#a fic before work is good for the soul | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yundeob · 10 months ago

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the parent trap | KHJ

part 1 of the Night in Hollywood!series

☆ trope: exes to lovers!au, divorced!au

☆ pairing: producer!hongjoong x designer!reader, dad!joong x mom!reader

☆ warnings: nsfw (mdni), swearing, mentions of food, mentions of food poisoning, female desc. reader, drinking, suggestiveness, smut, slight!breeding kink, oral sex (f. receiving), overstim, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap!) nipple play, titty sucking, marking, praise, slightdom!joong, blond!joong bc that itself is too much for me, mentions of (early) pregnancy, you’re both in your early thirties and make an unbelievably stubborn couple in this!

☆ synopsis: AS DIVORCED PARENTS to two twin daughters, you and hongjoong have your fair share of work cut out. Driving to piano lessons, cheering at hockey games, drop offs at each other’s houses, it can all be a little much. But could a relaxing summer retreat as a whole family possibly rekindle past emotions you’ve swept under the rug? . . .

☆ word count: 18.1k

☆ playlist: soulful strut by young-holt unlimited, l-o-v-e by nat king cole, just the way you are by billy joel, slipping through my fingers by abba, this will be (an everlasting love) by natalie cole

☆ a/n: it’s finally here. I can’t believe I’m writing this and saying it’s finally here oh my goodness. first off, thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who has supported me with the series so far (shoutout to @kitten4sannie , @byuntrash101 and especially @desirehorizon for being amazing!) everyone’s sweet comments have been greatly appreciated, and I just hope this silly little fic brings a smile to your everyday lives.

ty for making writing worth it as a writer. now cue the opening credits!

“ABSOLUTELY NOT” Hongjoong says.

“But dadd,” she whines, clutching the wrinkled pamphlet closer to her chest. Eunseo’s small hands are covered in purple doodles her sister drew using a glitter pen.

“Why not?” the girl complains, shrugging her shoulders.

He sighs, pushing his glasses up with one hand as he continues typing away at the important document the producing company sent him on his laptop. He tries his best to reason with the child.

“Because, baby…” pausing to think for a moment before responding. “It would be hard for your mom and I to find a time that fits into our schedules. I’ve got work, and she must be busy as well.”

Eunseo glares at her father’s excuse.

Okay, yeah, the man knows it’s somewhat of a lie, himself.

She continues to protest by shoving the advertising pamphlet in her dads face and blocking his view of the screen. Thankfully, Hongjoong is used to these sort of work distractions, expertly avoiding her by craning his neck sideways and continuing to type away.

“But dad, it’s an amazing cottage resort! They’ve got a lake where you can go swimming in, a forest hiking trail, a bonfire to roast marshmallows and even a diner less than fifteen minutes away! So if you end up burning the camp food like last time, we can just order and eat in! Isn’t that great?” She beams.

He stops typing for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he gives his first born a look that makes her immediately break into a sweet smile, batting her lashes and flashing him a look of innocence.

“Please?” She begs, standing on the edge of her feet as she gazes up at him. “The last time we went was when Eunbyul and me were toddlers.”

And how on earth could any dad’s heart not melt at the sight of his daughter trying to convince him about one harmless vacation?

Hongjoong wheels his office chair back, turning so he could look her in the eyes properly and tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

“Listen honey, I’m sorry, I really wish I could, but…” he trails off, looking back at the open tabs and file documents displayed on his computer.

Turning his head around and upon seeing a frown form on his daughter's face, he quickly reassures her.

“Once you finish your final piano recital tomorrow and your mom picks your sister up to take her to her hockey game, how about we go fishing the weekend afterwards?” he suggests, brows raising. “That’ll mean I have just the two of you all to myself.”

Eunseo mumbles under her breath, quiet but insistent enough that he catches it.

“But we’re supposed to be a family of four.”

She sulks, thinking of how that would leave you, her mother, left out of their plans. The arms holding the pamphlet up, ultimately fall down in defeat.

He places a peck on her forehead, patting her on the back. “You know, if you can get your mom to say yes, then I’ll think about it” he chuckles, knowing the highly unlikely probability of the event.

Adjusting his glasses, the producer goes back to his work, peeking his daughter slugging away from the corner of his eye.

Eunseo slumps her shoulders in defeat as she walks out of her dads office, turning the corner to see her twin sister, Eunbyeol, pressing her ears near the door with her neck outstretched. Clearly she’s been caught in the middle of trying to overhear their conversation.

The twin younger by fifteen seconds quickly rushes over, waiting expectantly.

“So? What did dad say?”

Eunseo exhales, throwing the information pamphlet away on the wooden floors and slumping against the living room couch.

“He’s totally not buggin. Said he wants to take us fishing next weekend instead. Just us three.” she grumbles.

Eunbyeol scrunches her nose at the idea.

“But dad sucks at fishing.”

Her sister groans, kicking her small feet against the couch in frustration. “I know!” Eunbyeol starts to worry, coming to sit beside her.

“Then how on earth are we going to get mom and dad to get back with each other again? They haven’t been in the same room since we were like, five!”

Her twin sister scoffs, “First, we gotta get them to have a proper conversation with each other. They barely even talk when they drop us off at each other's houses.”

Nobody truly knows why you and Hongjoong had divorced so suddenly when the girls were young. Not even themselves.

All they were used to were cold stares and one word replies shared amongst their parents, refusing to find harmony in their co-parenting.

Frankly, your girls have had enough of the performance you were both trying to maintain, looking past your expressions to realize you and your husband still held feelings for the other. It was only a matter of time and place in order to set you two up together, thus, the idea of an intimate, family getaway came into their minds.

After a few moments of letting her words hang in the air, Eunbyeol’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“That’s it!”

The older twin looks up quizzically, watching her sister jump off the couch and gaze at her excitedly.

“We’ll just have to force them to meet each other! We can always guilt trip them for dropping us off at their houses and making us play alone!”

Eunseo rolls her eyes at the idea. “Right, and how are we going to do that dummy? The only reason they’d do that, was if it was an emergency.”

Whoever said twin telepathy wasn’t a thing was a liar, because the second Eunseo catches onto what her sister is saying, the twins share a look of pure mischievousness, the gears in their brains working together as one.

With hushed whispers and quiet giggles, the twins immediately begin conducting their plan in secrecy near the corner of the living room, backs turned and in the middle of discussion when Hongjoong walks out of his office with an empty coffee mug.

“What are you guys doing over there?”

“Leave us alone! Family man traitor!” Eunbyeol shouts, holding a slightly hostile grudge to her father before turning back to whisper to her twin.

Hongjoong shakes his head, sighing as he heads into the kitchen.

“Then it’s perfect! I’ll stay here with dad once my piano recital is over, and then when Mom picks you up for your hockey game tomorrow, we’ll try convincing them together!”

Eunbyeol nods her head in agreement, eyes lighting up with excitement as she whispers in a hushed tone.

“And once both events end, we’ll pretend to be so sick that they have to take us to the nearby hospital.”

The other twin smirks. ”Where we’ll end up guilt tripping them into taking us to the cottage.”

They double high five in victory at their flawless plan, already waiting for tomorrow to come as soon as possible.

“A summer cottage?” you repeated, brows raising at the idea as you made a left turn onto your street.

Eunbyeol nods eagerly from the back seat after getting picked up, having ranted on and on about the ad in the pamphlet since the moment you saw her.

“It's an amazing establishment mom,” She boasts, making you laugh at her words while parking the car and unbuckling your seatbelt.

“They have everything you could possibly think of!”

“Oh, really?” You say skeptically, opening the door for her.

Eunbyeol is lost in the middle of passionately describing all the relaxing activities you could do by yourself, or rather per se, with a special partner together.

“There’s couples hiking retreats, couples canoeing, couples yoga… did I mention couples hiking retreats?” She confuses, retracing her words.

You roll your eyes and smile, keys jangling as you walk through the entrance of your apartment flat while balancing the bags and items in your hands.

Being a wedding dress designer and yet picking up your daughter from your ex-husband's house could’ve been ironic to some people. But after having split with Hongjoong since the girls were so young, you came to grow fond of having some independence as a divorcee, channeling your main focus into setting up your own bridal shop downtown.

It was through that hard work and focus that you did it all by yourself with no additional help.

You’d be lying if you said you haven't opened a bottle of red wine some nights due to loneliness as a divorced single mother, but at least that was what you had your daughters for.

You made sure to work just as hard as you did enjoy playing and spending time with them. After all, they were the light of your life and purpose for living.

Balancing the pizza you picked up on the way home, you set it down on the kitchen island, telling Eunbyeol to go wash her hands in the sink. The girl doesn’t stop ranting.

“There’s usually only two rooms in the cottage, so you’ll have to sleep together with dad, but I guess you won't mind, would you? After all, you were once married” She rolls her eyes, reaching for the soap.

You shake your head with a sigh. ”What is up with you and getting me and your father together in the same room?” you muttered as you took out the plates and utensils.

Eunbyeol eventually walks back to you, wiping her hands on her baggy jeans before sitting on the kitchen stool.

“It’s not that I’m obsessed, Mom. Actually, Eunseo and I are just dying to get away this summer now that school is over.”

Turning around from plating the pizza and salad, you chastise your daughter, telling her to sit with her bum flat on the stool so she doesn’t fall. She immediately listens, carrying on with her persuasion.

“We just want you and dad to get the chance to relax as well, that’s all!” her mouth full from a bite of hot, greasy pizza.

You smile, wiping your washed hands on the kitchen towel and coming over to wrap your arms around her affectionately.

“Spending time with you and Eunseo every week is how I relax,” you assured her, smothering your baby with kisses on her cheek.

Byeol lets out a squeal of annoyance, taking another bite of her pizza. “You’re squishing me!” She tries hiding her smile, failing when you lean in closer.

You pull back in laughter, ruffling her hair as you walk away while reminding her.

“Oh! Don’t forget you’ve got your hockey game tonight!”

Byeol chews faster, munching on the soft crust and counting down the hours on the kitchen clock.

She smiles to herself.

“Don’t worry, I know!”

“What do you mean you need to go to the hospital?” Hongjoong asks in a worried voice, standing against the women’s washroom stall. He holds Eunseo’s congratulatory flower bouquet for first place in hand, feeling the stares of multiple women passing by, clearly judging him for being in the ladies room with them.

“Honey, is everything all right?” He asks worriedly. A string of groans come from behind the door.

“You need to leave!” one old lady thrusts her walking cane at the father, lips pursed in dissatisfaction.

Eunseo did such a phenomenal job tonight for her piano recital, that Hongjoong was shocked to see his daughter clutch her stomach first thing after running down the steps of the stage, dashing to the washrooms.

