal kid on the track without people peering in.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck in waves of humiliation and rage. How dare he insinuate that inheriting your papa’s legacy is some kind of burden to be shrugged off? That the name Schumacher is a burden to bear rather than a badge of honor?

“I’m not you, Mick,” you bite out, fists clenching beneath the table. “Maybe racing under Mama’s name helped you deal with the pressure better and that’s fine. But I’m proud to be Michael Schumacher’s daughter! And if people can’t respect that, if they think it means they own a piece of me, then they can go to hell!”

“Language!” Your mother gasps, both appalled and slightly impressed. But you ignore her admonishment, too fired up to rein it in now.

“What, you think pretending to be someone else is going to spare me from living in Papa’s shadow anyway?” You shake your head adamantly, leaning across the table towards Mick. “It’s not, and you know it. Even if I raced under a fake name, everyone is still going to know exactly who I am and make comparisons.”

Slamming your palms on the table, you surge to your feet, chair screeching harshly against the floor. All the pain and uncertainty of these past few weeks is bubbling over into bitter, biting words.

“So why should I hide it? Why can’t I take pride in my name and my heritage? Maybe it’ll mean more scrutiny, but it’s a million times better than feeling like I have to be ashamed! Like I can’t fully honor Papa and make him proud!”

Chest heaving, you stare down a wide-eyed Mick, almost daring him to challenge you further. He seems to read the conviction blazing in your eyes, features softening into chagrin.

“You’re right ...” he murmurs with a wince. “You’re right, Y/N, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

You hold his repentant gaze for a long moment before deflating back into your chair with a muted thud. In the ringing silence, you can hear your mother’s soft sniffles from the far end of the table. When you look over, she has her head bowed, hands pressed to her eyes as she cries quietly.

“M-Mama?” Gina ventures in a small voice, reaching across to grasp her mother’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”

Corinna lowers her hands, swiping at the tears streaking her cheeks. When she meets your bewildered gaze, her expression is a complicated brew of pride and heart-wrenching sadness.

“Nothing is wrong, liebling,” she assures Gina with a watery smile, before turning back to you. “Y/N, you’re so much like your papa, do you know that? So brave and determined … so full of that same fighting spirit.”

She dips her chin, lips trembling faintly. “He would be so proud to hear you defend his name like that. To see you ready to take on the weight of wearing it, regardless of what the world throws at you.”

More tears spill forth, but she brushes them away impatiently with the backs of her hands.

“But liebchen, you have to understand … Michael spent decades bearing that scrutiny and expectation. People analyzing his every move, always under a spotlight so harsh it burned. I never wanted that for any of you.”

Sliding her chair back, your mother crosses to kneel before you, cradling your face gently between her palms. Her eyes are shining but intensely serious, almost pleading with you.

“The Schumacher name casts such a long shadow, one so great that your own light can be eclipsed before you ever have a chance to properly shine. I don’t want you smothered by that burden, mein schatz. I want you free to make your own amazing mark on this world, completely unchained.”

You feel your throat grow tight at her words, the weight of them ringing so true and terribly sad. You reach up to circle your fingers around her wrists, holding her hands to your cheeks like vices.

“I know, Mama, I know,” you whisper roughly. “But that light you want me to shine? Papa is the one who sparked it inside me in the first place.”

You meet her watery gaze steadily, willing her to understand the conviction taking root inside you.

“The joy and passion I have for racing doesn’t come from some anonymous dream. It comes from him — from the nights he spent giving me a play-by-play of his biggest victories, from the days we spent at the karting tracks making memories, from everything I want so desperately to honor.”

Leaning forward until your brows nearly touch, you let the pleasing words spill out directly from your heart.

“So please, please don’t ask me to race as anyone other than your daughter, yes, but also proudly as Michael Schumacher’s daughter. That name isn’t a burden or a shadow to me. It’s something I want to carry forward and make blaze even brighter.”

Your mother’s eyes slip shut as she draws in a shuddering breath. For a long moment, she simply holds your face cradled in her palms, seeming to bask in your impassioned words. When her eyes finally open again, they are overflowing with a fierce tenderness.

“Oh liebchen,” she murmurs, voice thick with an odd mix of grief and wonder. “You are your father’s daughter through and through. So determined, so unafraid to face the world head on ...”

She strokes her thumbs along the apples of your cheeks, swiping away the dampness there. “I only hope he knows just how brightly his fire still burns in you. How it is living on in the most brilliant way.”

Surging up onto her knees, your mother pulls you into a fierce embrace, tucking your head beneath her chin. You cling to her tightly, drawing strength from her warmth, her tireless support and love. Over her shoulder, you can see Mick and Gina watching silently, their own eyes overly bright.

When your mother finally leans back, cupping your face once more, her expression has regained some of its usual firmness and resolution.

“Very well, then,” she nods, offering you a watery but determined smile. “If you truly feel ready to take on the world, to claim that name and legacy as yours, then we will face it together. As a family.”

She rises lithely to her feet, drawing you up along with her. Gathering Mick and Gina in with the sweep of her arms, she folds you all in her protective embrace, holding your foreheads together in the center.

“You may be Schumachers, but that name does not define or limit you,” she declares, quiet but firm. “It is simply one part of your identity, one piece of the incredible legacy you inherited. What you choose to make of it, how brightly you make that legacy burn, is up to you alone.”

She pulls back just enough to meet each of your eyes in turn, her own gleaming with resolute pride.

“So let them watch, let them scrutinize and sneer and make their judgments. You will simply keep chasing your passions and living your truths. Yes, the world may know you as Schumachers, but you alone will define what that name represents, now and for generations to come.”

***

The roar of the engines fades as you cross the finish line, taking the chequered flag. The broadcast team erupts in excitement.

“Unbelievable! Y/N Schumacher has done it — the daughter of the legendary Michael Schumacher wins the Formula 2 championship in her rookie year!”

You can hardly believe it yourself as you start your cooldown lap, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The pit crew is cheering wildly, holding up the #1 sign. Your race engineer is on the radio, his voice cracking with joy. “You’re a champion, Y/N! A first-year champion!”

“What an incredible drive from the young German. Shades of her father with that relentless determination and racecraft. She’s carried on the Schumacher name proudly.”

As you return to the pit lane, you spot Mick getting out of his own car. He has a huge smile on his face, eyes shining with pride. You take a moment to drink it all in as you bring your car to a stop and he’s the first one there, ripping off your helmet so he can hug you tightly.

“You did it! I’m so proud of you!” He’s beaming as he pulls back to look at you.

“Aww, Mick ...” You blink back happy tears, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what you’ve accomplished. “I couldn’t have done it without you pushing me every single race.”

Mick shakes his head dismissively. “This was all you. You were the faster driver this season, plain and simple.” His face falls a little. “I really thought I had you there at the end, but you just wouldn’t give up.”

You grin cheekily. “Of course not! I’m a Schumacher — we never give up.”

“What a beautiful moment between the siblings. You can see the immense pride Mick has for his sister, despite coming up just short of winning the championship himself.”

The rest of the team surrounds the two of you, lifting you both up onto their shoulders as the celebrations kick into full gear. You lock eyes with Mick over the sea of smiling faces and he winks at you contentedly.

Later, after you’ve returned to the garage, you find a quiet moment alone with Mick. He pulls you into another hug, this one more lingering.

“I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You’ve worked so incredibly hard for this.” Mick’s voice is thick with emotion.

You squeeze him tightly. “Thank you, Mick. That means everything coming from you.”

He pulls back, cupping your face fondly. “I remember when we were kids, dreaming of following in Papa’s footsteps. And now look at us!”

You laugh, a few happy tears spilling over. “I know, it’s crazy! I couldn’t have done this without your help, you know. You’ve been by my side every step of the way.”

“A storybook ending for the Schumacher siblings. Y/N cementing herself as a future star, with her older brother not far behind.”

Mick shakes his head adamantly. “No, Y/N, this was all your talent and determination. I just got a front row seat to watching greatness in the making.” His eyes are shining with sincerity.

You throw your arms around his neck, struck by how lucky you are to have such an amazing brother. “I love you, Mick. Thank you for always believing in me.”

He hugs you fiercely. “I’ll always believe in you. You’re a champion now, but I know this is just the beginning for you.”

The team arrives then, champagne bottles in hand and ready to continue the celebration. You pull back and grin at Mick mischievously, cracking open the first bottle with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you … for now.”

The bubbly liquid sprays everywhere as you both dissolve into laughter, reveling in this perfect moment of sibling bonding and love. Mick pulls you into a wet hug, so proud and grateful to share this with you.

“And an iconic image — the Schumacher children celebrating a Formula 2 title just like their father did in the upper series so many times before. A changing of the guard, with the name Schumacher set to dazzle racing fans once more for years to come.”

Later that night, after you’ve showered off the champagne and slipped into comfy clothes, there’s a soft knock at your hotel room door. You open it to find Mick standing there, shifting awkwardly.

“Hey, you’ve got a second?” His eyes are slightly red-rimmed, like he’s been crying.

“Of course, what’s up?” You gesture him inside, concerned by his demeanor.

Mick enters slowly, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He seems to be struggling to find the words.

You rest a hand on his arm. “Mick, you can tell me anything, you know that.”

He nods jerkily, finally meeting your eyes. “I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You have no idea how much it means to me to see you accomplishing your dreams.” His voice catches with emotion.

“But?” You prod gently.

Mick’s eyes water again. “But … it’s also really hard for me. This was my dream first, you know? To become a champion like Papa.” He swipes at the tears angrily. “And now you’ve beaten me to it. I’m just … I’m struggling with that a bit.”

Your heart clenches at his quiet admission. You pull Mick into a tight hug, rubbing his back soothingly. “Oh, Mick … I’m so sorry. I never wanted to take that away from you.”

He shakes his head against your shoulder. “No, no, it’s not your fault at all. You earned this, fair and square. I’m just … dealing with some complicated emotions, I guess.”

You push him back by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes intently. “Mick, listen to me. You are one of the most naturally gifted drivers I’ve ever seen. This is not the end for you, not even close. You’re going to be a champion too, I know it.”

Mick seems to deflate slightly at your words, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you state firmly. “We’re going to take this to the top level together. And we’re going to make Papa even more proud than he already is.”

A slow smile spreads across Mick’s face. “Together,” he repeats, reaching out to take your hand and give it a squeeze.

You squeeze back reassuringly. “Always together. You and me, just like when we were kids. We’re a team, remember?”

Mick nods, the brightness returning to his eyes. He seems lighter now, the melancholy cloud lifted by your words of encouragement.

On impulse, you throw your arms around him again, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug. Mick laughs delightedly, squeezing you just as tightly.

“Thank you, Y/N. I needed to hear that from you,” he murmurs shakily into your hair.

You pull back just enough to grin at him cheekily. “What are little sisters for?”

Mick lets out a surprised bark of laughter, warmth and affection shining from every part of his expression as he gazes at you fondly. “You’ll always be my little sis, champion or not.”

It’s your turn to laugh, swatting at his chest playfully. “Well this little sis just kicked your ass this season, so show some respect!”

Mick’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “I’ll remember that for next year, believe me.”

***

It’s a crisp autumn evening at the Schumacher family home in the Swiss Alps. You’re curled up on the plush couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine while your brother paces back and forth anxiously.

“Will you please sit down?” You ask, eyeing him over the top of the pages. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Mick runs a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Sorry, I’m just … worked up, I guess.”

You set the magazine aside. “About what? We haven’t had a race in weeks.”

He stops his pacing to face you. “You know the season’s almost over, right? And Haas still hasn’t said anything about re-signing me for next year.”

“Oh, Mick.” You offer him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. You’ve had a solid season.”

Mick flops down next to you, deflating a little. “I don’t know. There are so many other options on the table. What if Haas decides to go a different direction?”

“Then you’ll find another seat,” you say firmly. “Any team would be lucky to have you behind the wheel.”

He manages a half-smile. “Thanks. I just wish I had your confidence sometimes.”

“What can I say?” You flash him a cheeky grin. “It’s a gift.”

The peaceful moment is shattered as both of your phones start ringing in unison. You exchange a puzzled look before digging them out.

“My manager,” Mick says, furrowing his brow as he answers. “Hello?”

You do the same, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hey, Nicolas, what’s up?”

For the next few minutes, you and Mick are silent, listening intently with rapidly changing expressions — yours elated, his crestfallen. When you finally hang up, Mick is staring at the floor, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well?” He asks, voice tight. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

You take a deep breath, trying to tamp down your surging excitement. “Ferrari wants me for next season.”

Mick’s face falls even further, if possible. “You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this!” You can’t keep the grin from overtaking your features. “Can you believe it? Driving for the Scuderia! It’s a dream come true!”

“Yeah, for you maybe,” Mick mutters darkly.