He whips his head back. “My daughter’s having a bit of a situation in here, okay ma’am? Have a bit of sympathy!” He barks frustratedly out loud to the onlookers, turning back to speak in a softer voice to the stall door.

“Eunseo, baby, talk to me, is everything alright in there? Are you sure you need to go to the hospital? Is it that bad?”

The girl continues her acting performance, letting out fake groans while typing furiously on her cellphone.

“Oh the pain! I think I might have food poisoning, dad!”

Seolie: How far along are u

Byeolie: Mom’s outside, banging to come in.

Seolie: same, I told dad I needed to go to the hospital.

Eunseo lets out another groan of pain, causing Hongjoong to worry even more.

“That’s it, Eunseo. Let me in and help you” he decides, searching his bag for a painkiller or at least some sort of medication for relief.

The girl frantically checks her phone, eyes lighting up at the new message.

Byeolie: Mom’s getting the car to take me to the hospital. I’ve got her convinced to call dad soon.

Eunseo types as fast as her small fingers can move, even faster than when she performed her piano solo from before.

Seolie: Then what do I do????

Hongjoong gets slightly suspicious at the lack of sound coming from the stall, calling to his daughter again.

“Eunseo? Everything alright?”

At the next notification, the girl makes up her mind, getting the signal from her sister.

Byeolie: play dead. Mom calling soon. See ya there.

The actress gets into character, gaining her composure before unlocking the washroom stall and holding her stomach as she stumbles into her dad’s surprised arms.

“Eunseo!”

She wails, falling limp. “Oh, dad! Please! Take me to the hospital, it hurts too much!”

It’s truly a mystery which parent she got her acting skills from.

But she doesn’t have to tell him twice at that point. The man is already piggy backing his fainted daughter and sprinting out of the ladies washroom, reassuring her with soothing comments as he makes a beeline for the parking lot.

“Stay with me baby!” He huffs, unbeknownst to Eunseo who peeks one eye open.

Only after he straps his daughter in the backseat and is turning on the engine does he receive a sudden phone call from you, pressing the speaker for the whole car to hear your panicked voice. You break the news to him first.

“Eunbyeol’s severely sick. She fainted right after her hockey game.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened. “What?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “She was holding her stomach saying she ate something wrong. Is Eunseo okay?”

Hongjoong puts the stick into drive, backing out of the parking lot and replying in a hurry.

“She’s hit with the same thing right now. I’ll meet you at the Hospital in ten” he grunts, sweat forming on his brow as he speeds through traffic, not caring if he gets a ticket.

Had he looked in his rear view mirror, he would have seen Eunseo sagging near the car door, clutching her stomach with a small grin on her face.

You never liked the hospital.

The sounds of babies crying and hospital beds wheeling become the background noise, shifting nervously in your seat that was in the emergency pediatrics unit waiting area.

Hongjoong has his eyebrows furrowed, hunched over one seat beside you as he hangs his head in his hands, knees bouncing up and down. A middle aged nurse nasally calls on the next family waiting from the front desk, boredom laced in her voice.

You sigh, uncrossing your legs and choosing to bite at the fingernail on your right hand once realizing you’ve already done the same to all the ones on your left.

“It’s all my fault.” Hongjoong confesses, suddenly sitting still.

You glance to your left, watching as he sits up slowly.

“Last thing they ate together would’ve been at my house. I probably made them sick with something I fed them,” he dejects, hanging his head down in shame.

“It’s all my fault, god I’m so stupid!” He beats himself up.

You have half the mind to snap at your ex-husband, anger already filling up inside you earlier when you heard Eunbyeol suggest it was something she ate at her dad’s house. You really did want to yell at him for being so bad of a chef that he sent his own daughters to the emergency pediatrics unit, undeniably relieved that Seonghwa was working tonight’s shift.

But those cruel words sitting on the tip of your tongue are thrown away when you glance down to see your ex-husband missing a shoe on one of his feet.

Hongjoong rushed over here so fast with Eunseo that he left his shoe behind like some sort of fairytale, Cinderella. He hasn’t even realized he wasn’t wearing one right now.

You exhaled, knowing that if there's one thing you’ve learned while parenting, it was that to have patience and understanding was a virtue. Even for your ex-husband.

“It’s not your fault,” you sighed, staring at your hands folded in your lap.

It feels awkward when Hongjoong stops tugging at his blond locks to look at you in surprise, continuing to speak as you place a gentle hand on his thigh.

“That could’ve happened to anyone. We don’t know yet if it was because of the food. Let’s just pray and wait and see” your voice being a sign of reliability to him.

The man is a little shocked at your supportive nature to tell you truthfully. He delivers all the things he needs to say through his grateful gaze alone, reciprocating a small smile.

“Didn’t think I’d see you guys tonight.” Seonghwa chuckles, walking in before Hongjoong has the chance to reply. He comes from the patient's room wearing his dashing, white doctor's coat. “Together, at that” he mumbles under his breath before looking up and flashing you a polite smile while giving his worried friend a soft pat on the back.

Hongjoong holds his breath when he asks: “How are they?”

“Better,” he tells him, flipping through some papers on his clipboard. “But it was a big shock to their bodies. They need some rest at the moment.”

The pediatrician tries not to show his smile, standing in front of you and Hongjoong while hiding his expression behind his clipboard as per his niece’s request.

To be fair, if someone had told Seonghwa earlier that evening that he would receive a fifteen minute pep talk from his best friend's twin daughters that day in the emergency unit, he would’ve laughed in their faces.

Alas, life was always filled with surprises. Here’s what went down thirty minutes earlier in the hospital room:

“We’re trying to get them back together,” Eunseo announced confidently, sitting next to her sister on the hospital bed.

Eunbyeol nodded, eyeing the dumbfounded medical professional standing in front of them with his clipboard tucked under his arm, hands in his pockets.

“So.. you guys don’t need an IV drip?”

��It’s this whole entire thing, Uncle Hwa, we’ll explain to you later.”

It took a minute before Seonghwa reclaimed his composure as an adult, chastising the twins for pulling a false alarm over something like this. He made sure to make them promise him they wouldn’t do something stupid like this again. But after that, of course Seonghwa is immediately pairing to help them with their plan on getting his best friend back together with his ex-wife. The man is just tired of watching Hongjoong beat himself up half the time about missing you.

“So you essentially want me to lie about the fact that you guys don’t have food poisoning, and were just faking this whole thing so your mom and dad would have a reason to see each other.”

The twins nod, one of them pointing out. “And make sure to tell them we’re fine of course. Maybe throw in we’re like, really sick, but that we’ll live so it’s best if we get rest.”

“At like a cottage or something” the other chimes in, wiggling her eyebrows at the hint.

The doctor sighs, scratching his neck sheepishly.

When Seonghwa leads you and Hongjoong into the hospital room, both of you feel awful seeing your babies laying in their beds, dressed in the children’s gowns.

Eunbyeol peeks open her eyes first, voice hoarse (she practiced).

“Mom? Dad? Is that you?” she groans, pretending to clutch her stomach in pain.

Both you and Hongjoong rush to each child, grasping their hands and stroking their heads softly with sympathy.

“Hey baby, I’m here” you coo.

“I’m so, so sorry girls, it was probably all my fault. I should’ve never cooked for you guys earlier today.” their dad cries out painfully, looking down in shame.

You come to stand beside him, reassuring them both. “But what’s important is that you guys get better now. We want to make sure you get the rest you need” you say, making eye contact with your ex-husband.

Seonghwa clears his throat, crossing his arms as he flashes a wink to the girls behind your backs.

“They seemed to have been mentally exhausted as well,” He asks on purpose, watching as you and Hongjoong share a look with each other. “Have they been receiving proper familial support at home?”

“I can’t even remember the last time I saw my parents in the same room together.” Eunseo weakly admits, showing a faint smile.

As parents, you and Joong feel the most amount of guilt anyone could ever feel. You realize how exhausting and stressful the pickups and drop offs to each other's houses could’ve been, especially when you two were so busy with your respective jobs to spend time with your daughters now that it was summer break for them.

Hongjoong smiles, holding both their hands and making a promise to them.

“Make sure to rest you two. Tell me, is there anything you guys need right now? Anything you guys want I'll make sure to get it for you.”

”Do you guys have crunchy ice?” Eunbyeol blurts out loud, breaking her weak facade.

Eunseo almost wants to shoot a glare at her sister but she realizes both of you are still looking at them.

“I can get you some ice!” Seonghwa quickly assures you and his nieces, mouthing to them good luck for support as he shuts the door behind him.

You sigh, coming over to stroke Eunseo’s hair and caress Eunbyeol’s hand.

“Well? Is there anything else you guys need from us?” Hongjoong states, eyes soft in sympathy. You nod, waiting to hear their response.

“Let us know girls, anything at all.”

Eunbyeol and Eunseo finally take their chance, sharing a hesitant look before speaking at the same time.

“We want to go to the cottage”

“Together,” Eunseo says.

“As a family.” Eunbyeol adds in.

You and Hongjoong share a silent look.

Later into the night, the twins are finally discharged from the hospital, deciding that they would stay at Hongjoong’s mothers apartment which was closest nearby, considering they were both tired and immediately needed a place to rest.

The car ride home is awkwardly silent, even as the kids are (what you think) to be fast asleep, hockey gear and a bouquet of flowers riding with them in the backseat.

It was at their request for you to drive them to their grandmother's house, wanting both their parents with them till the ride home. Hongjoong settled on driving your car and dropping all of you off, planning to take a taxi back home and pick up his own car in the morning. Despite your protest on how inconvenient that was, he insisted as he didn’t want to disappoint the twins.

But suddenly the man begins to regret his offer, currently driving in complete silence on the highway, eyes facing forward and shoulders tense. Quiet FM nightly jazz plays from the radio.

You’re sitting passenger seat up front with him in what feels like forever, looking solely at the reflections in the window, the street lamp lights scattering across your face as you travel through the nighttime traffic. It’s awkward being together like this.

You hear him clear his voice, speaking softly so he doesn’t wake up the girls.

“So, are we really considering that cottage retreat?” he glances back at you.

You sit up, straightening your back and exhaling as you secretly wanted to have avoided that topic of discussion.

“We can’t Hongjoong,” you reasoned, shaking your head. “I couldn’t possibly take a whole vacation from the dress shop. Not unless I had someone take care of it for me, which my staff probably aren’t ready to do.” you explained, voice tense.

Hongjoong nodded, understanding your point of view. “I realize that. I’ve got a few projects I have to record and demo with Eden.” he tells you, an arm placed on the wheel with his sleeve rolled up. His veins become perfectly outlined as he passionately tells you about his producing job.