You blink at his tone, smile fading slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He drags a hand down his face wearily. “Haas declined to re-sign me for next year.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “What? No, that can’t be right!”

“Afraid so.” Mick’s voice is flat, resigned. “They said something about … needing to bring in fresh blood or some bullshit excuse.”

You scoot closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Mick, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Don’t be.” He tries for a nonchalant shrug, but it comes off as dejected. “At least one of us is moving up in the world.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” You protest. “We’re teammates! We were supposed to take on Formula 1 together!”

Mick snorts humorlessly. “Looks like that’s not going to happen after all.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between you. You open your mouth, searching for the right words of reassurance, but come up empty. How can you comfort him when your own dream has come true at his expense?

“Hey.” Mick’s somber tone breaks the quiet. “I’m happy for you, you know. Really, I am.”

You meet his sincere gaze, feeling your eyes start to well up. “I know. But that doesn’t make this any less shitty for you.”

He manages a rueful smile. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

“So what are you going to do now?” You ask quietly.

Mick lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Keep grinding, I guess. Look for another seat, any seat, even if it’s not in F1 next season.”

“You can’t give up on F1!” You protest instantly. “You’re too good for that, Mick.”

“Am I, though?” He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Face it, Y/N, you’ve always been the better driver. This just proves it.”

You shake your head adamantly. “That’s not true at all! You’re every bit as talented as me.”

“Then why did Ferrari pick you instead of me?” There’s no accusation in his words, just weariness.

You falter, mind churning as you search for an answer that won’t come. “I … don’t know.”

“Exactly.” Mick closes his eyes briefly. “Maybe it’s for the best. At least this way, one of us still gets to live out the Schumacher legacy and race for Ferrari. Carry on the family name, you know?”

“But you’re a Schumacher too,” you say, feeling your throat start to tighten with unshed tears. “It should be both of us out there, not just me.”

Mick reaches over to give your hand a comforting squeeze. “Hey, don’t cry about it. I’ll be okay, really.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” You swipe angrily at the moisture gathering in your eyes. “It’s not fair, Mick. It’s just not fair at all.”

He levels you with a look that’s decades older than his years. “Life rarely is. You know that as well as I do.”

You fall silent, unable to formulate a response. He’s right, you realize with a pang. The two of you, of all people, should understand that success and failure often go hand-in-hand, even for the most talented competitors.

Pursing your lips, you lean forward and pull Mick into a fierce hug. He tenses for a split second before wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I’m still so proud of you,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my incredible big brother.”

Mick lets out a shaky exhale against your hair. “And you’re the most badass little sister a guy could ask for. Ferrari has no idea what they’re in for.”

You pull back just far enough to meet his eyes, emboldened by the warm affection shining in them.

“Just promise me one thing?” You ask.

He arches an eyebrow quizzically. “What’s that?”

A mischievous grin tugs at your lips. “That you’re not going to take it easy on me whenever you’re back on the grid.”

***

You take a deep breath as you pull your sleek new Ferrari up to the iconic factory in Maranello. This place holds so many memories — some joyful, others bittersweet. Your father cemented himself as a legend here, and you can’t help but feel the weight of that legacy on your shoulders now more than ever.

The door swings open and there stands Fred Vasseur offering you a warm smile. “Y/N, welcome home.”

You return the smile, unable to mask the flood of emotions. “It’s good to be back, Fred.”

He gestures for you to follow him inside. “I’m sure this place brings back quite a few memories.”

“You have no idea,” you murmur, taking in the familiar sights and smells. The rosso corsa that coats every surface, the scent of machinery and high-octane fuel … it’s intoxicating.

A tiny you runs through the hallways, giggling madly as your frantic mother tries to catch up. “Mick! Y/N! Get back here this instant!”

Mick peeks out from behind a workbench, sticking his tongue out at Gina, who playfully swats at him. You spot the perfect hiding spot — a massive green recycling bin tucked in the corner ...

“Y/N? Are you still with me?” Fred’s voice breaks you from your reverie.

You shake your head. “Sorry, got a bit lost in thought there. This place just … feels like stepping into the past.”

Fred nods knowingly. “I can only imagine. But today is about your future with the team.” He leads you through the winding corridors, pointing out various departments. “Over here is aerodynamics, that hallway takes you to the design labs ...”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Your father’s voice echoes down the corridor, his tone playful but tinged with desperation. You stifle a giggle from your hiding spot as his footsteps draw closer.

“Michael, any luck?” That’s Paolo, one of the mechanics. You chance a peek and see half the team has been enlisted to search for you.

Your dad scrubs a hand over his face. “She’s too good at this game. Should’ve known better than to play hide-and-seek in a place this size.”

You chuckle softly at the memory, prompting a curious look from Fred. “Sorry, just … reminiscing again.”

He gives you an easy grin. “By all means, feel free to share. I’d love to hear some of those old stories.”

You take a breath, composing yourself before launching into the tale. “Well, there was this one time when I was maybe … four or five? Mick and I were causing an unholy ruckus as usual, and Papa suggested a game of hide-and-seek to wear us out. Big mistake on his part.”

Fred’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Let me guess, you proved to be a master hider?”

“You could say that.” You grin mischievously. “I found this big recycling bin, crawled inside, and stayed completely silent while the whole team tore the place apart looking for me. Papa was just about to call in the overalls for backup when Paolo finally peeked in the bin.”

Fred throws his head back with a hearty laugh. “I can just picture your poor father’s face when they found you! He must’ve been both relieved and completely exasperated.”

You nod. “Oh, he wore that particular blend of emotions often when we were young terrors around here.”

The two of you continue chatting amicably as Fred shows you around the various facilities — the simulator room, the engine workshop, even the gym and physiotherapy center. With each new area unveiled, another flood of nostalgia washes over you.

You and Mick sprint into the wide-open workshop, engines and miscellaneous car pieces scattered all around. Gina is closing in, her longer legs giving her an advantage.

“Got you now, you little gremlins!” She scoops Mick up with one arm, then turns her sights on you.

You let out a shriek of laughter, dodging around a massive piece of equipment as your mother joins the chase. “Come here, Maus! It’s time for your nap!”

You shake your head furiously. “No nap! No nap!”

Corinna’s hand finally snags the back of your shirt, and you erupt into a fit of giggles as she pulls you into a hug ...

“That’s some smile you’ve got going there,” Fred notes with a wry grin. “I take it another happy memory?”

You give an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Just … remembering how this place used to be our personal jungle gym. Mick, Gina, and I would run absolute loops around Mama while she tried to wrangle us for nap time.”

Fred chuckles fondly. “I can picture three tiny terrors leaving chaos in their wake.” His expression softens. “It must be incredibly special to be back here after all these years. To follow in your father’s footsteps like this.”

You swallow hard against the swell of emotions. “It’s … overwhelming, if I’m being honest. But in the best possible way.” You glance around at the familiar setting with new eyes. “These halls practically raised me. And now … now I get to write my own chapter here.”

Fred gives your shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You’ve got a long road ahead, but I have complete faith you’ll make us all proud, Y/N.”

You straighten your shoulders, giving him a determined nod. “I’m ready.”

As you follow him further into the factory, you can’t help but revel in the rush of coming full circle. Yes, this team, this place, is indelibly woven into your childhood. But now … now it’s time to create new memories.

To race.

To win.

To become a legend.

***

The crowd outside the Ferrari headquarters swells as you emerge from the famous red doors for the first time as an official Scuderia Ferrari driver. Shouts and cheers erupt from every direction, fans pressing forward eagerly with pens and photos clutched in their hands.

“Over here, Y/N!”

“Un selfie, per favore!”

“Can you sign this for my daughter?”

You plaster on a polite smile, trying to graciously oblige as many autograph and photo requests as possible. But the throngs only grow more insistent, hands grabbing at you from all angles as the crowd closes in. Your heart races and you feel yourself starting to panic at the lack of personal space.

“Per favore, let her breathe!” An insistent voice cuts through the commotion in lightly accented Italian.

The crowd parts slightly as a familiar, lean figure pushes through — your new teammate. His green eyes meet yours with a reassuring look as he plants himself firmly by your side.

“Give her some space!” Charles barks out in English this time. “She can’t breathe!”

You shoot him a grateful glance as the fans reluctantly take a step back. Charles gently takes your arm and pulls you out of the scrum.

“Sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. “I know how intense they can be around here.”

“No, thank you,” you reply earnestly. “I was about two seconds away from an anxiety attack.”

Charles chuckles. “Well, we can’t have the new driver cracking under pressure on day one.”

You make a face at his teasing remark. “Watch it, pretty boy.”

Laughing, Charles puts his arm around your shoulders in a friendly gesture. “Come on, I know just the place to escape the madness for a bit. Dinner’s on me.”

He guides you across the plaza and down a side street to a cozy trattoria — Ristorante Montana, known as the unofficial “Ferrari restaurant” frequented by team members. As you enter, a stout woman with a warm, welcoming smile emerges from the back.

“Ah, Charles! Welcome back. And this must be ...” Her eyes widen as they land on you. “Oh, la piccola principessa is all grown up!”

Flustered, you open your mouth to respond, but the woman has already swept you up in a tight embrace.

“Rossella, you’re smothering the poor girl!” A elderly man’s voice calls out in amused rebuke.

“Hush, Maurizio, and pour us some wine!” Rossella releases you and holds you at arm’s length, beaming. “Michael’s little girl, all woman now. I’ll never forget the first time your father brought you in here as a bambina.”

She gestures to a framed photo hanging on the wall of a much younger Rossella standing next to Michael, who is holding a grinning toddler — unmistakably you.

“He was so proud,” Rossella continues misty-eyed. “Just like I know he would be of you today, following in your father’s footsteps.”

You swallow hard, touched by the warm welcome and memory. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Charles watching you with a soft smile.

Rossella shifts gears abruptly, all business. “Now, what will you two have? The usual for you, Charles? And for you, la principessa, I insist you try the gnocchi al ragú. Just like my nonna used to make it.”

As Rossella whisks off to the kitchen, Maurizio appears with a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses.

“To new beginnings,” he toasts with a wink, pouring for you and Charles.

You raise your glass to clink against Charles’ with a smile. “New beginnings.”

Over pasta and wine, you and Charles fall into an easy rapport, bantering back and forth as the weight of the evening’s earlier stress dissipates. You find yourself repeatedly distracted by the dimpled grin that lights up his face whenever he laughs at one of your quips.

“So is this a regular hazing ritual you put all the rookies through?” You ask innocently. “Get them away from the crowds and ply them with wine so they’re too drunk to be nervous on day one?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “You’ve found me out! Although I do seem to recall my own initiation being a lot harder. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.”

“Old age? You’re what …12?” You retort, eyes dancing with mirth.

The waiter arrives with the dessert menu, but Rossella shoos him away.

“No, no menu. I’m bringing you the tiramisu to share. My secret recipe.”

Charles groans in delight. “You’re a legend, Rossella.”

She pats his cheek affectionately before disappearing again. A comfortable silence falls between you and Charles as you each take a bite of the rich, velvety tiramisu.

“Mmmm, this is literally heaven,” you murmur happily.

Charles hums in agreement around another forkful.

Your eyes catch movement out of the corner and you turn to see Rossella returning, carrying a large framed photo under her arm. She sets it down on the empty chair next to you with a proud grin.

It’s a glamor shot of you from a recent photoshoot for Vogue Italia — hair and makeup impeccable, lips parted in a secret smile as you gaze directly at the camera.

Rossella rests a hand on your shoulder. “For me, bellissima? So we can hang la principessa right next to il padre.”

Touched, you take the proffered sharpie and scribble out a quick inscription before signing your name with a flourish at the bottom.

“Grazie mille,” Rossella breathes, throwing an arm around you to squeeze you against her ample frame. “You’ve made this old heart very happy tonight.”

When she finally releases you, you see Charles watching you both with a soft, almost wistful expression. You raise your eyebrows at him in question, but he just shakes his head with a smile.

As you and Charles prepare to depart, Rossella calls out once more. “You come back soon, eh principessa? I have more pictures to collect.”

You throw her a wink over your shoulder. “D’accordo, d’accordo. We’ll be back soon!”

Out on the street, you pause, conscious of the evening rapidly drawing to a close. You turn to Charles, studying him properly for the first time. His deep green eyes crinkle at the corners as he meets your gaze.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t swooped in to rescue me back there.”

Charles shrugs nonchalantly, but his expression is kind. “We look out for our own in Ferrari. That’s what teammates are for, no?”

A beat passes, the momentary tension thickening between you. Then Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, I should let you get going before your handlers send out a search party. Need me to call you a car?”

“No, no I’m good,” you reply quickly, trying to mask your disappointment at the night ending. “My performance coach has the car around front.”

You start to turn away, then impulsively pivot back. Rising up on your toes, you throw your arms around Charles’ neck and pull him in for a brief, platonic hug.