He’s so hot like that.

Jesus what were you thinking? Cursing your mind as you clear your voice and try to change the topic.

“How’s everything been going then?” you say stiffly. He nods, still awkward with sharing conversation with you.

“Um, it's going good. You?” he asks.

“Fine.” you swallow.

Silence prevails. He’s first to speak again, building the courage to say the next thing in his mind.

“I’m willing to put things on hold if I need to.” He confesses.

Hongjoong continues to drive normally after having said that. Now it becomes your turn to stare at him now, watching how he glances at the side mirror, switching lanes swiftly like the pro-driver he was.

“What do you mean?”

“Honestly, I think it would be good for the girls,” he admits, calling you by your name. Even hearing him call you your name feels weird. It feels foreign, like it almost wasn’t yours.

“Hongjoong-” you warn, shaking your head at the warry possibility.

“Just hear me out, alright?” He states firmly, making you quiet.

He glances back into the rear view mirror, watching your girls peacefully asleep with their heads leaning against each other.

“It’s been almost seven years. Seven years since they’ve last seen their parents speak to each other without breaking into a fight. Tonight was the first time they saw us together without having to plan a drop off and pick up in god knows how long.”

Hongjoong licks his lips, gripping the wheel as he emphasizes. “Seven years since they’ve gotten a goodnight hug and kiss from us at the same time in one place.”

You scoff, turning to face him properly this time. “I don’t know why you’re acting as though we can make this request of theirs come true Hongjoong. This is a big deal-”

“It is a big deal!” he exclaims, trying to get his point across. “I can see how badly our daughters want us to both be in their lives more, to acknowledge the fact that the other still exists after splitting apart.”

He sighs. “Us, not acknowledging each other’s existence at all is worse than if we had to see each other regularly.”

You bite your lip, getting angry. “So what Hongjoong? You’re saying you want to suddenly play family with them at the cottage?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Do you really think we can pretend to be normal parents to them without fighting like we are now? There’s a reason why our current schedules work. Don’t make me seem like the bad guy for not wanting to take them.” You glared, pointing a finger at him. His jaw locks.

“You fully knew the lifestyle changes we would need to make as a couple when you signed those legal papers—”

“Well then did you also predict everything that happened after you brought me those papers?” He spits like venom, gaze hard as he clenches the wheel.

You blink your eyes at his words, pressing your knees together at his sudden attack.

You don’t remember clearly if you even meant what you said at the time when you threw those papers at him seven years ago. But all you still know is that Hongjoong was just as stubborn as you were, making up his mind to sign them in the end regardless.

Looking in the rear view mirror, you muttered to him quietly.

“Don’t raise your voice. The kids are sleeping.”

Their dad scoffs, muttering a sure, under his breath as he switches lanes.

The kids were in fact, not sleeping, and very much awake. Eyes closed but ears wide, as they were listening in to the first real discussion their parents were having in so long. Or perhaps it was an argument?

At the right turn into his mother’s apartment’s underground parking lot, Hongjoong shuts off the engine, getting out of the car without another word and shutting the door in your face.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, hear the back door open.

You watch in the corner of your vision as his demeanor immediately changes, softly caressing Eunseo and Eunbyeol’s hair.

“Hey girls, we’re here now. You gotta wake up.” He coos.

They yawn theatrically, pretending to stretch their arms.

“So soon?” Eunbyeol mumbles.

A few feet ahead, you see your mother in law walking out from the elevators, a knit cardigan wrapped around her small frame. You smiled, getting out of the car and greeting her first.

“We’ll leave Eunbyeol’s hockey gear with you for the night if that’s alright Mom-”

Hongjoong’s words are cut off as the woman who birthed him walks straight past him, ignoring him and immediately taking you in her warm embrace, eyes forming crescent moons.

“How are you my dear?” she asks, causing you to smile and hug your mother in law affectionately. “It’s been so long, I’ve missed you so much!”

Despite the break up between you and Hongjoong, you were thankful for one thing, and that was the fact that your relationship with Hongjoong’s family stayed strong, especially with Mrs. Kim.

“I’ve missed you too” you tell her genuinely. “I’ve been good, I’m just sorry for dropping them off so suddenly at your place,” You say, feeling apologetic for waking her up late into the night.

“We had a bit of a situation,” you explain, watching as Hongjoong collects their things.

She shakes her head, reassuring you. “Nonsense! Why would you be sorry for that.” she grins, turning her head at the car. “And where are my girls, may I ask?”

At the sound of her voice, Eunbyeol and Eunseo dash out from the back seat and into their grandmother's welcoming arms, pressing soft kisses to her cheeks.

Hongjoong is the only person that stands all alone, awkwardly holding the bouquet of flowers with heavy hockey gear and a duffle bag perched on his shoulder.

“Oh, how I’ve missed my little squirrels!” she exclaims using their signature pet name and happily reuniting with her grandchildren.

She turns her head, face falling at the sight of her son and lips pursing into a frown.

“And where on earth have you been? Not giving me a call!” she snaps, slapping her son on his back. Eunbyeol laughs out loud while Eunseo tries to keep her giggles in.

You hear your ex husband protest to her while you close the back seat door.

“OW! I’ve been busy alright?” he mumbles, massaging his sore arm.

Your mother in law takes both the twins hand’s on each side, nodding her head to you.

“Leave all the kid’s stuff to Hongjoong, he’ll take care of it darling” she smiles sweetly, sending a glare to her son to take a hint and be more of a gentleman to you. She walks away with her smiling granddaughters, exchanging light-hearted giggles and excitement. “Bye, mom!” The twins wave back.

Hongjoong cranes his head up, sighing at the ceiling before taking Eunseo’s piano bag that you were holding in your hand in one swift motion, walking reluctantly behind the three.

“Stay here. I’ll drop them off.” he briskly walks away, leaving you stunned.

Hongjoongs words from before can’t help but replay inside your head as you wait for him to come back down.

Before you guessed it, it was already the ride back home, and the car was painfully silent once again. In reality, you were each thinking deeply to yourselves about the possibility of the cottage retreat. Could you really be a mom and dad together as a couple to your kids?

“Are you giving your plants enough water?” He brings you out of thought, the car slowing down as he turns onto your street.

You look up, giving him a confused look.

Hongjoong nods in direction, following his eyes to look at the measly, dying flower pot perched on the steps of your flat’s entrance as the car stopped to a halt. “You know, it’s really hard for plants to die when they’re outside.” He says in amazement at your shit gardening.

You scowl at him, asking him when he became such a plant expert all of a sudden.

He continues to poke fun at you, smirking when he undoes his seat belt. Hongjoong suddenly leans over to help you unbuckle your own, face dangerously close to yours as he lowers his voice.

“Unless their owner just really sucks at taking care of them.”

His eyes gaze into yours for a split second, feeling your face heat up from the proximity. You let out a tiny gasp for air when he leans back in his own seat.

“Fuck off” you replied harshly.

“You should give them some more care,” he suggests, ignoring your swearing.

You don’t reply to his stupid comment, refusing to look at him as you get out of the car.

“I can go in by myself” you press, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder. You didn’t think it was necessary to draw out your time with this man any further.

Hongjoong straightens his dress shirt as he moves to your side of the car, shoving his own car keys in his trousers as he locks your doors and hands over the keys. You take them hesitantly, watching as he rests against the car door, strong arms crossing against his chest.

“Think about it at least.” he mutters to you.

You look at him, eyes shutting softly when you realize he was still talking about the cottage getaway. Sighing his name is exasperation, you run a hand through your hair.

“Hongjoong-”

“Would it kill you to spend a week with me and our daughters?” He scoffs as he asks you straight up, looking at you in a way that makes you hesitate to say your next words. You observed one hand come to shuffle with the silver lighter in his trouser pockets.

You stayed silent for a moment, genuinely thinking back to your daughters and what this meant to them if you went. What this would mean for you two as well.

Finally, you look up to him, returning his gaze.

“I need time.”

He nods, face serious. “I understand.”

“Let me think about it.” You mumbled.

And with that you turn around, walking up the steps to your front door. At the sight of your flowerpot, you quickly remember his comment and snatch it in your hands, slamming the door shut to Hongjoong as he finally lets a soft grin break out on his face. Letting his back come up from leaning against the door, Hongjoong nods his head, satisfied enough at that answer, as he walks silently down the road while opening his Uber app.

At least you’d give it some thought.

Okay, maybe now you’ve given it too much thought.

Sipping your fifth glass of wine of the night, you’re sitting, back hunched over with your knees tucked into your chest on the breakfast table chair, zoning out as your best friend Sophie continues barking at you and your inconsistent commitment.

“I don’t even understand why you’re considering going! Does the man realize what it takes to leave your own shop for a full week?” she fumes, adjusting her royal jelly sheet mask while cursing at your ex-husband for pressuring you into going to the family retreat.

“Not everyone can just pack their bags and go swimming at the cottage, Jesus Christ” she rolls her eyes.

“He didn’t pressure me,” you told her pouting. “He wants to do it for the kids” you mumbled looking down as you defended him.

You invited your best friend Sophie over to your apartment that evening for your weekly slumber party, a time you each looked forward to dedicating a bottle of wine and chardonnay over some gossip, spilling all the uneventful drama in your lives.

Perhaps you revealed too much drama to your best friend tonight.

“I don’t think I would mind going, to be honest” you hiccup, words slurring. “I haven’t had a vacation in so long, Sophie, and the girls really want to go! I would feel bad for leaving them with nothing to do this summer.” confessing through the alcohol.

Cheeks flushed, you sigh as you play with your silk robe mindlessly while Sophie shakes her head at you, one hand coming up to snap at you and bring you back to reality.

“Hello? Earth to Ms. Divorcee?” She sighs, rolling her eyes in frustration. “You said you wanted to set boundaries with him! To cut the line straight and keep your distance so you could get over your feelings for him! Show him who’s boss!”

“He said he’s willing to put his music projects on hold for us,” you muttered quietly, the thought making your heart weak as you smiled at the memory of Hongjoong teasing you about your flower pot. Your chest blossomed with warmth now.

Sophie sighs, shaking her head as she thinks just how differently you were feeling four wine glasses ago.

“Listen, honey, I’m just warning you in advance” she sips the golden liquid in her glass before placing it on the table.

“Take it from a girl who’s had three divorces. I mean look at me! I’m still somewhat young, I’ve got no kids, no responsibilities, filthily rich, and not once have I had to pay for my own divorce settlement fees!”

You nod mindlessly, eyes blinking softly under the bright kitchen lights.

“What you need is a provider, sweetheart,” she crooned, caressing your head.

“A guy who won’t leave you stressed and unimpressed like Hongjoong does.”

You continue mindlessly nodding your head at her words, ears perking up when you hear small footsteps come down the stairs.

“Hi mom, Hi aunt Sophie.” Eunbyeol greets, eyes glued to her iPad that Eunseo trails after from behind, whining how it was now her turn to play Super Mario.

“Hi girls,” Sophie replies like the cool, hot aunt she is, eyes shut as she’s concentrating on giving herself a collarbone massage right now.

“Hey sweetheart,” you mumbled, smiling at your daughters standing near the fridge getting a glass of water.

“Say, did your dad tell you guys anything about the cottage?” You blurt out loud, avoiding the look that Sophie gives you. Eunbyeol looks up from the glowing screen, ears perking in interest. “No, not much, why?”

Eunseo snatches the iPad from her twin, coming over to you. “Did Dad say we’re going?” She asks enthusiastically, eyes widening. Sophie is quick to assure them.

“Now of course not girls, your mother here was just-”

“Oh fuck it, why not?” you say confidentially, shining a bright smile. “Let’s go to the cottage!” You exclaimed in drunk excitement, all three girls staring at you with their jaws hanging at your sudden profanity as well as your final decision.

Oh, how dangerous the effects of a bottle of wine were.

Eunseo and Eunbyeol immediately embrace each other in a passionate hug, squealing in excitement that their plan actually worked. You and Hongjoong were now both convinced. “Oh my gosh, we’re going to go as a family!” They cried in happiness. You giggled at their joy, reciprocating their enthusiasm.

Sophie leans back in her seat defeated, shaking her head with pursed lips as she picks up the whole Chardonnay bottle and sips it.

“Oh whatever. . . This isn’t my problem anyways.”

When Hongjoong drops by the next morning to pick up Eunbyeol and Eunseo from your house for the weekend, he can’t lie but be a little heartbroken at the way his daughters ignore his kiss to them first thing. They instead, immediately shove the cottage advertising pamphlet in his face with victorious grins.

“See! We told you mom would say yes!”

“Say yes to what?” He pouts, avoiding the paper and obsessively trying to peck a kiss to each of his daughter's cheeks. The idea of going to the cottage almost slipped the busy man’s mind after almost a week of no news from you.

“What’s so important that you guys don’t even say hi to me anymore?” he sulks.

Eunseo giggles, fighting back her laughter when her dad tries to tickle her with his kisses.

“We’re going to the cottage!”

Hongjoong stills himself, leaning back to make sure he heard her correctly.

“We’re what?”

Eunbyeol, taking after her mother, has a cheeky expression on her face as she places her hands on her hips and sasses her father.

“Pack your bags and swimming shorts, daddy, we’re going on a family vacation!”

In perfect timing, you manage to stumble out your front door, coffee mug in hand and mid-yawn when you realize Hongjoong is already staring at you in shock.

“What?” you snap, still grumpy from your slight hangover. “You’ve never seen a woman wake up before?” You replied, asking your kids if they packed all their stuff.

The twins watch as their dad stands up from his crouched position.

“You’re going to go to the cottage?”

At Hongjoongs words you freeze, everything coming back to you all at once. The wine, the twins, the promises, it hits you like a moving truck.

“Well…”

“No take backs mom! You said it yourself last night that you were excited to go to the cottage!” One of the twins pointed out.

Hongjoong doesn’t take his eyes off of you.

“I-I did say that, didn’t I?” You chuckled sheepishly, toes curling at the rookie mistake you made in parenting 101: saying yes when you should’ve said no.

Your ex-husband quickly tells the kids to put their things in the trunk, promising he’ll be right with them after talking to you. As Hongjoong dashes up the stairs in his white polo golf shirt, you feel slightly exposed being in only your silk slip dress and robe.

“I didn’t realize you’d be here so early” you mumbled, looking down at your toes.

He ignores you. “So I’m guessing we’re going then?” He smirks, looking at you with an expression of undeniable cockiness and peaked interest.

You shrug nonchalantly. “Let’s surround the focus of this trip towards the kids” you remind him, straightening your back.

Hongjoong nods, agreeing with you wholeheartedly. “Of course, that was my intention from the beginning,” he smiles.

You swallow the lump in your throat, unnoticing his stare drop at your breasts perking up from the cool morning air. You jump in surprise as you hear the honking of the car.

“Come on, love birds! We gotta go back to dad’s to get our swimming stuff!” Eunbyeol cackles, leaning from the backseat into the driver's seat window. Eunseo already begins journaling in her hello kitty note book, an organized list of what she’ll need to bring to the cottage.

Hongjoong looks back at his daughters, before looking back at you with a smile.

“Let’s keep in touch about details, alright?”

You nod silently, gripping your mug. At the sound of your nextdoor neighbor coming out, Hongjoong contemplates for a moment before quickly leaning forward, shielding you from their view with his backside. Clearing his throat, Hongjoong nods his head to the inside of your house, leaning forward to whisper to you.

“Think, um, you should get inside, it’s getting cold,” he mutters, his dimples faintly showing. You glare up at him, “I’m going to say goodbye to my own daughters”. Still clueless to what he was referring to. He grins, shrugging his shoulders before looking at you.

“If you insist. Just thought you wouldn’t want your neighbor to see what I can see, would you?”

You gasp at his words, looking down at your chest to see what he means before wrapping your robe around you. You quickly waved goodbye to your girls before you shut the door in Hongjoong’s smug face.

It’s now become the second time you’ve done that.

Thankfully, the next time you see Hongjoong you’re wearing a much more appropriate outfit. In a white cotton blouse and casual jean shorts, your effortlessly chic vacation outfit was the only highlight today, considering the day you had been internally dreading for so long was finally here.

You tried to take deep breaths while scurrying all over your house and finishing some last minute packing. Reassuring yourself that a family getaway couldn’t kill you.

Right?

Reservations at the cottage were made over the phone last week, booking a house with the perfect lake side view, access to the forest trail and close proximity to the offered activities. It would only be a seven day stay, both in your respective rooms, (you clearly emphasized you and Hongjoong had to have separate ones) while the twins would lodge together. You had no intention of interacting with your husband alone together on this trip, apart from the quote on quote, ‘family bonding times’ you promised your daughters. And yet why were you here sweating nervously like a sinner in church?

“What a hot lady!” Eunbyeol wolf-whistles at your outfit when she walks through your bedroom doors. You jump at the sudden entrance, realizing Hongjoong was already here to pick you up with the girls.

A pair of black designer sunglasses slightly too big for her sat perched on her nose. Eunbyeol smiles before jumping onto your bed of clothes. You already know Hongjoong must’ve spoiled her and her sister with those, buying them a pair each.

“C’mon Byeol, off the bed” you quipped, packing your toothbrush as she reluctantly slugged off the covers.

Your suspicions of Hongjoong buying them designer items are correct when Eunseo walks in, classily perching her matching white ones on her head before chastising her sister's tasteless compliment.

“Elegant. She’s Elegant, Byeol. You don’t just go around wolf-whistling at people.” she rolls her eyes.

“You look very pretty by the way, mom”

You smiled, nevertheless pleased at both their compliments and thanking them before going back to doing a last minute check of your things.

Sun cream, clothes, makeup bag, swimsuit…

At the thought of your swimsuit you immediately blush, thinking back to how Sophie forced you to borrow her yellow bikini that left very little to the imagination. Despite your protests that you wouldn’t be needing it, she insisted.

Hongjoong is last to walk through your front doors, swinging his car keys around his index finger and calling to his three girls from the downstairs foyer of your apartment. The man is clearly excited for the trip, he can’t lie.

“Come on ladies, we’re gonna miss the chance to swim in that lake if we don't leave soon!”

Hongjoong is your typical dad, except for the fact that he does not mess with dad!fashion. The producer is dressed classily from top to bottom in a loose-fitting designer button up with a pair of reformed denim pants, his pearl earrings and gold piercings complementing his outfit perfectly.

Kim Hongjoong didn't play when it came to fashion. Even as a father.

“Coming!” You exclaimed, ushering your kids out of your bedroom and making your way down the stairs with your suitcase. Seeing that it would only be a week at the cottage, you tried to pack light, though you may have to reconsider that thought with the way you struggled to lift the case properly.

“Need some help?”

A strong hand comes to help you, immediately inhaling the scent of Hongjoong’s cologne as he brushes his knuckles near yours. “Here, I’ve got it” he assures, making you step back and admire your undeniably fine husband.

Ex-husband. You meant Ex-husband. Scratch out the fine as well.

You watch from behind as he struts out the foyer, smiling and joking playfully with his twin daughters, carrying your luggage out the door with them.

What was this trip doing to you?

Once you’re on route to the cottage resort and the GPS is set, the car is blissfully quiet, each and every one of you surprisingly at peace. Jittery excitement still lays deep in your daughters' minds as you overhear them talk about what they want to do first once they arrive.

Hongjoong’s 2000s soft rock and ballad playlist is playing quietly throughout the speakers right now, relishing in the music as luscious, green trees flash by you from the passenger window.

While Byeol and Eunseo distract each other on their own, Hongjoong turns to talk to you.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s been forever since I’ve been on a road trip” he smiles.

You copy him, feeling good in the moment. “Same, I don’t remember the last time I went to one.” you confessed, thinking only of all the times you had in the past when you were a child and as a teenager.

Even back to when you were a young college student, wide eyed and so innocent to the chaos of your first college retreat with Hongjoong. That was the summer you two began dating, and boy were you fools in love. You cautiously look to your husband driving, bringing up past memories.

“Do you remember that one college retreat we went on during second year?”

The corners of Hongjoong’s lips are already grinning upwards, smiling as he reciprocates your expression.

“Right, like I could forget that summer” he replies sarcastically, gripping the steering wheel.

It’s an easy memory to digest. A time when you were both so young, filled with nothing but dreams and passionate love for one another. Love so deep, that you remember the nights you’d spend locked up with Hongjoong under the sweaty bed sheets inside your cabin, blissfully making love until the sun would rise and he would finally kiss you to sleep. Perhaps, it was that summer when you realized you were going to marry and be with Kim Hongjoong forever someday.

Though it’s too bad, someday already passed.

“Do you remember when Seonghwa got so drunk he ended up confessing to Jieun in front of all the girl’s sleeping cabins?” Hongjoong snickers, relishing in the embarrassing memory his friend always hates him for bringing up. You laugh out loud, remembering the memory. “Oh my god, yes!” You turned to face him, shaking your head. “In nothing but his underwear, right?”

Hongjoong nodded, smiling with one hand on the steering wheel as he drove.