“Seriously, thank you,” you murmur in his ear. “For everything.”

As you pull back, your faces are just inches apart. Charles’ eyes are warm, his gaze intense. For a dizzying moment, you’re certain he’s going to kiss you. Then just as suddenly, the moment passes and he steps back with a friendly smile.

“Anytime, princesse. I’ll see you bright and early next week for our first time running the SF-23 on the simulator.”

With a wink, he turns and saunters off down the street, hands shoved in his pockets in that effortlessly cool way of his. You let out a long breath, flustered and exhilarated all at once.

Your performance coach has indeed been waiting with the car, looking mildly concerned. “Everything alright?”

You flash her a bright smile, practically skipping to the car. “It is now, Mara. It absolutely is.”

Your first day as a Ferrari driver was certainly more than you bargained for. But as you settle into the plush leather seats, you can’t wipe the silly grin off your face. Something tells you this new chapter with the Scuderia is going to be an adventure — in more ways than one.

As Mara pulls away from the curb, you catch a final glimpse of Charles striding confidently down the street. Even from a distance, you can make out the dimpled smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning back against the headrest, you think back to the memory of his arm slung casually around your shoulders and sigh contentedly. Yes, you have a feeling this is just the beginning of what’s shaping up to be a very interesting partnership with Charles Leclerc.

***

Sebastian looks over the wine list, pretending to be engrossed in selecting the perfect vintage as he peers over the top of the menu. His eyes are fixated on the entrance to the upscale Italian restaurant, waiting for Charles and you to arrive.

This had better work, he thinks to himself. The two of you have been making googly eyes at each other for months now, but are both too stubborn to make a move.

Finally, the hostess leads Charles and you into the dining room. Sebastian ducks down, pulling the brim of his fedora lower over his face and adjusting the fake mustache he’s wearing as a disguise. He watches as the hostess shows Charles and you to an intimate table for two by the window, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating your faces.

“There must be some mistake,” Charles says, looking around in confusion. “I was under the impression we were meeting Sebastian here for dinner?”

You look equally perplexed. “That’s what he told me too. He said to meet at 8 o’clock sharp.”

“Well this is just awkward,” Charles runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Should we wait for him or ...”

Before you can respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of bread and butter. “Good evening, my name is Gerardo and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Actually, we’re still waiting on-” Charles begins, but the waiter cuts him off.

“Ah yes, Mr. Vettel asked me to inform you that he will be unable to join this evening after all. A last minute obligation came up. He insisted I take excellent care of you both and that the evening is on his treat.” Gerardo smiles broadly. “So what will you have to drink?”

Sebastian smirks to himself at his cleverly orchestrated ruse from his secluded table in the back corner. He watches with bated breath as a flustered Charles and you exchange an awkward look.

“I’ll have a glass of Chianti,” you say finally, breaking the tension.

“Make that two,” Charles adds with a resigned sigh.

As Gerardo heads off to grab your drinks, an uncomfortable silence falls over the table. “You know, we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Charles says, ever the gentleman. “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reply, offering him a warm smile that makes Sebastian’s heart melt a little. “It would be rude to ruin the evening Sebastian so carefully planned, even if he’s not actually here to enjoy it.”

Charles visibly relaxes at your acceptance of the situation. “You’re right, of course. If it’s a free dinner, we would be fools to turn that down!”

You both share a laugh, finally breaking the ice. Sebastian feels a swell of pride watching the two of you start to let your guards down around each other.

Over the next hour or so, Sebastian is delighted to see Charles and you become more at ease, trading jokes and stories over several delectable courses of pasta, veal, and freshly baked focaccia. He’s never seen either of you look so lighthearted and carefree, nor has he witnessed two people connect on such an organic, genuine level before. It’s positively magical to behold.

Gerardo arrives once more, this time bearing a decadent slice of torta della nonna for you to share for dessert. “Compliments of the house,” he announces with a wink before departing.

You immediately dig into the lemony confection with gusto. “Oh my god, this is dangerously good,” you moan through a mouthful of pastry cream and flaky crust.

Charles tries and fails to stifle a laugh at your unabashed enthusiasm. “You’ve got a little ...” he gestures vaguely at the corners of your mouth.

“What? Where?” You ask, attempting to wipe the stray crumbs and smears of powdered sugar from your cheeks.

“Here, let me,” Charles says softly, reaching across the table with his cloth napkin.

Sebastian watches with bated breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as Charles tenderly swipes the napkin along your lips, his thumb grazing your cheek in the process. The moment seems to last an eternity, the two of you locked in each other’s smoldering gaze.

Then, ever so slowly, Charles leans across the table towards you. Sebastian can scarcely breathe as he witnesses the magnetic pull drawing the two of you together. This is it, this is finally happening, he marvels silently.

Sebastian lets out an inadvertent yelp of glee and instantly slaps his hands over his mouth. A table of nearby diners turns to gawk at the strange mustached man.

“Ahem, sorry! Hairball,” Sebastian rasps out in a terrible Italian accent. He slinks down in the booth, burning with embarrassment as the other patrons slowly turn away with disgusted looks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles and you also turn towards the commotion, the heated moment effectively ruined. Damn it, he was so close!

You and Charles eventually turn back towards each other, the awkwardness having returned. “We should, uh, probably ask for the check soon,” Charles mumbles, unable to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I’ve got an early training session in the morning anyway,” you reply, the disappointment evident in your voice as you stare down at the table.

Inwardly cursing his rotten luck, Sebastian motions for the bill and slips his black credit card into the folder when Gerardo brings it. He knows the only way to redeem this night is to insist you and Charles stay for one more drink. Maybe add a little more wine confidence to help reignite that spark you both nearly combusted over just moments ago.

As Gerardo whisks away to process Sebastian’s payment, the older German steels his nerves. He removes his ridiculous disguise, straightens his tie, and makes his way over to your table with purpose.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Sebastian asks with an exaggerated wink as he reaches you. “It appears Mr. Leclerc and Miss Schumacher were stood up this evening. For shame!”

“Ah, Seb!” Charles laughs in surprise at seeing his friend and former teammate. “We should have known you were behind this madness.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “You’re a menace! I can’t believe you tricked us like that.”

Sebastian claps his hands together and flashes you both a devilish grin. “What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic who cannot abide two clearly smitten people tiptoeing around each other any longer. Now, Gerardo is going to bring you the finest Barolo they have, on my dime, and you are going to remedy this sexual tension situation once and for all over another bottle or three!”

Charles opens his mouth to protest, but you laugh delightedly and nod towards Sebastian. “You know what, I could go for another drink. What do you say, Charles?”

The older Ferrari driver seems to wilt under the weight of your brilliant smile, Sebastian can’t fault the man for that. “Ah, what the hell,” Charles shrugs, throwing his arm around the back of your chair. “Let’s see where this night takes us!”

Sebastian settles in, pouring you all generous glasses of the deep ruby wine when Gerardo delivers it. He may be getting on in years, but his matchmaking job has only just begun. One way or another, he’s determined to ensure his two protégés quit stumbling over each other and finally discover the romance that’s been blossoming under their noses all along.

Sipping his wine, Sebastian gazes at you and Charles, sees the tenderness flickering in both your eyes as you lean in closer together over the candlelight. He smiles contentedly to himself.

Mission accomplished.

***

The paddock is mostly deserted at this late hour, the muffled sounds of the teams packing up drifting in from the garages. You linger near the Ferrari motorhome, watching Charles sitting alone on a stack of tires, shoulders slumped. He’s been increasingly withdrawn these past few days leading up to the Japanese Grand Prix.

You approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Charles? You okay?”

He looks up, managing a small smile when he sees you. “Hey, mon amour.”

There’s a weariness to his voice that tugs at your heart. You take a seat beside him, letting your arm brush against his in a subtle show of support. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Charles is silent for a long moment, pulling his helmet off and turning it over in his hands. “It’s Suzuka,” he finally says, so softly you have to lean in to hear him. “Being back here … it’s difficult.”

Your brow furrows. Right, this is where Jules Bianchi crashed, his accident eventually proving fatal. Charles had been incredibly close with his mentor and godfather. “I can’t even imagine how painful this must be.” You cover his hand with yours. “Having to race on the same track ...”

“I relive that day over and over.” Charles’s accented voice is thick with emotion. “I can still see the footage of his car slamming into the crane, like it’s burned into my mind. He was my friend, my godfather, like a brother to me. And now every year, I have to come back to this place that took him from us far too soon.” He squeezes his eyes shut, a stray tear escaping.

“Oh, Charles ...” You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is rigid at first before melting against you, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him tightly as his breath hitches with suppressed sobs, your own eyes stinging. How many times has he bottled up this grief, putting on a brave face for the world?

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve carried all these years. But Jules wouldn’t want you torturing yourself like this.” You pull away enough to frame his face with your hands, meeting his reddened eyes. “He’d want you to keep living, to keep pursuing your dream that he helped nurture. He’d be so proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”

Charles manages a watery smile, covering one of your hands with his. “You’re right. Thank you, chérie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours with a shuddering sigh. “I just miss him so much some days. Like an ache I can’t shake.”

“I know.” You brush away the dampness on his cheeks with your thumbs. “Believe me, I understand that ache all too well.”

A crease forms between Charles’s brows as he regards you intently. “Your papa.”

You give a solemn nod. “Everyone talks about him like he’s gone. But he’s not, he’s still here, still breathing. It’s just … he’s not the same man I grew up with anymore.” You blink back tears of your own. “Sometimes I’ll see flashes that remind me so much of how Papa used to be. And then that illusion is shattered and I’m grieving all over again for the person he was.”

Charles’ arms wrap around you fully, tucking your head under his chin. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. Seeing those glimpses of the man he was, only to have that hope ripped away.” He presses his lips to the crown of your head. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You let out a choked laugh. “Yeah, definitely doesn’t feel like it most days.” Pulling away, you try for a smile. “But we Schumachers are fighters. We don’t stay down for long.”

“That’s my girl.” Charles grins, cupping your face and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m lucky to have you by my side through all of this craziness. I don’t know what I’d do without your support, especially this weekend.”

“Are you kidding?” You turn to fully face him, clasping his hands in yours. “Charles, you’ve been my rock too, you know that? Signing with Ferrari this year, following in my father’s footsteps … the pressure has been immense. But you’ve never let me crumble under it. You’re always there with a laugh or a hug or some silly joke to make me smile even on the hardest days.”

Charles’s grin turns lopsided, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your heart flutter. “Well, someone has to keep that ego of yours from inflating too much, future champion.” He leans in until his lips are a mere breath from yours. “But in all seriousness, we’re in this together, okay? No matter what the future holds, I’ll always have your back.”

“I know,” you murmur, feeling his words like a soothing balm over the parts of your heart still aching for your father as you once knew him. “And I’ll always have yours. We’re a team, on and off the track.” You close the distance between you, kissing him deeply.

Charles returns the kiss with fervor, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you close. The worries plaguing you both seem to temporarily fade into the background amid the warmth and solidity of his embrace. When you finally break apart, breathless, his emerald gaze holds an intensity that steals the air from your lungs in the best way.

“Je t’aime,” he murmurs, the endearment like a vow falling from his lips. “No matter what happens out there tomorrow, or any other race day, that will never change. You and me against the world, princesse.”

You flash him a coy smile, feeling desire begin to simmer low in your belly. “Is that a promise, Mr. Leclerc?”

“Mmm, I can make it one if you’d like.” Charles waggles his eyebrows, making you giggle as his hands roam freely over your back and sides, pulling you flush against him. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Maybe I can find more convincing ways to pledge my devotion once we’re back at the hotel.”

“I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you say breathily, leaning in to nip at his lower lip in a way that makes him groan. “Though if memory serves, I seem to recall you saying something about honoring the team’s curfew tonight?” You trail openmouthed kisses along the sharp line of his jaw. “Wouldn’t want to be … sleep deprived before the race.”

Charles’s fingers flex against your hips as he lets out a shuddering breath. “You’re really testing my willpower here.”

“Payback for all those times you’ve tortured me.” You punctuate the statement with a sharp nip to the sensitive skin below his ear, making him jerk against you with a strangled sound. Pulling back, you smirk at the glazed look in his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

He blinks slowly, then his gaze narrows in a way that makes heat flare across your skin. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that later.” His voice is low, almost a growl that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“I look forward to it.” You lean in until your lips are nearly brushing his again.

“Tease,” Charles accuses, though his kiss quickly swallows any further retort.

You lose yourself in the press of his mouth, the exploring glide of his hands over your body, the undeniable chemistry that still sometimes takes your breath away. When you finally break apart, gasping for air, you stay wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads resting together.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs after a long beat of comfortable silence. “For always knowing how to pull me out of my own head. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“That’s what partners are for,” you say simply, brushing back the silken strands of chestnut hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are so warm, so full of love and adoration, you feel it envelop you like a cozy blanket. “I’ll always be here to lean on, just like you are for me.”