“Didn’t he end up jumping into the lake afterwards? With you having to go in and save him as well?” You share your laughter with one another, catching up on past memories as your twin daughters listened attentively in the back, reliving them with you together.

That's what makes the hour and half drive from the city into the wilderness feel so short, finally pulling into the graveled parking lot of the vast cottage resort. White suburban cottages lined along one another, a good amount of distance in between each for every family staying.

As Hongjoong parked the car, the view outside was so glorious you had to hold your breath. Glistening clear blue waves in the lake reflect the bright sunshine from above. A light breeze is present today with the way the willow and oak trees swayed gently.

“It’s beautiful” you gasped from as far as you got out of the car, stretching your upper body with eyes closed as you inhaled the fresh air.

Hongjoong stills his movements, shutting the door before replying with his gaze caught at your backside.

“Yeah, it is” he smiles.

Both of you turn around at a loud voice coming from behind. “We’re gonna explore the campsites and souvenir shops first!” Eunbyeol shouts as she runs away with her sister's hand in hers, towards the wooden cabin that's settled further away.

“What about lunch?” you call to them.

“We’re not hungry!”

Hongjoong tells them to be safe, and to stick around nearby. You smirked, helping him unload the trunk as you told him. “They’ll be fine. They’re probably too excited to even think right now” you giggled, bumping shoulders with him.

You feel the tension that was once so strong between you two fade slowly, walking up the wooden steps of your lodge and exchanging conversation with each other.

“Hey, I just want my babies to be safe” he admits, a grin on his face as he holds the cooler in his hands. You chuckle, shaking your head at his protectiveness.

“Here it is!” he exclaims, setting the suitcases in the front foyer as he opens the door. “Lodge number 1117”

The two story cottage is larger than it appears from the outside, having a modern yet rustic interior that you and Hongjoong admired. It had everything you would need, from a well designed kitchen area to a cozy living room space.

“It’s perfect, the kids will love it” you beam, looking at the hanging hammock chair in the corner of the living room and the gray stone fireplace. It fit perfectly for your family.

Hongjoong smiles, sunglasses perched on top of his head as he sets the luggage down near the kitchen. Walking up beside him, you help him unload the cooler and ice boxes first, settling into your new home for the next few days.

“I’m guessing you still drink?” you ask, looking in his direction as you unloaded the case of beer you saw him bring from the trunk.

He gestured to the booze. “C’mon, it wouldn’t be a vacation without it, would it?”

You wholeheartedly agreed, placing a few in the fridge before you shut it closed.

“Hopefully, this time we won’t end up shit faced like we did back in college” you laugh, turning to face him.

“I can already picture that time we got so drunk from that bottle of tequila my friend brought, we snuck out of the campsite and went to the forest and got lost.” you spoke, the memory a little foggy but nonetheless fresh in your mind.

Hongjoong smiles, listening as you speak.

“There wasn’t anything but trees and bushes in that forest!” You exclaimed, shaking your head. “What did we even do there?”

Hongjoong replies nonchalantly, folding the cardboard box in his hands.

“I’m pretty sure we fucked.”

You momentarily freeze at his words, before letting out a soft awkward laugh, causing him to look up.

“No we didn’t, Hongjoong” you immediately deny, not believing his words. But your brows began furrowing at the foggy memory, starting to realize you really couldn’t trust your alcohol tolerance, now as an adult and even back when you were a college student. Did you guys have sex? In a forest out of all places?

Hongjoong leans against the kitchen counter, across from you as he crosses his arms in front of his chest and smirks smugly.

“Nope, I distinctly remember it” he recalls, taking a step closer so he was now in your space.

“I held your hand in mind as we walked up that trail by the cliff. And gosh, were we horny that night, because I remember you complaining about all that dirt you got on your knees from giving me the greatest head i've ever experienced in my entire life-”

Slapping your hands over his mouth to stop him from going on, you blushed as you glared at him.

“Jesus christ,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes before confessing.

“I get it, we fucked.”

Suddenly, you and Hongjoong break out into giggles like varsity sweethearts again at the story. Though embarrassed and cringing internally from the way you acted as young adults, it was nice to share them together now. At the proximity in which you’re standing in, you can't help but stare at each other softly. A hand wraps around your waist, making your breath hitch as he pulls you closer.

“What are you doing?” you grin, watching him.

He looms over you, able to tell that something sits right at the tip of his tongue that he hesitantly decides to say. “I’m pretty sure,” he mutters, staring at your face and cautiously grazing the skin under your blouse. You feel your breathing speed up.

“I also held you like this in my arms as you were leaning against that tree” his grip gentle and immediately transporting you back to the scenery that night. His sharp tone contrasts his touch.

“Yknow, the one we fucked against?” he teases to you one more time.

The scent of burning campfire. A cold, midnight breeze. The feeling of the rough cedar tree against your back as Hongjoong thrusted inside you with every delirious snap of his hips, holding you close while he fucked you to oblivion with only the forest animals standing witness to your sinful actions. The film replays like a cheesy R-rated romance movie in your mind.

“Did you, now?” You gulp, looking up at him as you adjust to the foreign feeling of his touch on your hips.

“Yeah. I remember it all” he states, smirking down at you with an intense gaze.

The memory dies down when you catch yourself staring at his lips, arms finding their way around his neck as he dives down to whisper softly to you.

“Do you remember too?” He asks.

How he held you in his arms. How he whispered in your ear while you came around his cock, drool and traces of cum littering the corners of your mouth while Hongjoong didn’t care if you were stretching his flannel from how hard you were tugging at the material.

You nod. “I do,” you muttered, lashes fluttering as you felt as though your heart wouldn’t stop beating. “I remember you kissed me on the lips,” you confessed.

Perhaps you wanted him to do it again right now.

He looks in your eyes, searching for your approval that you desperately give, breath hitting each other's faces as he slowly leaned down to try and connect your lips. His chest is pressed against yours, and you begin to realize you haven’t shared the same breath like that in so long. You were so close to kissing right then and there.

If only you leaned in closer…

“We’re back!”

You push Hongjoong across the kitchen, shoving his hip painfully into the marble counter and ignoring his high-pitched groan of agony as you immediately look away to avoid suspicion, continuing to grab the beer from the icebox in front of you.

“Girls!” you exclaimed, voice wavering.

Of course, Eunbyeol and Eunseo walk in with matching postcards and goodies from the souvenir shop in their hands, their sunglasses perched on their heads as their eyes lit up with excitement. They were still oblivious to the fact that they almost caught their parents about to make out in the kitchen.

“Dad, this place is amazing!” Eunbyeol deadpans, telling her father. “They even have jet skiing on the other side of the lake! We gotta go now!”

Hongjoong clutches his hip, pursing his lips as he hides his expression of pain and surprise.

“Really? That's great sweetie”

Eunseo however, is quick to catch on.

“What were you guys doing?” she looks at you suspiciously. Her words hang in the air for a moment.

“Were you guys about to kis-”

Hongjoong and you frantically scurry to find a plausible excuse, shuffling awkwardly.

“I was helping your dad unload the cooler”

“I was helping your mom get something out of her eye”

Both girls stare at you meekly. Eunbyeol scrunches her nose. “Huh?”

Plastering on a fake smile, you briskly leaped over the luggage nearby, ushering them upstairs before they had the chance to ask anymore questions.

“I think it’s time to unpack your things.” you watched their eyebrows quirk at the way you pushed them out the kitchen.

“We can do it on our own, mom! It’s really no big d-”

You clamp Eunbyeol’s mouth shut with your hand, blushing profusely as you walk away with them.

Hongjoong stands there alone in the kitchen, rubbing his hip and wondering what the hell just almost happened.

The next few days, you and Hongjoong don’t discuss the incident between you two. Rather, the beginning of the trip after that event has become a painful performance trying your best to be eerily polite yet distant to each other in front of your children, as if that would make you forget the fact that you two almost kissed in the kitchen.

“Could you pass the sunscreen, honey?” Hongjoong would say awkwardly, turning his back to flash you a cheery smile on the lake deck as Eunbyeol and Eunseo watched you interact while floating in the cool, summer waters.

You passed the bottle to your ex-husband while maintaining awkward distance. “Of course, darling!”

“Thanks honey!”

“No problem sweetheart!”

This resulted in Eunbyeol and Eunseo looking at their parents in horror, the youngest twin muttering under her breath as they discussed an urgent change of plans.

“We have to get them to stop being weird.”

Apart from that, the ‘family bonding time’ promise to your daughters was maintained, and each day was an adventure for all of you in terms of what you would do together next. An accumulation of forest trekking, water-skiing and outdoors barbeques on the patio of your cottage made everyday feel more and more special for your girls, seeing how they relished in having both their parents with them at the same place and time. It became moments of peace and resolution that eventually became special for you and Hongjoong too.

“I hope we stay here forever,” Eunseo blurted out one evening after a blissful day near the lakeshore, watching as the sun began to go down. She was busy licking the sticky sides of her melting ice cream cone in one hand, the other one held in yours.

Hongjoong and Eunbyeol were a few feet ahead, laughing loudly and holding hands as they compared their fruit popsicles with one another to see whose was bigger.

“You and Byeol would eventually get sick of going to the lake all the time” You smiled, the corners of your mouth turning up before her next words made the strings of your heart tug.

“Sure, but at least you and dad could be together with us too.”

You watched as she ran up to her sister and dad, joining in on their fun as she began boasting that her ice cream was better than theirs. Hongjoong’s smile is the biggest you’ve ever seen it to be, looking down at his girls with a golden tan from the past few days spent outside, and hair slightly damp from swimming.

Any person could tell the love in his eyes was as pure a father’s love for his girls could be.

Her words stuck with you until that very night, where after dinner, board games, and much pacing back and forth in your own room before getting into bed, you decided to cautiously approach Hongjoong’s room on the opposite side of the second floor.

Bare feet padded across the wooden floors as you peeked through the sliver of the open door.

He's wearing an oversized sleep tee and blue pajama pants, getting in some nighttime reading before bed. His glasses are perched on his nose, intently reading his paperback novel. He looks as domestic as a husband gets.

At the sound of your steps though, he sits up from his relaxed state on his bed, one arm that was supporting his head coming out as the other hand settles the book down on his abdomen. He looks surprised to see you.

“Hi” he states, looking at you.

“Hey”

Hongjoong’s expression immediately softened at your figure, watching as you shuffled awkwardly in front of him. The room is quiet.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course,” He nods, setting his bookmark in the spine of the cover and turning his attention to you, offering you to take a seat on his linen covers. You see his polaroid camera with photos taken of Eunbyeol and Eunseo perched on a desk nearby.

You don’t see the ones he secretly took of you, as those are in his drawers.