Charles catches your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. “And I’m grateful for that every single day. Facing the good times and bad, together.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I know Suzuka will never be easy, not with the weight of the memories here. But you make the burden feel lighter. Like no matter what, I’ll be okay as long as I have you by my side.”

You lean in, brushing a featherlight kiss across his lips. “Always. No matter what the future holds, you’re stuck with me, Leclerc.”

A slow, utterly content smile spreads across his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He steals another lingering kiss before glancing toward the pit area, where the last few stragglers are packing up for the night. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, I suppose we should try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

Sliding off the tire stack, he offers you his hand, that warm gleam still dancing in his forest-colored eyes. “Though maybe we could indulge in a long, hot shower first? You know, to … unwind after such an emotionally draining evening.”

You raise an eyebrow at his transparent attempt at nonchalance, but can’t help a smirk from tugging at your lips. “Why, Mr. Leclerc, are you propositioning me?”

“Would that be so terrible?” He tugs you into his arms, leaving a trail of teasing kisses along your jaw. “After all, we did have quite the … charged conversation just now. I’d hate for all that pent-up tension to distract us on track tomorrow.”

You let out a breathless giggle as his wandering hands and lips leave tingles across your skin. “Well, when you put it that way … I suppose a nice, relaxing shower could be just what we need to clear our heads.” Looping your arms around his neck, you meet his heated gaze through lowered lashes. “Lead the way, liebling.”

Charles’ responding grin is nothing short of wolfish. “With pleasure.” Scooping you up in his arms, he heads for the parking lot at a swift pace, leaving the weight of Suzuka and its ghosts behind for the night.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you bring your Ferrari across the finish line, tires smoking from the incredible pace. Your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio, congratulating you, but the words are drowned out by the thunderous cheers echoing around the Autodromo Nazionale Monza.

You can hardly believe it. Your first season with the Scuderia and you’ve just won the Italian Grand Prix — on the hallowed ground that your father once ruled. The sea of fans decked out in red is a sight to behold, celebrating wildly as you complete the cool-down lap.

Pulling into parc fermé, you kill the engine, the high-pitched whine slowly dying away. Undoing the straps, you clamber out, still trying to process what just happened. This is really real.

“You!”

The familiar voice makes you turn. It’s Charles, beaming from ear-to-ear despite settling for second place today. He pulls you into a massive hug, squeezing you tightly.

“I can’t believe you just did that! Amazing drive!”

You laugh, giddy with joy and adrenaline. “I still can’t believe it either! Everything just … clicked.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Charles chuckles, ruffling your sweat-damp hair. “You were incredible out there. Absolutely brilliant.”

Hearing the praise from your boyfriend means everything. You know how hard he’s worked, how much he’s sacrificed to get this far. And he’s still your biggest supporter.

The two of you finally pull apart as the rest of the team makes their presence known, congratulating you with bearhugs and massive pats on the back. You did it — you brought the victory home for Ferrari at the Temple of Speed.

After the chaos of the post-race celebrations dies down a little, it’s time for the podium ceremony. You can’t wait to stand up there, basking in the adulation of the wildly passionate Tifosi. As you make your way out with Charles and the third place finisher, the crowd’s cheers swell to a new eardrum-bursting level.

Climbing the steps, you take your spot on the top level, heart racing as you look out over the endless sea of fans. The air is filled with brilliant red smoke, passionate flag-wavers creating mesmerizing patterns. You’ve seen Grands Prix in Italy before, but being up here, having actually won — it’s on another level entirely.

Speeches are made, anthems are played, and then it’s time to crack open the podium champagne. As the bottles are picked up, a rolling chant starts building in the grandstands:

“La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

The sound shakes you to your core. Tears instantly spring to your eyes.

Charles, beside you on the second step, grins and nudges you. “Listen to them! You’ve done it — you’ve made them fall in love with you just like they did with your father.”

Looking down at him with misty eyes, you mouth, “Thank you,” so overwhelmed that you can’t speak. He slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. The two of you share a soft kiss as the chanting grows louder and louder.

As you pull back, gazing out over the surging tide of humanity, faces beaming up at you in adoration, it finally sinks in. This moment — winning at Monza for Ferrari, with Charles by your side, the Tifosi embracing you wholeheartedly — is beyond anything you ever could have dreamed.

The emotions pour out in waves of joy and pride and disbelief. You raise your bottle high, echoing the chants and cheering your heart out to the crowd. They roar back even louder, feeding off your energy in the way that only this group of diehard fans can.

Once the champagne showers subside, giddy fans whistling at you and Charles canoodling on the podium, it’s time to head back down. But the celebrations are just getting started. The team wants to keep the party going.

On the drive over to Maranello, you find yourself sandwiched in the backseat between Charles and your race engineer, Ricky. Everyone is grinning like maniacs, high on the thrill of victory, singing drinking songs at the top of their lungs.

“Solo per lei! Principessa di Monza!” Ricky bellows, gently elbowing you. The rest join in, filling the car with the chant of “Only for her! Princess of Monza!” You can’t stop giggling, leaning into Charles, deliriously happy.

Once you finally roll up to the factory, the party spills out of the car and into the streets. The entire workforce has turned out, waving huge Ferrari flags, beating drums and sounding air horns in celebration. You’re immediately swarmed, being passed from hug to hug as champagne is sprayed in joyful arcs.

They finally manage to sweep you, Charles, and most of your garages inside the factory, where long banquet tables have been set up in the main hall. An enormous cheer goes up as you enter, sparkling wine sloshing from hastily poured glasses all around you.

The meal that follows is a total blur — amazing food, flowing alcohol, raucous toasts, and the happiest pandemonium you’ve ever witnessed. You keep getting tugged from conversation to conversation, everyone wanting to hear how the race played out from your lips. Charles sticks by your side the whole time, looking on with sheer pride.

At one point, you end up going shot for shot with Fred Vasseur, the team principal pouring vodka like his job depends on it. “La mia principessa!” He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears of joy. “You’ve made us all so proud today!”

He hoists his glass. “To our Princess! The Princess of Monza!”

The chant starts up again all around you. “La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

You beam at them all, squeezing Fred’s hand. No words can describe this feeling, being embraced so completely by your team — your family. This is what you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl. Following in your father’s footsteps, bringing glory to Ferrari, carrying on the legend.

The party rages on long into the night. At some point, you lose track of time completely, delirious with exhaustion from the whirlwind of emotion.

You come around for a moment, blinking in the dim glow of the factory lights. There’s quiet rumbles of laughter around you, echoing off the walls. Looking around blearily, you realize you’ve been tucked into a makeshift bed fashioned from a pile of Ferrari t-shirts, nestled in one of the car assembly spaces.

Charles is there too, cradled against your side, one arm wrapped protectively around you. The rest of the team — your PR officers, engineers, mechanics, everyone — is strewn about in similar nests, all of them totally conked out.

With a contented sigh, you snuggle deeper into Charles’ embrace, feeling his lips brush the top of your head. This bizarre, wonderful scene seems to encapsulate everything about being part of the Ferrari family. It’s chaotic and overwhelming and unlike anything else in the world.

But most of all, it’s home.

As you start to drift back to sleep, savoring the lingering scent of champagne and motor oil, one final chant echoes in your head:

La principessa di Monza.

La principessa di Ferrari.

***

11 Months Later

The last few laps feel like they’re happening in slow motion. Every turn, every gear shift, every tiny input to the steering wheel is magnified tenfold as the circuits count down. The pressure is immense, but you’ve been here before. You can do this.

“Stay calm, stay focused,” your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “The calculations look good. Just bring it home steady.”

Nodding to yourself, you downshift entering the stadium section, the roar of the massive crowd surrounding the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez swelling in your ears. This is it — your chance to join the likes of motorsport’s greatest heroes by winning the Formula 1 World Championship.

Your first victory at Monza, being crowned the “Principessa di Ferrari” by the adoring Tifosi, was a dream come true. But this … this is what you’ve worked towards since you were old enough to understand what your father achieved. To etch your name into the history books forever.

The laps tick by agonizingly. Every time the pitboard comes into view, your heart rate spikes. But you’ve got a comfortable gap to second place, managing the race perfectly. Just a few more corners now.

“Final lap, final lap,” your engineer calls out. “Looking brilliant. Stay comfortable and you’ve got this!”

You suck in a deep breath to steady your nerves. Out of the sweeping Curve 3 and onto the pit straight, the crowd’s thunderous cheers are reaching fever pitch. You can see the seas of red-clad fans absolutely losing their minds, knowing the woman they idolize is about to achieve immortality.

Crossing the finish line, you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding for what feels like ages. The emotion is overwhelming — a combination of pure elation, disbelief, and total exhaustion.

You did it.

World Champion at last!

You cruise around, yelling unintelligibly into the radio as the celebrations kick off around the circuit. There’s confetti in the air, smoke flares going off in brilliant shades of red, and a full-throated roar that could probably be heard all the way back in Europe.

Pulling into parc fermé, you switch off the car, letting the weight of the moment sink in. Tears of joy prick at your eyes as the magnitude of your achievement hits home. Ever since you were a little girl, running around watching your papa, this has been the ultimate dream for you.

And now, it’s finally happened. You’re a World Champion. Just like him.

The first person to reach you is Charles. He comes sprinting over from his own car, bounding past the marshals without a second look. One glimpse of the huge smile plastered across his face is all it takes for you to dissolve into giggles and delirious tears.

“You did it! You brilliant, brilliant woman, you did it!” He shouts, grabbing you up in his arms and spinning you around in a whirlwind hug.

“I can’t believe it, Charles! It felt like a dream … like it wasn’t really happening!”

You’re both laughing and crying at the same time, drunk on the euphoria of the moment. Clutching each other tightly, you press your foreheads together, trying in vain to compose yourselves.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles murmurs, gazing at you with adoring eyes. “You worked so incredibly hard for this. You deserve everything.”

Surging forward, you capture his lips in a searing, passionate kiss. For a few brief moments, the two of you are alone, lost in the depth of your emotions and your all-encompassing love for each other. Nothing else in the world matters but this perfect second frozen in time.

You finally break apart, breathless, when the rest of the team sweeps in to congratulate you. They swarm around in a laughing, whooping mass, jumping up and down, hugging, chanting your name over and over.

“To our champion! The Queen!”

The cry comes from Antonio, one of the veteran mechanics who’s been with the team since your papa’s days. He clasps your hands tightly, gazing at you with pride.

“Sei la regina! The Queen of Ferrari!” He hollers over the raucous din, tears shining in his eyes. “Just like your father, you’ll reign forever!”

Your eyes start brimming over again, overwhelmed. The tears roll down your cheeks, smearing streaks of sweat and grime from the race. But you can’t stop beaming.

All at once, the rest of the crew picks up on Antonio’s declaration. Their cheers and chants coalesce into one booming refrain:

“La Re-gi-na! La Re-gi-na!”

The sheer adulation washes over you in waves, every face beaming up at you in utter reverence. You find yourself struggling to take it all in. In a few incredible seasons, you’ve elevated yourself into the realm of legend in their eyes.

Charles wraps his arms around you from behind, steadying you as your knees start to go weak. You can feel his smile radiant against your neck as he cheers and whoops right along with the rest of them.

“You hear them?” He chuckles, kissing your temple. “It’s all for you, mia regina! My Queen.”

Hearing your love, your partner, your other half call you that sets off a fresh round of giggles and sobs. Turning in his embrace, you loop your arms around his shoulders, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him deeply.

When you finally part, you look out over the still-roaring crowd, many of them carrying elaborate signs with intricate drawings depicting you as a regal sovereign. Some have fashioned ornate crowns out of random merch and foam, holding them high. Others set off flares and smoke bombs in Ferrari red.

For a moment, their euphoric cheers fade into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears. Closing your eyes, you let the enormity of the moment wash over you, embracing the pride and humility and disbelieving joy.

This is your coronation. The new ruler of the Scuderia — la regina di Ferrari.

“La Regina di Ferrari! La Regina del Mondo!”

You can only chuckle in disbelief, Antonio and Ricky carefully taking your hands to hoist you up onto their shoulders in throne-like celebration. Charles is right by your side, standing vigil as your King Consort.

As the party spreads out around you, confetti and smoke filling the air, you look out across the ecstatic crowd. All you see are fervent faces, worshiping you as their new Queen of the World.

It’s a delirious scene that you never, ever could’ve imagined. And yet it feels so natural, so right. Like you were born to be in the center of this storm of jubilation. This is your true home.

And now, you’ve taken your rightful place as its ruler.

Mexico City burns long into the night in tribute to the newly-coronated Queen. Tomorrow, the party will likely continue all the way back to Maranello. But in this moment, you’re lost in the swirl of ecstasy, allowing yourself to be swept up in the currents of adoration.