“Don’t tell me you can’t sleep by yourself” he gently teases before watching as your smile doesn't reach the ends of your eyes. You wrap your silk robe closer to your body, feeling sort of vulnerable.

“How do you like the resort so far?” He asks, watching as you played with your fingers absentmindedly. “Is the room okay?”

“It’s wonderful Hongjoong, better than I could ever have hoped for.” You spoke up, telling the truth.

It’s hard to arrange your thoughts in your head when it’s just the two of you in his room. The kids were already fast asleep. Now was your chance to just tell him how you felt. Why were you hesitating so much?

“Hey, look at me.” Hongjoong’s soft voice calls out to you, a protective hand coming out to caress the back of your head in habit. He can tell you want to say something, and the gesture makes you emotional, remembering how he always used to do that to ease your nerves when you were younger.

“What’s wrong? Am I making things uncomfortable on the trip?” he worries about the boundaries you established with him at the beginning, watching as your lip begins to quiver and the emotions suddenly overcome you.

“I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.” you sniffled, tears forming near the brim of your eyes as you looked up at the father of your children.

Hongjoong’s eyes widened, shifting through the covers over to you. “Woah, hey, shh that’s alright I got you” he coos, immediately going into dad mode and embracing you in his arms, letting your head rest against his chest.

The action is natural, no longer foreign or weird, and you silently thank him for leaving reassuring circles on your back. Husband or not, Hongjoong would always be your best friend first. You had forgotten how much you missed this comforting side to him.

“Tell me what you’re sorry about” he states, chest tightening at your wet cheeks before he slowly raises your chin to look him in the eyes.

“For being mean to you for so long” you sniffle, a weakened state of emotional guilt eating away at you. You let him watch you carefully.

“I’ve been thinking about how happy the girls have been during this trip. A-And it kills me that we’ve been fighting for the past seven years, and that they’ve grown up seeing such bad parts of ourselves, of my own self” you ramble, confessing how you felt.

You look up. “They’re happy because we’re together Joong. Because we’re not fighting or avoiding each other like we used to do before.”

He watches as you look up at him with tears forming in your eyes.

“You’re such a good dad. And I realized you deserve to hear that.”

At the sounds of more sniffles, Hongjoong finally speaks, smiling as he brushes stray hair from your face.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else but you to be the mother of our children, I hope you know that”

His truthfulness throws you off guard.

“I’m sorry too” he sighs, letting you sit up straight and look him in the eyes properly. “I haven’t been the best partner either, baby. We were both mean to each other.” he says, brushing a tear away from your face.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve thrown a hair dryer at me once before as well” he attempts to make you laugh, affection blooming in his chest when he sees he succeeds, wiping your tears.

“But I already knew how you felt, sweetheart. I always know” he smiles, eyes mirroring a weak ache in his heart.

“Married or not, we were once friends. And now we’re family” His voice turns deep, strong and dependable like the father he’s become.

“We can start over” you tell him, smiling as he folds his hands over your palm. “We can always do better from now and going forward. For ourselves, and for Eunseo and Eunbyeol.”

Hongjoong nods, hesitantly for a split second before he leans over to press a soft kiss to your cheek, showing a gesture of affection that you longed for so long.

You shut your eyes, the kiss making your heart flutter.

“Friends again?” He whispers, though silently wanting something more.

You sighed, pulling him in closer to embrace in a hug. “Friends” you nodded while inhaling his comforting scent.

The next morning, and for the rest of the remaining trip onwards, you and Hongjoong’s relationship dynamics did the equivalent of a 180 degree turn.

It’s hard to believe you two really just wanted to be ‘friends’

Eunbyeol and Eunseo could tell by the way you talked to each other more, noticing you share more secret glances and fleeting touches that were innocent to the eye, but concealing a longing that you both tried to hide. You knew you couldn’t get carried away. You and Hongjoong were simply resolving a rough patch in your parenting. Not getting back together in a relationship.

But after spending more time together while Eunbyeol and Eunseo became occupied on their own, it was hard keeping the interactions to a justified amount. Long walks in the forest, evenings spent cooking together, even cuddling together on the couch during family movie night. Thinking your kids were too busy watching the vintage Disney movie play on screen, when in fact, the real love story they were more invested in was happening right in front of their eyes, watching their parents falling in love again.

This led to the last event in their plan that they hoped would finally seal the deal.

On Saturday night, the last night of your trip before you had to go back to the city, you and Hongjoong are surprised to find mini invitations left on your beds, scribbled in glitter pen and cursive handwriting reading out the following:

Gourmet Dinner Date for 2

Time: 7:30 pm

Location: Outdoor patio

Dress code: Formal and Classy

You and your husband chuckled at the cards left on your beds, suddenly finding a twin each by your side and ushering you to get ready.

“Do you and your sister even know how to cook dinner, Eunbyeol?” You questioned as your daughter rushed to push you into your walk-in closet, forcing you to get ready.

She huffs, placing her hands on her hips looking offended.

“At least my cooking skills don’t take after Dad’s, mom.” She mumbled, choosing your shoes for you. “Have some trust in a girl!”

Meanwhile, Hongjoong gets pampered by Eunseo in the other room, though in reality, her blunt critiques on her dads fashion are bruising his pride at the moment.

“Dad, you have many normal clothes to wear. You have to chill with the ripped baggy jeans.” she demands, trudging through his closet to find something formal for him to wear.

He begins to protest but his daughter shakes her head. “You’re supposed to look good for mom!” she huffs, searching on her own. At Eunseo’s words, the man starts to slightly worry, scratching the back of his head.

“You and Byeol are gonna join too, right?”

She stops for a second, looking back to her father as she avoids the question and instead retorts back.

“It’s just a date, Dad. Relax”

Back to what was happening in the other room at the end of the hallway, you huffed in frustration when you walked back into your closet after Byeol rejected another one of your outfits for the dinner date.

“I have nothing else to wear, sweetie, these are all the clothes I have.” you came to terms with a hand coming to your forehead after having searched in despair.

The ten year old shakes her head before pushing you out of the way and digging deep into your suitcase. She reveals a delicate piece of material you didn’t even realize you packed.

“We got some help from Aunt Sophie and Uncle Hwa to pack you guys clothes that you could wear for a special occasion.” she wiggles her eyebrows, a smug grin on her face as you gap in shock.

You inspect the dress, lips parting in disbelief as you feel the material.

“I haven’t worn this since I was in college.” You uttered softly to yourself.

At one longing look of the short dress, you shake your head, walking back into the closet to find something else. “I-I can’t wear this Byeol, what would your dad think?“ you asked nervously.

“Dad said he thinks your boobs looked hot in this dress so Aunt Sophie and I picked it specially” she looks up at you, proud of what she just said.

You whip your head around, mouth hanging open in shock.

“Byeol! Where did you hear that from?”

She sighs. “Dad had one too many drinks this one time and started talking about you guys back in college” she explained before shoving the infamous black dress in your hands.

“Talked a lot about how pretty you were,” she draws out her words in a teasing voice. You curse your husband for his mistake.

You bite your lip as you stare down at the fabric in your hands.

It was undeniable. You knew you looked amazing in this dress. You could testify from the amount of times Hongjoong ripped it off of you after countless night out’s filled with sexual tension and playful flirting. For god's sake, Eunbyeol and Eunseo could’ve almost had another sibling thanks to that dress.

“Fine.” you muttered bashfully, turning away as you walked into the closet to change.

“But I’m just gonna try it on.”

Thirty minutes, one mental breakdown and too many outfit changes to count later, you walk down the stairs wearing the dress Eunbyeol had successfully persuaded you to wear.

What do you know, the kid was right. Your boobs looked amazing in that dress.

Not just your boobs, your whole body looked incredible with its strong curves and the beautiful fill it gave to the dress, making it slightly tighter than when you wore it as a twenty year old, but still all the more mature and sophisticated. You really did look hot.

Eunbyeol rushes down the stairs before you, catching up with her sister to inspect her job on their fathers preparation.

“Well?” She says expectedly, looking at her dad. “Let’s take a look!”

He sports a simple yet timeless white collar dress shirt, the first few buttons undone as he wears a form fitting black dress-vest that accentuates his waist, dress pants paired to go along with it. Though simple, his silver rings pulled the outfit together, making him just as good looking and sophisticated as you were.

Hongjoong’s back faces towards your front, watching as the man nervously shuffles his hands in his pockets.

“How do I look guys?” He gulps, adjusting his collar and sweeping his blond hair back.

Eunseo rolls her eyes, a grin on her proud little face. “Do you even have to ask, dad?” She’s more than confident in the outfit she and Seonghwa coordinated together.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he nervously tells them.

“I want to look good for your mom, you know what I mean? She's a difficult woman to impress sometimes.”

“I’m difficult?” You tease, walking down the last few steps of the stairs.

The man turns his head around, losing his breath at the sight of you standing there in front of him, wearing that dress that he hadn’t seen you wear for so long, looking breathtaking in every possible way.

“Hi” you grinned softly, feeling sort of shy.

The way you fit in that dress made an insatiable hunger fuel inside Hongjoongs chest, eyes gazing at the way you strutted over in the black, lace covered material with your hair tied back and glossed lips turned upwards as your dimples showed. He breaks from his admiration when you quirk a brow at him, making the man almost fall to his knees and stutter uncontrollably.

“I-I No I didn’t mean that-“

You giggle as you bravely take Hongjoongs hands in your own, shutting him up as you turn to your daughters standing in front of you, starstruck at your aura.

“Outside, right?” you winked at them.

“Right this way!” Eunseo enthusiastically leads you out back to the outdoor patio, a perfect view of the garden and lakeside coming into effect. Hongjoong slips his hand from yours, and slides it across your waist, pulling you into his side.

“My parents are too cool” Eunbyeol sighs under her breath, watching from behind in awe.

Your ex-husband makes you swoon when he leans in to whisper softly. “You look breathtaking, sweetheart.” feeling an immense sense of pride at how lucky he was to make you the mother of his children.

You blush, turning to him to whisper playfully back.

“Not bad yourself.”

You both look forward when you come to a stop at the patio steps, sheer amazement at the full preparation your daughters did for this event. Fairy lights were hung around the area, a table with two chairs on either side placed with a white table cloth and a bouquet of freshly hand picked flowers from the forest, battery powered candles that were sold at the souvenir shop lit in the middle and glowing softly.

Eunbyeol dashes to the door when it rings, making you and Hongjoong furrow your brows.

“Is someone here?” he asks, watching Eunseo fold a napkin over her arm like the pro waiter she was. The other one walks out, an oily fast food paper bag in her hands as she smiles. “Dinner is served!”