La Regina di Ferrari.

La Regina del Mondo.

***

Eight Years Later

Jules can barely contain his excitement as you and Charles help him into the little red race suit. He’s practically vibrating with energy, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Easy there, petit coureur,” Charles chuckles, ruffling Jules’ hair affectionately. “We’ll get you suited up and on the track soon enough.”

“I’m gonna beat everyone!” Jules declares confidently. You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“That’s my boy,” you say with a wink. “Just like your Papa and me.”

Charles grins and pulls Jules into a hug. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? Today’s just for fun though, remember? No official points or anything.”

“I know, I know,” Jules says impatiently. “But I’m still gonna win!”

You laugh and swing him up into your arms, peppering his face with kisses until he squeals with delight. “Whatever you say, liebling. Now let’s get you out on that track!”

The three of you make your way out to the karting circuit, hand-in-hand. You can already see a small crowd starting to form along the fences, phones and cameras at the ready. A familiar scenario, even at such a low-key local event.

“Mama, Papa, look!” Jules points excitedly. “Those people want to take pictures!”

“That’s right, schatzi,” you say gently. “Your Papa and I are pretty well known in motorsports.”

“Like movie stars?” His eyes go wide.

Charles laughs. “Something like that, I suppose. More like … really famous racecar drivers.”

“Whoa ...” Jules seems to be processing this new realization. “You’re the best ever, right? The bestest?”

You share an amused look with Charles. “Well, we’ve had our fair share of success,” you hedge.

“Your mother is a multi-time World Champion,” Charles says proudly. “As am I. We did pretty okay, I think.”

“Woooaahh!” Jules looks absolutely awestruck, like his little mind has been blown. It’s both adorable and bittersweet — your own child, only just now grasping the level of your accomplishments and fame.

The crowd has grown considerably by the time you reach the pit area, people pressing against the barriers in hopes of getting a glimpse of the royal family of Maranello. A small team of event staff try valiantly to keep order, but it’s a losing battle.

“Excuse me! Y/N! Can we get a photo?”

“Charles! Over here, please!”

“Oh my god, is that little Jules? He’s so cute!”

Jules clings a bit closer to you and Charles, startled by the commotion. You pull him protectively against your side.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “Just some fans who are excited to see us.”

Charles gives the crowd a regretful smile and a small wave before ushering you both past the security team and into the pit area. The calmer, more controlled setting seems to ease Jules’ nerves.

“Why were all those people yelling and taking pictures?” He asks with a small frown.

“Like I said, we’re pretty famous racers,” Charles explains patiently. “A lot of people know who we are and want our autographs or photos with us.”

“Like celebrities!” Jules says, the admiring light returning to his eyes.

You laugh and ruffle his hair again. “Something like that, yeah. Your Papa and I have had a very successful racing career over the years.”

“The best careers,” Charles amends with a wink at you. “Multiple world titles each.”

“World titles?” Jules looks utterly baffled by the concept. “Like … the best in the whole world?”

“Exactly,” you confirm, feeling that familiar swell of pride. “We were the fastest drivers in the world, for a few years at least.”

“Whooaa ...” Jules seems torn between awe and disbelief. “You’re like … superheroes!”

You and Charles both crack up at the adorable comparison.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Charles laughs, “but I suppose to some we come pretty close, eh?”

He scoops Jules up and swings him around, making him shriek with laughter. You watch them with a content smile, suddenly aware of how blessed you are to have this life — your incredible husband, your precious son, the career successes you both achieved. It’s more than you ever could have dreamed.

“Alright,” Papa says, setting Jules back down. “Why don’t you go grab your kart and we’ll get you out on the track? Think you can take on the world champions?”

Jules gives a determined nod, that familiar fire blazing in his eyes — the same look you’ve seen in your husband’s familiar green ones a thousand times over the years. “You bet! I’ll show you how it’s done!”

With one last hair ruffle, you send him scampering off excitedly. Charles slides an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” He murmurs against your temple. “So much like us at that age. I can already tell he’s going to be a hell of a driver someday.”

You lean into his embrace with a contented sigh. “He is … and just look at how the crowd reacted to him. He’s barely grasped that we’re famous, and now he’s already getting mobbed himself. Our little star in the making.”

Charles makes a rueful sound. “We’re going to have to get used to that, I suppose.”

“Oh, I think we can handle it,” you say lightly. “We’ve had plenty of practice being in the spotlight, after all.”

He laughs and drops a kiss to your hair. “That’s true enough. As long as we stick together, we can get through anything.”

“Exactly.” You turn in his arms to face him properly, cupping his jaw tenderly. “You, me, Jules … nothing else matters as long as we have each other.”

Charles’ eyes are warm with devotion as he gazes down at you. “My soulmate. My family. How did I ever get so lucky?”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet, the rest of the world temporarily fading away. You lose yourself in the familiar comfort of his embrace, the love you share-

“Ewww, gross! Stop kissing!”

You break apart with a laugh to find Jules making over-exaggerated gagging noises nearby.

“And the moment’s ruined,” Charles teases, keeping an arm looped around your waist.

You bend down to Jules’ eye level with a mock stern look. “You just wait until you’re all grown up with a sweetheart of your own. Then you’ll understand.”

He scrunches up his nose theatrically. “Never! Girls are gross!”

You and Charles share an amused look.

“If you say so,” Charles chuckles. “Now let’s get that kart fired up.”

Jules’ entire demeanor shifts in an instant, that fierce competitiveness surfacing once again. He scrambles into the cockpit of his little kart and takes firm hold of the wheel, looking suddenly years beyond his age.

“You’re going down!” He declares brazenly. “I’ll leave you both in the dust!”

And just like that, the proud parents are replaced by your familiar racing mentalities — the thrill of competition, the desire to win. You share a conspiratorial grin with Charles.

“Is that so?” He taunts playfully. “In that case, no more taking it easy on you two.”

You bend down to kiss Jules’ forehead, unable to resist a parting quip. “Promise you won’t be sad … because Mama always wins.”

With that, Charles heads off to grab his own kart, leaving you and Jules alone for a brief moment. He looks up at you with shining eyes.

“You’re my hero, Mama,” he says simply. “And Papa too. I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”

You feel your heart swell fit to burst, filled with more love than you could possibly put into words. Bending down, you pull your beautiful little boy into a fierce hug, eyes shining with unshed happy tears.

“Oh liebling … you already are. You’re everything we could have dreamed of and more.”

You press a lingering kiss to the top of his head, overwhelmed with affection. When you finally pull back, there are indeed tears shining in your eyes.

“Now go show your parents what you’ve got, baby,” you say with a watery smile. “I can’t wait to see you out there.”

Jules gives you a determined nod, eyes blazing with that trademark fire. “You got it, Mama! Get ready to lose!”

With that, he slams down the visor on his helmet and revs the little engine. You step back with a laugh, watching him peel out onto the track with all the confidence and flair of a seasoned pro. Like parents, like son indeed.

By the time Charles rejoins you, his own kart idling beside yours, Jules has already completed a couple of warm up laps. You can’t resist shooting Charles a smug grin.

“Well, well … looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. He drives just like you.”

Charles snorts, clearly trying to downplay his obvious pride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s all your genes coming through.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a sudden commotion from the fences draws your attention. The crowd has grown even larger, people pressing against the barriers with raised phones and voices calling out excitedly.

“Oh my god, it’s them!”

“They’re so cute together!!”

“Over here, please! This way!”

You share a resigned look with Charles as event staff rush to try and control the growing swarm.

“This is what it’s going to be like from now on, isn’t it?” You murmur. “Our little family, constantly in the spotlight.”

Charles shrugs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he watches Jules blaze by. “What else is new? We’ve been there our whole careers. At least this time, we get to share the fame together … as a family.”

You lean into his side with a contented smile. Out on the track, Jules whips past in a blur of determination, completely unbothered by the fawning crowd. Just a little boy living out his dream, regardless of who his parents might be.

“You know what?” You say softly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Charles drops a kiss to your hair as the roar of the crowd and engines swells around you. “Me neither, mon amour. I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: again, a request :)

summary: delivery driver!nat, artist!reader (not part of the request, but i decided to add it anyway), g!p nat

warnings: brief smut (handjob), implied sex, forgetting to eat (not sure if this needs to be a warning but i’m adding it anyway), mildly creepy behavior but only if you squint

word count: 7k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Hands splattered with yellow paint. A white overall. Messy hair and the smell of turpentine mixing with some expensive perfume.

Mundane things, but she won't be able to get them out of her head.

Natasha never knows what kind of people she's going to run into while doing late-night deliveries and, frankly, she usually doesn't care. All she wants is the money and maybe a solid tip — that's it. She does it for the extra cash, not because she's desperate for even more social interactions.

She's been doing this for a while now. Being a car mechanic at a small shop, her salary is far from sufficient. The $20 an hour don't stretch far, barely manage to fully cover her rent, so she decided to pick up a few extra shifts at night. Bless DoorDash for making those quite flexible as well, otherwise she'd probably be living in the streets now.

Again, she doesn't care who her customers are. She meets all kinds of people like this, and she's seen everything from teenage boys ordering Chick-fil-A for their 2am-gaming sessions to lesser known celebrities who can't be bothered to cook. Alcoholics and single dads, college students and people who just got home from partying. In the end, their faces will all be a blur, anyway.

Your name doesn't stand out when she accepts the delivery. All Natasha notices is that she's never delivered to this address before — a somewhat remote area, up on a hill, no neighbors and nothing to do. She doesn't question what kind of person would live in a place like that, even though she maybe should. What she also should do (but doesn't) is worry about driving up there by herself. It's the middle of the night, nobody else lives up there, and the cabin looks as run-down as it does abandoned.

When the motorcycle's headlights die down, so does the last source of light she has. All the house's windows are closed and dark. Judging by the looks of it, she's delivering food to ghosts.

Natasha swings her leg off the motorcycle and grabs the paper bag from the little top-box. She notices the residual grease on her hands a second too late, but decides it isn't important. The paper bag is full of stains either way.

Once she steps on the porch, a tiny light turns on. It flickers pathetically, barely holding on at this point, but provides enough light for Natasha to see your face when you open the door.

Doe eyes and paint on your cheeks, hair pulled back carelessly. Hands that look like they have enough color on them to make even the grayest days a little more colorful. Suddenly, she regrets not taking a closer look at your name. She would've remembered.

"DoorDash", she says, holding out the paper bag.

"Right!", you say, face lighting up and eyes turning more lively. Natasha feels her thoughts falter. "Totally forgot. Lemme just-"

You turn and, just like that, disappear in the darkness of the house. Natasha pauses, still holding onto your order, before snapping out of it. She glances into the hallway and tries to locate a single source of light, but finds nothing.

That is, until you seem to appear out of thin air again. She flinches slightly.

"Thanks", you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "Had trouble finding your way up here? I know one guy who got lost in the forest. Somehow managed to take the wrong exit. Never saw that pizza."

"No, no issues", she mumbles, handing you the food and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "It's dark in there."

"Oh, yeah." You nod and grab her hand. She stares at you, stunned, and then you smear the rag on the back of her hand. The streak of paint that's left behind glows faintly. "Glow-in-the-dark paint!"

"Seriously?"

"Looks great, doesn't it? I wanted to paint my bathroom with that, but decided against it."

Natasha hums, looking at the paint again. Her eyes meet yours. You give her an expectant look, as if you're waiting for something she can't place. All she's doing is deliver your food, after all. But you keep staring, so she shakes her head.

Enough. She has at least half a dozen more deliveries to get through before she can call it a night.

"Okay", she says, slowly, and steps back. "Well, uhm, enjoy your food."

You nod, already tearing open the bag of fast food and grabbing a fry. "Don't get lost on your way back."

She glances at you, seeming a little distracted. Then she nods and waves absently, already on her way to her motorcycle. The door closes behind her, a soft thud that cuts through the quiet of the night, and she tracks the vehicle where she left it.

It's an old, beat-up thing, but it's reliable. It gets her where she needs to be, it allows her to earn some extra money. She's thankful for her Harley, she really is. But in that moment, when she's hopping on her old Sportster and grabbing the handlebars, she wishes it wasn't the reason she's able to leave again.

. . .

Can doing what you love make you starve?

Maybe. Possibly. Actually? Pretty damn likely. That's your conclusion after working on a few new projects made you forget about eating for almost an entire day.

Aside from a bowl of Cheerios in the morning, topped with a bunch of sugar, you haven't eaten anything all day. Instead, you've been mixing colors and washing paintbrushes and filling your sketchbook. Doodles on walls and paper scraps on the floor, paint in your hair and a pencil between your teeth. One foot resting on the edge of your seat, you tug at the straps of your overall. The color on your fingernails isn't nail polish — it's paint.