“Turns out that diner 15 minutes away also delivers!” She chuckled, helping her sister plate the two cheeseburgers, fries, and vanilla and strawberry milkshakes.

You and Hongjoong continue to watch in stunned amazement as the girls prepare the not exactly gourmet(?) but still impressive meal in front of you, their small hands working swiftly.

“You guys prepared all of this?” You asked, getting a little emotional. They grin proudly, nodding their heads. “We called the place earlier and planned it all by ourselves!”

You pressed a kiss to each of their soft cheeks, thanking them both as Hongjoong did the same.

“What did I do to get so lucky with my girls?” he smiles, ruffling their heads.

“What about you guys?” You asked, watching as they slowly backed away to give you two some privacy.

“Natalie and her mom invited us over for dinner and a sleepover tonight at her cottage,” Eunbyeol smiles. At the mention of their newly made friend that they had gotten close to over the week, Hongjoong looks at you then back at them.

“What? But- ”

She cuts him off, rolling her eyes. “Her mom said it’s totally fine with her. She’s only two cottages down, and she’ll make sure we’re back in time again for tomorrow when we leave!”

The two girls smile in excitement, though the both of you have your parental instincts kick in.

“Please?” they begged, wanting you to let them go so that they could do this for you guys as much as they wanted to do it for themselves. “She’s waiting for us now!”

Hongjoong feels guilty. “C’mon, you guys should still join us!”

Eunseo immediately shakes her head, declining the offer.

“Tonight is all about you guys. We don’t want to intrude” she chuckles, bumping shoulders with her sister who chips in.

“We’ll text you guys in the middle to let you know everything’s good of course”

You and Hongjoong smile, a feeling of immense proudness overwhelming you from seeing your daughters act so grown up. There wasn’t anything else you felt grateful for more.

“Thank you girls.” you muttered softly, watching as they flashed you a wink before hurrying out through the backyard door.

“Don’t get all kissy in the backyard!” Eunbyeol teases, making cheesy smooching sounds with the back of her hand as her sister rolls her eyes and shoves her out.

Before you know it, you’re left standing with just the sound of smooth jazz playing on the patio speakers and the buzzing of the summer cicadas.

“She takes after you, I hope you know that” You told Hongjoong softly.

He chuckles, “Not as much as you.” He gestures to the table. “Shall we?”

And that’s how the next few hours seem to pass by without even realizing.

You see, there was a reason why you fell in love with the man sitting in front of you, and you’re just beginning to remember it now. Being with Hongjoong felt as if the moment was everlasting, and you could testify that from the amount of laughter and deep conversation that was shared over dinner, bringing you to sit on that patio until the sun had set. Every so often you’d smile again at the thought of the twins preparing this all for you.

“I don’t remember the last time I’ve been on a date like this” You blurted out after laughing about something, taking a sip of your strawberry milkshake through a straw.

“Oh, so we’re going on dates now, are we?” Hongjoong grins, making you roll your eyes at him.

You lean forward on the table cloth, watching as a glimmer passes through your husband’s eyes while he sits back in his chair, cocking his head to the side as he clears his voice.

“But you’ve gone on dates after we split, haven’t you?” he asks, leaning forward in interest now, letting his chin rest on his palm.

You shook your head slowly.

“Nope. Not since signing those papers” you revealed.

Hongjoong furrows his brows in surprise. “And why’s that?”

You suddenly didn’t have an answer. “I-I don’t know, I just…” You began, watching how he looked at you with an unreadable expression. You smiled, looking down and suddenly feeling embarrassed.

“I guess I was too focused on running the bridal shop, I couldn’t find the time to.” You use as a cliche excuse.

“Bullshit” he retorts back immediately.

“It’s true!” You protested, throwing a fry at him that he dodges, landing on his finished plate.

“You always did say back when we were younger that you wanted to be a designer. And look at you now” he admires, letting the candle lights shine a youthful glow to your face.

“You always said you wanted to become a music producer and write your own songs.” you reciprocated, smiling as you soaked in the presence of one another. “And here you are now.”

You think for a moment before asking the same question.

“How about you?”

Hongjoong silently shakes his head as his answer, though silently thinking about something else. The music changes to some old Billy Joel song in the back. You don’t realize it, but Hongjoong smiles to himself when he realizes the girls added it to the playlist. Of course they had to, it was one of the songs you played at your wedding.

“What were we thinking when we got married like that?” You asked out loud, looking at how far you’d both come. You definitely skipped some of the order of the stages of a normal relationship.

“I mean, we had no money, no prospects. Hell, we didn’t even have a car, Hongjoong!” you realized.

Your husband laughs, sitting straight and letting some skin show through his unbuttoned collar.

“We were young” he justifies.

“Yeah, and stupid too,” you pointed out, feeling the summer breeze pass by. It felt good to sit here like this with him.

You wondered, could sitting here like this with Hongjoong be a regular thing? After this trip, would you be able to walk back into each other’s lives again like this?

As both parents and lovers?

Hongjoong brings up something you wouldn’t have expected him to.

“Do you remember when we first found out about Eunseo and Eunbyeol?” he questioned softly, looking at you.

You blink, taken aback. Suddenly you’re back in your college dorm washroom, sobs wracking through your body as Hongjoong who had only just sent his first few mixtapes to recording stations and companies nearby, pulled you close into his chest, eyeing the two lines left on the counter while he caressed your back. Only twenty years old and figuring out what you wanted to do with your lives, you were suddenly stuck in a sudden situation that had made you feel like your dreams would have been given up on completely.

“I do,” you told him, pulling yourself from the memory.

“I remember because in that moment I felt like the whole world was caving in”. You laughed, though it wasn’t fully cheerful.

“I don’t regret it, though” Hongjoong replies after some thought, gazing at you with truth in his eyes.

You shook your head. “Of course. Neither do I.”

It was a blessing to have two beautiful daughters as the product of your love.

“I don’t regret you either.” Hongjoong states.

You lock gazes, unable to take your eyes off of his face.

“I loved you when I first met you and I still loved you when we divorced,” he says all at once, making your breath hitch and heart waver.

“Don’t say that.” you tell him, looking away and suddenly reminding yourself you’re still divorced from the man sitting in front of you.

How could he still love you after all this time? How could you feel the same about him?

Hongjoong continues, shaking his head as he bites back the lodge in his throat and makes up his mind. He has to tell you.

“Truthfully, I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you.”

Don’t do this to me you begged silently.

“I’ve hurt you just as much as you’ve hurt me.” He swallows, thinking back to the times you already knew he was referring to. The times where you fought to the point where there wasn’t even anything worth fighting for anymore.

“But you have given me the greatest gifts of my life.” He smiles, holding his tears back.

“And for that I will always love you.”

You push your seat from the table, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and wanting to avoid him.

“I can’t do this anymore.” you dejected, walking away from the patio and from Hongjoong.

There wasn’t anything else you could fake anymore. You couldn’t bear to hear the man you once loved, possibly even still love, say these things like he had a dagger lodged in his heart. Didn’t he know he was only going to do the same to you?

Hongjoong is quick to catch up, holding onto your wrist and turning you around, that your back collides with the nearest wall inside, pressing your fronts together and closing the distance.

“Why do you always run away from me? From the possibility of us?” He exclaimed, voice breaking. His heart crushed at the way you turned your head, hot tears already clouding your vision.

“Because ‘us’ can’t happen again, Hongjoong!” You cried, staring up at the man you once promised your life to.

“Don’t you get it? Us going on this trip isn’t a sign to get back together. What would we do seven years after breaking up?”

“We could do it” He states firmly, staring you down, both your chests heaving.

You bite your tears back again. “No we couldn’t, honey. We would be pretending to think we solved our marriage. What would we do about our daughters? After putting them through our constant fighting— ”

He slams his lips to your own, shutting you up as you painfully resist his touch. Your hands came up to push him away, but at the sudden gesture, you’re already giving in and sobbing softly, letting him hold you for just one last time.

Your lips mold so perfectly, it almost hurts how much you missed this feeling. To have him slot his arms around your waist, pull you in close, and cherish you. You almost forgot this feeling.

He pulls away softly, watching your lashes flutter, pleading to you for a chance as he leans closer, making your breath hitch.

“We could be together as a family again,” he states firmly, your name leaving his lips in a desperate plea. “We never know if we try—”

You drown out his words, looking up with tears falling as you cut him off.

“Seven years ago I gave you those papers to sign, thinking that you would’ve chased after me,”

Hongjoong holds his breath, watching as the next words stumble from your mouth.

“I realize now, how stupid I was to think that.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to chase you”

Shoving his chest away while mustering the last of your strength you uttered. “Of course I wanted you to chase me.” You let go of his hands. “It’s too late either way”, walking away from the defeated man.

Hongjoong stands alone near the patio entrance, watching his tears fall to the wooden floorboards. Holding the ring he had kept hidden in his trouser pocket, he plays with it in his fingers, silently wishing he had given it to you sooner.

It rains the next morning on your departure back to the city. Perfect, considering it reflects the sudden storm of utter depression that falls upon your family. Long gone are the cheerful giggles and longing stares that were shared between you and Hongjoong during the ride to the cottage.

There was no room for that, not after last night.

Eunbyeol and Eunseo sat slumped in the backseat, rain hitting the roof of the car as they mindlessly played on their cell phones. Really, they were peeking from behind every so often and watching their parents sit in the front seat with tension so thick, you could’ve cut it with a knife.

What had they done wrong? They planned the trip, the activities, the dinner— it was all perfect. And yet why were you still fighting with each other?

These questions racked in their brains, baffled to have witnessed the sight of their parents refusing to talk to each other after walking back from their friends' sleepover.

Eunbyeol and Eunseo felt as useful as matchmakers without a couple, feeling their efforts all gone down the drain.

At the sudden ring of your cell phone, you pick up, answering at the voice of your assistant.

“I’m driving back up right now”

Hongjoong continues focusing on the road, the occasional wiping of rain from the windshield wipers on the front window.

“Yes. That’s okay, I'll take care of it.” You muttered, glancing at the rear view mirror for a moment. Your twin daughters immediately sigh, having an idea of what to expect when you say those familiar words.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

You hang up the phone,

“One of us isn’t going with you, are we?” Eunseo asks, making you look back at her with a sigh.

“No, you’re not” You confess, apologetic. ‘I’m sorry honey. I really am.”

You look back facing the front, swallowing as you told Hongjoong.

“You’ll have to drop me off at the studio. Some things aren’t working out with the client so they need me to come in and take care of it.”

He nods, unphased as he continues to look straight.

“Will you be fine with the girls?” You asked carefully, watching them as they were slumped in the backseat.

Hongjoong grips the wheel before turning to you.