You lean forward and inspect the little sketch again. At this point, you're not even sure what this is going to be. Another scrap? A comic strip? No way to know until you're at least halfway there. Maybe you won't know even then.

Music is making the floors vibrate. In front of you are a couple of cups. Some contain tea, others water you've been cleaning your paintbrushes with. You glance at them and resist the urge to take another leap of faith. You've had one too many sips of murky, paint-infused regret.

You turn toward the sketch again, but your stomach rumbling distracts you from the thick lines of charcoal and graphite. You sigh and shift, trying to ignore it and get back into that creative, pulsating headspace again, but it's no use. Your body is hungry.

As usual, you're not in the mood to cook. You're working, and you're scared of getting into another creative block, so you open the DoorDash app and order one of your favorites.

When Natasha looks at her phone, it's not just your name that stands out. It's the address. It brings back images of vines on the sides and tangling around porch railings, winding dirt paths, paint on the back of her hand and a heart that won't stop thrumming.

There's been a lot of this over the past few weeks. At first, it was just a coincidence — due to you ordering food at the most ungodly hours, not many drivers are available. Natasha is one of the few who are desperate enough to work past midnight. Just bad timing, in the end. Or good, depending on how you look at it.

Then, it started to feel like more. She's not sure why, or how, but it did.

It was the same for you. After a few nights of being too distracted and sleep-deprived to notice anything, you finally caught onto the fact that, hey, you'd been getting the same driver over and over again. And hey, you like that driver, and it's not just some case of classical conditioning due to the yummy food, but actually more than just that.

Natasha noticed as well. And now, seeing your name and address on the screen, your order up for grabs, she taps on 'accept delivery'.

The route to your house is familiar by now. The lack of light doesn't disrupt her ability to find her way to your porch anymore. The paper bag in her hands has ceased to merely be a way to earn more money.

You open the door and, as basically always, give her that slightly absent smile you tend to sport. Eyes just a little distant, like you're constantly chasing some cloud of thought in your head, and hands and cheeks smudged with some kind of art medium — charcoal, paint, ink. Natasha can't help but stare, her own forearms oil-smudged but concealed by her jacket.

"Hey", she eventually says, holding out the paper bag. "Your food."

"You were quick this time", you say, grabbing the bag and putting it aside. "No traffic? Or were you just that eager to get here?"

"A bit of both", she says. She's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You do tip quite generously."

You hum, eyes subtly tracing along her arms. They're hidden by her leather jacket, but you can tell she gets some sort of physical exercise. Workouts or something. Maybe manual labor. Whatever it is — it's working.

"Driving into the middle of bumfuck nowhere should have its perks."

"Oh, I can think of a few."

You shoot her a quick smile. "Hm", you say, briefly glancing into the hallway. Natasha follows your gaze and spots a half-finished painting. She decides not to comment on it, but the colors distract her for a moment. "So...any more deliveries tonight?"

"Huh? Oh, yes." Natasha nods, spinning her keys around her pointer finger. "Still got to get through a couple."

Tilting your head, you let your eyes linger. She tilts her head right back at you, but much more subtly. The air between you heats up, despite the chilly October air seeping into the hallway. Sparks fly and bodies subconsciously move closer. Just a tiny, harmless step. Nothing to worry about.

"Pity. I was going to offer you a fry", you say, peeling some dried paint off your thumb. "But I can't keep you from your adoring customers, can I?"

"Probably not", Natasha agrees, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step back again. It's getting late, and she needs to get her ass back on her motorcycle. Flirting with a customer probably isn't the smartest move, either. "Though 'adoring' isn't exactly a word I'd use for them."

"Why not?", you say, watching her walk back to her motorcycle. A black, rugged thing that makes perfect sense for her. "You're always on time."

"Maybe that's only your experience", she counters. "Like you said — eager to get here."

You lift your eyebrows. Natasha sits on the old Harley and lets the engine roar, a sound that cuts through the quiet night sharply. You can barely see her, that's how dark it is outside. But then the motorcycle's headlights come on and you feel your heartbeat quicken.

"Drive safe", you call out once you've pulled yourself together.

"Always do", she calls back.

As she drives off, you can't help but wonder whether it's still just a coincidence at this point.

. . .

There's a thin line between being romantic and being a creep.

You may or may not have been toeing that very line.

Ever since noticing Natasha works the night shifts, you started ordering food later and later. It went from 11pm to midnight, then to half past midnight. 1am followed, then quarter past.

Why? To allow her to linger.

What you don't know is that Natasha's been doing the same. Maybe even worse. She scans the orders, looking for yours. She doesn't even think about it anymore — it's just instinct.

With each delivery, she stays longer. Stalls. She lingers in the doorway, her voice hushed and raspy, silently trying to figure out what colors you used based on the stains on your hands and face.

And with each delivery, you become more used to seeing her. It turns into a routine, something normal. Like waking up to the movie posters taped to your bedroom ceiling and listening to the owls at night, you start to expect it. That shows a few weeks later, when Natasha pops up to deliver your birria tacos.

"Where were you yesterday?", you ask, sleepy and groggy, and grab the greasy paper bag. She lifts her eyebrows.

"You didn't order anything yesterday."

You pause and look up, blinking slowly. It's nearly 2am, and you really need to sleep. But you've been up, waiting to order something and have Natasha deliver it.

"You sure?"

She smiles faintly. "Didn't see your name anywhere. I'm pretty sure, yes."

"Oh." Your face falls and you scratch your cheek. The dried watercolor on it is irritating your skin. "I think I forgot about dinner, then."

"That's concerning."

You wave your hand dismissively. "Happens all the time", you say. "Maybe I need someone to remind me."

Natasha stops in her tracks when you give her an expectant look. There's no way you're serious, right?

But you are. You grab your phone and hand it to her. She looks at the screen, smudged and cracked, before glancing at you again.

"You deliver my food all the time, anyway", you argue, ignoring her soft sigh. "Why not cut out the middleman? Much more practical."

"And the reminding you-thing?", she asks, already typing in her number.

"That was a joke."

"It didn't sound like one. Here." She hands you your phone back and crosses her arms. You tuck the device into the pocket of your overall. "For emergencies, right?"

"Of course", you say, smiling. The exhaustion seems to have disappeared from your face.

It's a lie, and you both know it, but Natasha can't find it in herself to care.

. . .

"Seriously?"

"I ran out of charcoal."

"I had to drive all the way across town", she points out. "Plus, my number was supposed to be for emergencies only."

You lift your chin, silently challenging her. She doesn't seem too impressed, though, but the look in her eyes tells you she doesn't mind this as much as she pretends to.

"Food emergencies", she adds. "Not art emergencies."

"You still went and brought it."

Natasha only partially succeeds at biting back a half-frustrated, half-fond noise, and shoves the plastic bag into your arms.

The words do it yourself next time are on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't utter them. God forbid she has to quit stopping by your house.

You peek into the bag and hum approvingly. Natasha watches you, first unmoving, then reaches out to touch the blue paint on your cheek. She swipes her thumb across it and smudges it further.

You look up, staring. She shrugs.

"Missed a spot."

"Very considerate", you say, lifting your hand to let your fingertips ghost across your cheek. Red and blue create purple.

Natasha shifts, but doesn't step away. Her eyes trace your face. You want her to stay, and she doesn't want to leave.

"No more bullshit", she adds. "Otherwise, I'll start expecting much bigger tips."

"You drive a hard bargain", you reply, cocking your head. "Can't promise anything, though."

She sighs, but the tiny smile betrays her. She can think of worse things than getting more excuses to see you.

"You're spoiled", she states. "How come you're always up this late, anyway? It's, like, 2am."

You shrug, turning on the spot and sauntering into the living room. Natasha, to your frustration, stays glued to her spot in the hallway.

"Can't sleep", you say, crouching in front of the large sheet of paper and tearing open the new charcoal. "Working on something."

She hums, trying to catch a glimpse of you and what you're doing. She can see the corner of a paper, covered in a bunch of comic strips. Then, you crawl forward on your knees and your head comes into view.

"I'm surprised I see no coffins in here."

"Huh?"

"You know. Always up at night, afraid of the sun."

You lift your head, momentarily puzzled — you're spacing out already, and you're sleep deprived, and this late, nothing seems to make sense. Then, the meaning behind her words registers.

"You're asking if I'm a vampire?", you say, sitting on your knees and wiping your face with the back of your hand. Natasha's lips twitch as she sees you smudge the charcoal there further.

"It'd make sense", she replies. "Now you're refusing to answer, too. Guess there must be something to it."

"Well", you say, wiping your hands on your overall, "let me bite you and find out."

Natasha malfunctions for a solid three seconds. Once she's gotten her bearings, she rolls her eyes and knocks on the wooden door. You look up from your project and tilt your head.

"Deliveries?"

"Yeah", she says. "Two more, then I'm done for tonight."

You nod, disappointed but not ready to argue. You get up and pad back into the hallway. You're not even sure why — she can find her way back outside by herself, obviously.

Natasha keeps her eyes on you. Her hands are in the pockets of her jeans, red strands of hair framing her face. She sees the charcoal on your bottom lip and wonders what kissing you would taste like.

"I'll text you", you say, rubbing your lip to get rid of the charcoal.

Emergencies only, she wants to say. She decides against it.

She steps back, adjusting her jacket. She should leave. She needs to leave. Somehow, she can't bring herself to. She just stands there, watching as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the light from inside catching on the paint smudges along your collarbone.

"See you", she says, voice lower.

"Yeah", you mumble, eyes on her.

She finally forces herself to turn around and step outside. The cold night air cuts through her jacket, but she barely registers it. She swings one leg over the motorcycle and puts on her helmet, then waits.

You're still in the door, the golden light spilling out from inside framing your silhouette.

Natasha shakes her head and kicks the bike to life.

The roar of the engine fades into the night, and you close the door.

. . .

Having your motorcycle break down in the rain is less than ideal.

Natasha swings her leg off the bike, frustration etched into her features, and crouches down beside it. She filled up on gas right before leaving, so that can't be the issue. She checks the cables and wiring, inspects the spark plugs, takes a look at the battery. Once she's done that, she curses and kicks the tire.

The battery's dead. She's screwed.

Running her hand through her wet hair — of course she had to forget her helmet today —, she looks at your house in the distance. It's almost two more miles, and it's pouring rain, but she's got your In-N-Out order in the top-box and, truthfully, she‘s itching to see you.

She tries starting the bike one more time, even if it's hopeless. The battery's dead, which means the motorcycle isn't getting anywhere. Accepting her fate, she grabs the handlebars and starts pushing.

Wet hands slip on metal, rain drips down her face. Her jacket is soaked, as is her hoodie. Her boot briefly gets stuck in mud. Raindrops feel like dozens of tiny whips against her cheeks.

By the time she's gotten up the hill and to your house, half an hour has passed. She's soaked to the bone, dripping wet, out of breath, her arms hurting — and somehow, she doesn't care about any of that. She grabs the paper bag from the top-box and makes her way to your porch. Cold, reddened knuckles meet old wood.

You open the door and stare at her.

Drenched, out of breath, her once light gray hoodie now the shade of cracked pepper. Water drips from the red strands of hair that are framing her face. Clutching the takeout bag like it's life or death, her green eyes staring right back into yours.

For a moment, neither of you move.

When she lowers her gaze to the floor, a puddle forming on the wooden porch beneath her, you jump forward and cup her face.

Kissing her feels like second nature. Her lips are cold and wet when they press against yours. Her cheeks are cold, and she smells like a mixture of perfume and rain-soaked clothes.

You tug her inside, only pulling away slightly. She's still out of breath, but for a different reason now.

She sneezes, turning her head to try and hide it, but you notice anyway. You help her out of her jacket and steer her to the couch. She sits down and off comes her dripping wet hoodie. Her shirt is soaked as well, so off it goes as well. Fingertips brushing against skin, you notice how cold she is.

"You're insane", you say, returning with a towel. Natasha glances at it and subtly raises her eyebrows when she spots the paint stains on it, but you've already started toweling her hair dry. "You'll get pneumonia!"

"I'll be fine", she says dismissively. "Just a little rain. My bike broke down."

"You could've called", you mutter, rubbing her hair with the towel. "Or texted. I would've called a taxi or something."

Natasha goes silent. She didn't even consider that option. Maybe part of her wanted to prove something. Hopefully, she succeeded. If not, this may have all been for nothing.

You go upstairs to grab some clothes from your room. Natasha stays on the couch, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She expected art supplies, many of them, and she also expected some messiness. But she didn't think it'd be so...comfortable. Lived-in. Warm, despite the chaos.

Paint splatters on wooden floorboards and half-finished paintings leaning against the walls. Charcoal sketches and pastel doodles, postcards on the walls. Mismatched furniture — most of it thrifted — and glass paint on the massive window. A teddy, with a knitted dress on it.

She smells tea and turpentine, with a hint of something floral woven into the unique smell. A glance at the dining table tells her it's coming from a vase full of lilies.

You return, bare feet padding against stair steps, and walk back to Natasha's side. You hold out a sweater for her to put on, nodding in encouragement, but she grabs your waist and pulls you into her lap instead.

It's unexpected, but not unwelcome. She tugs the sweater out of your hand and tosses it aside, then kisses you again.

Fingerprints of paint stain her face.

. . .

You don't stop ordering things. In fact, you only start to order more.

You know you're being an annoying little shit. It's clear as day, and your chats prove it.

You: bring me more

washi tape pls? — 1.04am

Natasha: you're fucking

kidding — 1.04am

You: the clear one with

the stars :) — 1.05am

Natasha: this isn't a

convenience store. — 1.05am

You: it is if you bring

me what i want — 1.06am

And, half an hour later, she was in front of your door. There was a striped bag in her hands.

Once she saw your smile, she'd forgotten all about her complaints.

"This is the last time", she said, letting you lead her into the house. You tilted your head up to kiss her jaw. "Don't even try to butter me up. No more running errands for you."

You know she doesn't mind, though. One night, as you're kneeling on the floor and gluing magazine cutouts to a painting, someone knocks. You get up and open the door and, oh surprise, it's Natasha.

The first thing you notice is that she looks exhausted. Circles under her eyes, her face even paler than usual. The poor excuse of a paper bag she's clutching is crumpled and grease-stained.

"You order anything?", she asks.

Of course not. You never order on Tuesdays. Not anymore, at least — it's the only night Natasha has off.

You tilt your head in silent response. Her jaw clenches, she shifts on her feet and drums her fingers against her thigh, and you finally decide to stop torturing her.

"Come in", you say, grabbing her hand.

"Figured you'd want something", she mumbles, padding into the living room.

"Uh-huh. Here, sit down."

She sinks onto the couch's cushions, sighing quietly. You straddle her lap and take your sweet time with her for a moment. Just look at her, run your fingers through her hair, gently push the jacket off her shoulders.

Her eyes meet yours. You smile softly and grasp her chin between your fingers.

"You must really like me."

She bites the insides of her cheeks, eyes staring up at you. No response — she doesn't know what to say, because denying the truth would be as uncomfortable as standing by it.

You trail your fingers along her jaw, then slide them up into her hair. You lean in close, so close you can taste her breath and feel her lips brush against yours, but not close enough to kiss her. Finally, Natasha grips your thighs in unspoken frustration.

You laugh quietly and lean in, deciding to go easy on her. You press a kiss to the corner of her mouth and guide her to lay down.

"Cat got your tongue?", you murmur, placing lingering kisses on her jaw.

"Just tired."

"And you decided to show up here."

"Nothing else makes sense this late."

The admission makes you pause, if ever so briefly. You kiss her, hands cupping her face, and feel her hands slip under your shirt.

Fingertips inch higher up and tug at your bra. The clasp comes undone, making the pressure around your chest disappear.

It's slow. Clothes come off, lips meet time after time. Straddling one of her thighs, you litter kisses and little bites on her neck.

"You should sleep", you whisper against her skin. Your fingers are fumbling with the zipper of her jeans.

"I will", she rasps, eyes closed. "After."

"You seem tired", you point out. You tug the waistband of her jeans lower and expose Calvin Klein boxers. An involuntary noise leaves you at the sight.

Natasha puts her hand on the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. Her other hand grips yours, slowly guiding it into her boxers.

You feel the heavy weight of her length in your hand and nearly moan. A few slow strokes are enough to get her to harden in your palm. You feel every vein, every soft throb, her quickening breathing like music in your ears.

There's something vulnerable about being in this position. Natasha is used to being on top, but with you, she doesn't seem to mind letting you take control.

Her head drops back against the armrest. With her neck exposed to you, your lips linger on her pulse point as you start moving your hand up and down her shaft. The pad of your thumb circles her tip, gathering precum and lubricating her hard-on.

She squirms underneath you, frustrated and restless, a silent request for you to pick up the pace. But you keep your movements slow and steady, drawing out the pleasure and letting it build gradually. Natasha's hips buck into your hand, her hand clasped over her own mouth to stifle moans.

She twitches and throbs hotly in your hand. You kiss her collarbone, your hand applying pressure to her cock. You're drawing her to the edge so gently she feels like she might lose her mind.

Your thumb traces veins and rubs the underside of her length. Another soft whine comes from her mouth. You lift your head to kiss her and swallow the pathetic little sounds she's making. When she comes, her body tenses through the slow, shuddering unraveling. Cum spills on your hand and you pull away.

Dazed, spent, out of breath. Natasha clears her throat, her cheeks flushed.

. . .

You only need to take one look at the bag she's holding to be able to tell.

"You forgot something", you say, paint-smudged hands on her waist as you steer her inside. Much to her dismay, you absently wipe your fingers on her hoodie. She shoots an exasperated look at the blue stains.

"You haven't even opened the bag."

"I can tell. You forgot the snail shells."

Natasha glances at you as she plops onto the couch. You put the bag on the coffee table and rummage through it. You were right — no snail shells. But you do find the requested Oreos and vanilla milk.

"You only eat trash, you know", she says, one arm tucked under her head.

You roll your eyes. "Don't even start with that."

"I mean it. Oreos and sugar-milk aren't exactly the most nutritious dinner."

"Oh, hush", you mumble, swatting at her. Natasha just grins and reaches out, grasping your wrist. "Hey, what-"

She ignores you. With one swift tug, you topple over and she's got you on the couch next to her. You grunt and adjust your position.

"You hush", she retorts, arm wrapping around you and snuggling you closer. "Always complaining. Would it kill you to be grateful for once?"

You huff, smiling. Natasha pinches your side and you let out a gasp.

"Hey!"

"Come on, say it."

"Forget it."

Her fingertips dance over your ribs. You shift and squirm, trying to get away from her grasp, but it's a halfhearted attempt.

"Come on", she repeats. "Say thank you."

Her fingers brush against the underside of your breast. Your laughter turns into a barely contained sound of pleasure.

Natasha laughs and slips her fingertips under the fabric of your bra.

"Say thank you", she whispers, "and maybe I'll be nice."

"So unfair", you retort. "Fine. Thank you."

"Mhm." She hums and kisses your cheek. "Better."

"You know, if you weren't the one delivering me stuff..."

"What?" She scoffs, smiling, and tickles your ribs. She knows better than to get offended by what you said. If it weren't for her delivering your orders, this never would've happened. Neither of you really know what 'this' is, but you both know you like it.

You squirm in her arms and bat at her hand. "You heard me!"

"Is that all I am to you?", she mocks, lightly cupping your breast. "I'm wounded. Truly."

"No", you say, not thinking. "You don't know how much you mean to me, I think."

Natasha goes quiet for a long moment. She feels your heartbeat speed up, rapid like a prey's, when you realize what you just said. But then she shifts and sits up, and she guides you to roll over, and you feel her lips on yours.

She never stays the night. She doesn't let herself get too close to anyone. She's seen you naked, touched every inch of your body with her tongue, yet staying the night always felt like it'd be too much.

This time, she stays. Fully clothed and keeping her space, she lays down. She makes sure not to breathe in the scent of your bedsheets. At some point that night, though, she wakes up. She reaches for you blindly, fingers feeling the air until they graze your arm.

She hesitates. Something has shifted, and she can feel it deep in her bones.

Finally, she pulls you closer. Tucks you against her chest, brushes her fingers along your spine.

. . .

Before she's even managed to open her eyes, you're up and about.

Digging through your closet, brushing your hair, making tea and toast and opening windows. Wind makes the curtains billow out and her hair flutter, so she rolls over and buries her face in your pillow. The sun isn't even up yet.

"Why are you up at this ungodly hour?"

"Watch the sunrise", you say, slipping into a tank top. "Paint a little."

"You're insane."

"Up, up", you say. You throw aside the blanket she's covered with and pat her butt. She doesn't move an inch. "Come on! I need your help with something."

That manages to briefly get her attention, but it doesn't last long. She slumps back into the sheets, her face hidden.

"Forget it", she murmurs.

"Nat", you drawl. "Please. It'll be worth it."

"Define 'worth it'."

You tug at her boxers, just enough to expose a sliver of her butt. She swats at your hand. It's obvious she's tired, so you decide to let it go for a while. As soon as she's out of bed, though, you're dragging her out of the house and toward a shed to the side.

You feel grass under your feet, tickling your ankles. Natasha trails after you, hand in yours, her red hair in a braid. The top she's wearing is one of yours, and it's covered in charcoal and watercolor stains. She's not complaining anymore — too distracting is the sight of you in nothing but an oversized shirt and her boxers.

But then, you open the shed. You reveal a red Fiat.

First, she just stares. The car looks relatively new. Maybe not brand new, no, but no older than about five years. Natasha's a car mechanic, so she can figure that out pretty easily.

"You have a car."

You nod and lead her into the shed. "Yeah. This is DaVinci."

She shoots you a brief, disbelieving look, then stares at the vehicle again. "You've had a car. This whole time."

"Mhm."

"...I've been driving around in the crack of dawn for nothing."

You wave your hand and lean against the wall, ankles crossing. "Not for nothing. It, I dunno...won't start. It cranks, but doesn't really do anything."

Natasha rolls her eyes. She lifts the hood and secures it with the rod, then takes a look at the engine bay. You stay where you are, subtly checking her out. A black tank top and cargos, her braid resting over her shoulder. Hands that are slowly but surely getting covered in grease.

You'd jump her bones, but you already made her roll out of bed for this, so she probably wouldn't appreciate you trying to make a move on her right now.

"Didn't take it to a shop?"

"Wasn't in the mood."

You earn an exasperated look for that. You shrug, and Natasha turns toward the car again. You have no idea what she's doing, truthfully, but that's fine. The view's nice.

"Coolant's good", she says, checking it for leaks. "Battery terminals are a little corroded."

"No idea what that means."

"Of course", she mutters. She frowns and tugs at a belt-like thing. Loose, which isn't a great sign. She unscrews the fuel filter and a nasty liquid drips out. "Jesus. When's the last time you changed this?"

"Change what?"

Natasha purses her lips and puts the filter aside. "I see. Neglect."

"You're being dramatic."

"You should've taken this thing to the shop ages ago", she complains, voice muffled as she leans deeper into the car. Tank top riding up slightly, you catch a glimpse of her toned stomach. Her biceps flex and you almost miss her next question. "Got a toolbox?"

You tilt your head and pretend to have no idea what she's talking about just to mess with her a little. She stares back at you, eyebrows raised. Once she leans onto the car, one hand on the side of the hood and the other covering her forehead, you saunter to the shelves in the back of the shed.

"Oh, thank god", she mutters. "You got a replacement filter?"

"Aw, honey. You believe in me too much, I think."

Another shake of her head. She steps out of the shed, walks to her bike, grabs something, and then returns. You eye the cylinder-like thing with the two tubes sticking out of it.

"That it?"

Natasha doesn't even respond. You do see her lips twitch, though.

She grabs the creeper you for some reason have and lays down on it. Again, abs. Muscles, covered in small grease stains, flex. You stare at them unabashedly.

She slides under the car and unhooks the filter. You crouch down to get a better view of her.

"Now what?"

"Changing the filter", she replies. Fuel dribbles down her forearms and she wipes it off with a rag. "You can thank me later, by the way."

"Will totally do."

She replaces the filter, tightens the clamp, then gives the undercarriage an encouraging tap before rolling back out. You're sitting on the floor cross-legged, shooting her a teasing smile when she reappears.

"What?", she asks, wiping the fuel off her arms.

"You're so good with your hands."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but kisses your cheek anyway. She changes the serpentine belt as well, then closes the hood and pats it. She nods at the car.

"Go on", she says. "Give her a try."

"'Her'?", you say, sitting down behind the steering wheel.

"Cars are always female."

"You learn something new every day." You put the key in the ignition and turn it.

The car seems to hesitate for a moment. It rumbles, cranks, and you're already about to give up — but then it comes to life, smoother than ever before, and you clap your hands.

Before she can register what's happening, you're out of the car again. You throw your arms around her and jump into her embrace, squeezing a little too hard. You hear a soft grunt from her.

"Hey", she laughs, "I'm covered in grease."

"Don't care." You pull away just enough to reach her lips. They're plush and warm against yours. "You're a genius!"

"I do what I can", she mumbles, a little too rosy cheeked and happy, and kisses you again. Walks you backwards until you're sitting on the hood of the car, slowly leaning forward so your back is flush with the cold, hard material. "What now? No more deliveries? I'm officially useless?"

"No", you whisper, tugging her closer by her pants' belt loops. "I'll find a way to keep you entertained."

Metal creaks beneath you. Sunlight seeps into the space. The shed's doors are still open. The air smells like grass, fuel and Natasha's cologne.

Her hands palm your sides, push the shirt you're wearing a little higher. Fingertips trail over smooth, soft skin. Her nose nuzzles your jaw, then you feel wet, hot kisses along your neck.

You wrap your legs around her waist.

"Think DaVinci can handle this?", she murmurs, one hand sliding around to the small of your back.

You pretend to think about it — and then pull her back in.

. . .

You're both on the rug in the living room, a paint-stained blanket draped over her lower half. She's on her stomach, arms crossed underneath her head and her eyes staring at nothing in particular. You're straddling her butt, a paintbrush in your hand.

You've had all kinds of canvases so far. Linen, cotton, in rolls or on panels. Small ones and bigger ones, raw or primed. Yet, none of them come close to the one you're sitting on right now.

Neither of you really talked about this. After sleeping together on the floor, though, surrounded by art supplies and sketches, Natasha’d rolled onto her stomach. You’d seen the smudges of paint on her shoulder. You’d brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.

"You ticklish?", you’d whispered.

She'd shaken her head 'no'.

It may have been a lie. You can see her twitch ever so slightly whenever the bristles brush against the more sensitive areas of her skin. You put your hand on her shoulder and push her back down when she tries to shift.

"Not yet", you insist, trying to finish the painting of the two little bats.

"Whatever", she mutters. You smile and add tiny teeth to the creatures' mouths.

"It's cute."

"I look ridiculous."

"What?" You huff, getting off her and scooting away on your knees. You grab a different color and return. "Bullshit. You look adorable. Such a shame I'm not a tattoo artist."

She turns her head enough to look at you. Red strands fall in front of her eyes and you reach out to tuck them behind her ear. Your fingertips, stained in black and red, leave specks of paint behind.

"I truly hope you aren't being serious."

"Maybe, maybe not." You grin and wave your hand at her. "Come on, put your head back down. I'm not done with you."

"Oh, for fuck's sake", she mutters, but does as told.

Index finger dipped into black paint, you write the word mine on her lower back.

Natasha tenses, but only briefly. Her fingers curl into the rug underneath her. She exhales, her face buried against her arms again. She's enjoying this a little too much. Not just the feeling of your weight on her body, of cold paint on skin, but everything else as well.

It's been months. You still haven't given up your little routine of ordering stuff and then making her stay the night.

"I felt that", she mumbles, voice muffled.

"What?", you ask innocently. You decide to add a few hearts.

"What you wrote." She hesitates. "You mean it?"

You add another heart. You smile at your own creation, then peek at her face. You can't see her, so you tickle the back of her neck. All it leads to is a small huff, though.

"Is it important?"

"It's not not important."

"So it is."

"Y/N."

"I mean it."

Finally, she looks up. Her eyes search your face.

You haven't defined your relationship. You're staking your claim on her, anyway.

"I mean it", you repeat, seeing the incredulous look on her face. "I wouldn't have spent hundreds of dollars on deliveries if it didn't mean getting to see you."

"Yeah", she murmurs.

"I don't need the deliveries." You let out a slow breath. "I just need you."

The tips of her ears burn red. She shifts, swallows, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how. You nudge her side with your knee.

"Too much, too soon?"

"No." She laughs, dropping her face back onto her arms. "Keep going."

[parkersbliss]

the 141 and the really weird or random quirks I’ve decided they had

pairing: task force 141 (ghost, gaz, price, soap) x female reader 

warnings: suggestive content, like sexual content but not smut

a/n: I have zero reason for doing this expect I wanted too?? and got carried away with suggestive aspects of it which is funny cause I don't write smut lmfaooo. so mostly fluff and based off real quirks people I know have.

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

requests open for tf141!

—

Price:

no matter how many times he cleans the bathroom, his beard hair is everywhere. obviously he keeps that shit well groomed but it’s always somehow stuck on your face after you wash it, or on your shower loofah or towel. and you've tried and he’s tried to clean it and it never works. 

loves gnomes. you have ones in the garden, the front yard, in your house for EVERY occasion. I’m talking christmas, easter, halloween, thanksgiving. he has a set for every season and it honestly scares you a little. one year he bought a giant one for your christmas tree as the topper and it made him so happy so you just accepted it.

doesn’t like to celebrate his birthday. He’s so much of a giver he downplays it every year. If you guys have kids, he’ll buy something for them ON HIS DAY just to take the attention off. so he kind of hates gifts, but he’s not going to not accept that. Would prefer you don’t, even though he bought you a $20K pearl necklace for your birthday. (You’re still afraid to wear it)

leaves you on heard. all. the. time. you ask him something, like as he’s sitting next to you and just … silence. sometimes he even nods, looks at you and then turns away. you’re not sure if it’s something to do with his hearing or he’s just so relaxed at home he just doesn’t comprehend sometimes. “hey, baby, what do you want for dinner?” “mm.” 

average dad experience of sharing a hotel room and brother is snoring. you know what I’m talking about? the cold A.C turning on and off and mf just be out and it’s so loud you have to wear ear plugs. you wonder if he has sleep apnea at some point bc he can’t be real. 

but don’t worry, he’s just as loud in bed bed ;) and he makes it known when you’re going at it 

Ghost:

too stealthy for his own good and always scares the shit out of you. and he’ll try to be loud too, knocking on doors AND still isn’t loud enough. He always feel so bad but it’s also so funny to him bc he really does try to not be so quiet. 

owns the same black t-shirt, like at least 5, but claims one of them is just softer and better than the others. you’ve tried them all on and there is no difference to which he mumbled something about you not having the special sense??

cat whisperer. you’ll adopt a cat while he’s gone bc you’re lonely and you spend all the time with the cat but no. cat loves ghost more. He’ll sleep on top of ghost, but never you. he’ll follow ghost around the house, but not you. it’s very infuriating. and ghost has no idea why bc he’s around 1/2 the time you are. 

has a whole cabinet for his bourbon collection. and a special glass cup AND special spherical ice for it. he doesn’t even drink that often, but it was absolutely necessary (to him). 

he’s a clean freak. very routine in how and when he does laundry. Bed sheets on this day, dark on this day, etc. he won’t let you do any of it. If he loses a sock, he throws out the other pair. as soon as there’s a hole in something, he throws it out. 

nov. 1st is christmas to him. the tree is already up, no questions asks. there are no thanksgiving decoration in this house. he also has multiple trees, one by the entrance, one in the living room, one in your bedroom. 

has definitely fucked you under the christmas lights by the fire. begs you to wear bow lingerie so he can quite literally “unwrap his best gift” 

Gaz: 

loves the lego car sets. his home office is decorated with all his medals AND the lego cars. has definitely left pieces out that you stepped on and then proceeded to scream his ear off.

begs you to play fortnite with him. you think he’s batshit crazy “that’s literally your actual job” “no but the raging kids makes it fun and we can match skins” (he means the banana skins btw) and he’s a troll. he doesn’t take the game seriously, he just wants to torture little kids and make fun of you when you can’t figure out where the shooting is coming from. or when you throw down a med kit instead of splash. 

cannot get through a movie without fucking you and it’s always during the good parts so he’s got you in doggy and you’re still trying to watch the movie??

Instigator fr. he’s not toxic but like he’s gonna argue. Has literally once said to you “I’m not arguing I’m just explaining why I’m right” to which you stared at him and asked if he was stupid 

always ask for hot sauce or sriracha at restaurants or if he can get something spicer. he eats buldok noodles with the whole sauce packet and then proceeds to sit in the bathroom for an hour while you scold him. 

reckless driver to the max. you fear for your life when you’re in a car with him. He speeds (within reason he claims), he makes quick merges and switches lanes fast. he does use a turn signal so you let it slide bc he’s risky but not THAT risky. 

obviously, he has horrible road rage. you’ll be calling him while he’s driving and it’s all normal and then “OI YOU FUCKING SHITE DO YOU HAVE A LICENSE?” you just sigh and then he answers you like normal, “yeah I think I’m out of toothpaste too.” 

saves every selfie of you from snap and his rotating ones as his wallpaper. even the ugly ones you beg him to take out. like any guy, he’ll claim it’s his favorite and then it’s a 0.5 of you eating ice cream and it’s dripping everywhere and your eyes are half closed. 

Soap: 

leaves sticky notes everywhere to remind himself of things. anything. “need olive oil” “missing one blue sock” “(Y/N) wants thai takeout” “call ghost” “laundry” 

and sometimes they’re not even correlated to where it should be. like the note that just says “laundry” will be in the kitchen. and he stacks on top of those sticky notes with more. “did laundry” “bought more socks” it drives you insane

he's obsessed with blankets. He has a designated like basket/bin or blankets in the living room and your bedroom. He sleeps with like three. and he’s got heated ones, sherpa ones, weighted ones, etc. absolutely collects the different printed ones for each holiday. 

loves to go decor shopping with you, but only because he wants to pick out the ugliest things and see your reaction as you swat at him and tell him to put it back. only for him to sneak it back into the cart and you death glare him. 

If you need to rant, he resumes the whole “omg girl, period.” personality. he loves gossip and he loves doing facemasks with you as you talk shit and drama about your coworkers. 

he's so “wait I have to tell my gf this” bro will literally be on a mission and gets a cut? “I have to tell (Y/N).” the room exploded? would take a selfie and send it to you, if possible. sees a weird shaped potato at the grocery store? Sends a picture. Falls down the stairs? you're getting a picture of his broken foot. hard? here's a dick pic just for you babe

uses the same hydroflask water bottle that’s dented, has sticker residue and chipping on all side. “It’s reusable, that’s the point” he claims. you're not sure if he’s ever washed it and you certainly aren’t going to open it and find out for him. 

[telephoniii]

hello!! idk if you accept requests, but i randomly thought of octavinelle trio with a reader who's also from the sea like them and on land they're a total sweetheart, upbeat and doesn't give off the vibe of scariness at all, but the trio know that they're actually pretty scary! Cuz back in the sea they were an orca or something (like. sweet but theyre actually scary is my vision) if the octotrio is too much then is just floyd ok?? Sorry for yapping too much AHHH ur work is so great ty for writing so much 🙏🙏

THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE

☆彡 in which you’re scarier than you seem

word counter: 180 per character

octavinelle boys x gn!reader

warnings: possible ooc, light bullying? (jade & floyd)

a/n: i love these boys, but they’re all pricks. lovable pricks. on another note, i think i’m going to officially open requests. i have a few that i’m working on and i’ve been having a lot of fun with them. they’re also nice for when it gets busy and I don’t have a lot of time to brainstorm ideas to write myself. anyway, i hope you enjoy :>

floyd leech

He thinks you are the CUTEST thing in existence. You're so fun! So squeezable! Floyd thinks that your switch in personality from land to sea only adds to how adorable you are. He is fully aware of your scary side, yet it only motivates him to tease and mock you more. On land, he'll try to sneak up behind you in the hallways. If you don't catch this man? He's picking you up, squeezing you, and twirling you around. Azul has told him to stop several times. Jade just wants to see you snap at Floyd, so he never interferes. If you do catch and stop him? He's pouting for the rest of the day while plotting his revenge. Everyone's going to assume Floyd's just picking on the helpless classmate who's too nice to do anything back. But he knows it's a facade. Which is exactly why he goes harder on you than anyone else. Riddle is PRAYING for you.

jade leech

You and him are similar in a way. Except he hides his true nature less well. Jade is quick to catch on and finds it extremely amusing. He wants to see how far this act of yours will hold up, meaning he's purposely putting you in situations that'd aggravate you. All while he wears an innocent smile. He takes up the role of a devil on your shoulder in a way. Jade is constantly trying to tempt you into revealing more and more of your scary side in front of others. Calling him out on this won't do you much good either since he's playing a similar game to you. He'll just give you that dashing smile of his and claim he has no idea what you're referring to. If you get caught up in trouble with other students, run out of your land potion way too quickly, get involved in an argument, etc, more often than not you'll find Jade somewhere nearby smiling at you. And something about that grin tells you he defiantly pulled some strings to make your life just a little bit harder.

azul ashengrotto

He's the only one out of the three who's slightly intimidated by you. But even then, it's less fear and more intrigue. Azul wants to pick your brain. Do you switch from sweet to scary on purpose? If so, why? What're you trying to gain from doing so? He'll do little things to let you know that he's well aware of your true nature. It won't be anything drastic like Jade, just little, snide comments here and there with a smug look. Azul has offered you so many job opportunities at the Monstro Lounge. A personality like yours is way too good for business. He actually holds you to a pretty high regard and isn't afraid to tell you that, calling you his 'star pupil' when you work for him. Azul tries to be close to you a lot. Is he plotting to make a deal with you? Most likely. He's trying to get your guard down so you're more likely to agree to whatever he wants to do with you. Your unique personality could be a great Joker card if he ever needs it.