“I‘ll be fine. Don’t worry about it” sending a small smile, though it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

The twins thank god that at least neither of them had to choose to go back home with either parent.

They would’ve hated that more.

After barely being able to depart and say goodbye to your daughters in front of your studio, holding them close for a warm embrace and thanking them for an unforgettable weekend, Hongjoong drives off with his daughters, an empty feeling cascading his thoughts. He puts on a smile still, trying to cheer up his girls.

“What do you want to do first when we go home? Want to unpack and then eat? We can eat and then unpack. Or we could- ”

Eunseo crosses her arms, having been fed up for far too long.

“Dad, you must be out of your mind.”

Hongjoong stills, furrowing his brows and peeking at the first born who crosses her arms, holding an attitude.

“Eunseo, what are you- ”

“You’re telling me you and Mom just spent a whole entire week together at the cottage, had the best time of your lives since separating with one another, and now you’re just going to go back to not speaking or talking to each other again?”

Hongjoong blinks at his daughter’s sudden outburst, already making a turn into the driveway of his house.

Eunbyeol now reciprocates her twin, looking at her dad as she slouches beside him, coming near the front seat area.

“She’s got a point dad. Do you really just not love mom anymore?” She worries, looking up at him genuinely concerned.

Hongjoong doesn’t know how to answer these sudden questions right now, stuttering to reply.

“Me and your mother are fine!” He lies, trying to reassure them. “That trip wasn’t just for us, it was also for you two to enjoy— ”

Eunseo asks the million dollar question.

“If you still love Mom, why are you letting her go a second time?”

With the engine turned off, it's gone silent. Two pairs of eyes staring at their father, awaiting his response.

“Well? Are you going to chase after her or not?!” Eunbyeol groans, her fathers lack of response making her pull her hair.

They were right. How could he have made the same stupid mistake twice?

Hongjoong struggles to put the keys back in the engine, telling them to put their seat belts back on. Their eyes begin to glow with hope.

“Do you girls mind staying at your uncle’s for a bit?” He asks hurriedly, punching into his cell phone to call his brother for a favor as he pulls out of the driveway. Eunbyeol squeals, hands clamping over her mouth as her sister speaks on behalf of them both.

“Dad, if you don’t drop us off and get your butt over to mom’s right away, I’m gonna report you to child services.” she threatens, watching as he steps on the accelerator, heart pumping so fast as he smiles through the rear view mirror.

You sighed, holding up your cellphone to your ear.

“Call me once she approves the design then,” you told your assistant through the receiver, one hand looking over the sheets of paper, highlighting the changes to the new blueprint.

“Alright then, bye.”

After hanging up the phone, you rubbed your temples, head pounding as you tucked the files back into the folder.

The clock in your studio showed the hands about to reach seven pm. A few hours had already passed since coming back from your trip to the cottage, trying to forget everything by burying your focus into the new dress prints a client of yours requested, remodeling them after the original was rejected.

Fingers worked away swiftly, comparing textiles and fabrics as you looked at the piles of papers and messy sticky notes in front of you. But yet the gears in your mind seemed to churn achingly slow, sighing as you repeatedly told yourself the same thing.

Just focus on the dress, focus on the dress, focus on the dress.

Don’t think about him.

The task is impossible. Your mind can’t help but slip back to what your relationship has become with Hongjoong, and what you were going to do now that those seven days were over. For so long you had deprived yourself from indulging in your love life, prioritizing taking care of Eunseo and Eunbyeol while juggling your job as a designer. Had you been doing it all wrong?

Hongjoong’s words repeat in your head like a broken record player.

I will always love you

Lies. That promise couldn’t be kept. Your divorce was a clear outcome of it. You and Hongjoong were two people not meant for one another. You were too different, all you would do is hurt one another, make life an unbearable living hell—

And yet you missed him. You missed Hongjoong so much.

What was fucking keeping you from loving him? Was it your stubbornness? Was it really the fact that he didn’t chase after you? Or was it none of that and just your own self being stupid?

The front door of the studio opens, pulling you from your thoughts as you got back to the sketches. You called up from your desk as you worked quietly.

“The studios closed for the- ”

Heavy breathing. The man who just walked in catches his breath from dashing out of his car and up the three flights of stairs, driving through almost an hour of traffic in pouring rain to be here in this moment with you.

“Hongjoong?”

He’s drenched, making a mess on the floor of the studio as the droplets fall softly one by one.

Suddenly he's striding over to where you’re sitting in long steps before slamming his lips against yours. The kiss throws you off guard, the shock of his cold hands cradling your face makes you close the gap unknowingly.

Linking your arms around his neck while kissing back passionately, you let your hands rest on his shoulders, pulling back for air as you panted heavily, catching your breaths and looking at each other with pure love and lust.

“Why are you here?” you asked, feeling dumb because your heart already knew the answer. His hands wrap around your waist, desperate as if you would leave him again.

But he’s just so fucking tired of that now. He just wants to love you now.

“I lost you once.” He breathes, eyes watering.

“I’m not going to lose you again”.

Suddenly, everything that kept you from being with each other is thrown away.

That hate, that fear, everything is gone because you realize you still needed each other. You’re still the same twenty year old couple standing in that dorm washroom, holding each other close and knowing it’ll be okay because at least you had each other.

You grasp onto his damp shirt, pulling him down with such force that your lips meet again, taking charge as you finally allowed him to have you.

“You’re a fucking idiot” you whined between kisses, curses escaping your lips when he softly bites the flesh of your neck to test the waters. “I hope you know that”

He agrees wholeheartedly, nodding as if he was already getting pussydrunk.

“I’m an idiot” he mumbles to himself, letting it escape his lips like a mantra. Well, he was stupid enough to only chase after you this late, so if his wife told him he was an idiot, then so he was.

“Let me prove how much I love you,” a hand comes to graze near the collar of your shirt.

You gasped, watching as Hongjoong lifted you from your seat and rutted his hips against your core pathetically, your ass digging into the edge of the table.

“Here?” Your eyes widened, watching his expression turn dark. He presses kisses on your collarbone, making your hands grasp the wood for support. “Hongjoong wait,” you exhaled in a deep breath, heart beating against your chest.

But he doesn’t give a shit. He’s tired of waiting.

“It’s been too fucking long” he protests, ripping your top off. You’re dizzy from how abruptly he’s stripping you, latching onto his shoulders for support as you wobble from him unzipping your jeans and pushing them down, exposing you in nothing but your underwear and bra.

And like the good little whore you are, you immediately spread your legs, letting Hongjoong get a view of the embarrassingly wet patch leaking through your panties as he’s crouched down to let you step out of the denim near your ankles.

Holy fucking shit

You stand bashfully, toes curling from how exposed and vulnerable you were being the only one naked.

“Please?” you asked nicely, letting your foot rest on his shoulder as your pussy was now on full display for him.

You don’t have time to even finish the last word before Hongjoong dives in, lapping at your soaking cunt and humming in pure ecstasy at the taste. The muffled vibrations make you throw your head back, tugging on his locks to shove his face further.

Hongjoong’s hands press into your thighs that cage his head in, leaving a grip that you guarantee with littering the flesh with red splotchy bruises. Did you mind? Not at all.

When his tongue pokes at the gummy flesh of your walls, you let out a full moan, echoing throughout the studio as the air begins to smell like sex.

“Right there, yes” you urged him, leg beginning to shake from how weak it was getting.

He's so invested, you fear he might suffocate any longer if he doesn’t pull back for air. So you grasp his head, pushing him away from his meal while you both gasped lightly.

You watch him wipe his slick covered chin with the back of his hand, not breaking eye contact as he stares.

“You were just begging to be fucked for all these years, weren’t you sweetheart?” He teases.

Though you wanted him to lap at your juices until you came, you knew you needed to still feel his cock inside after so long.

Your fingers played with the hem of your underwear, smiling back at your husband.

“And you were just begging to get a taste of this pussy, weren’t you, Joong?” wiping that smug grin off his face.

”Lay down for me” he demands, getting up so that one hand finds its way to the back of your bra to unclasp it. The other clears half your desk covered in wedding dress blueprints and sketches, making sure nothing would make you uncomfortable before he fucked you on that mahogany surface so all you’d remember would be his name.

And people said romance was dead.

When the bra slides off and your bare back hits your desk, you suddenly realize what Hongjoong’s intention was when he ordered you to do that.

Soft mounds spill out as your breasts take their natural form, giving Hongjoong the perfect view of your tits. Pervert.

He immediately latches his tongue on a nipple, taking his hand and playing with the other, twisting painfully.

A cry escapes your lips, parting them open as you let him play with them as much as he wanted to. He smiles against the motherfuckers, knowing that shut you up perfectly.

“Are you ready for me to fuck you now?”

“Please, Joong, I need you” you whined, submitting yourself to your husband. He already knows you’re in need of one last kiss, coming up to give his wife what she wants by slotting his lips against yours again, this time much harsher.

“Tell me so that I treat you good, baby” he mumbles, pulling back and making you clench your thighs together. He undoes his shirt in the meantime, unbuckling his belt and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek when you sobbed.

“Fuck me, please”

His fingers slide your panties to the side to press his aching tip to your wet core.

“Like this?” He teases.

“Inside, Hongjoong” you emphasized, meaning what you said with the way your nails dug into a pile of papers nearby. Biting your lip from how sensitive and needy your cunt was.

“I know, I know,” he murmured, smiling to himself after messing with you.

“I just missed this pretty cunt” before in one strong thrust, Hongjoong’s bulging tip enters inside your walls, giving you a stretch you forgot how much you loved. You whined softly.

“Shit” he curses, relishing how the buildup finally led to this moment.

The man is ravenous, but he’s genuinely trying his best to ease the painful stretch as you adjust to his thickness, nipping your neck in a trail of hickeys and love bites posessively.

With every thrust he makes, you arch your back, pencils and papers shuffling near by you.

“Fucking look at my wife” he admires proudly, watching the woman he loves bounce her tits at every thrust of his cock.

“S’too much” you caved in, shaking your head at the stimulation.

You claw at his arms, head turning to the side as your eyes roll back from pleasure.

“I know, mama, I know”

He grabs a tit in his left hand, the right one coming down to play with your clit, pressing slow circles near where you were connected.

“Fuck, I missed these” He rasps, savouring the feeling of your soft flesh in his hand, making you throw your head back.

“Missed how they looked when you were pregnant” he says, thinking of how ethereal you looked when you were knocked up with his kids.

“God, at this point I’m gonna get you fucking pregnant again” Hongjoong grunts, snapping his hips deliriously back and forth. He envisions you round and full, fulfilling his inner fantasy.

“Shut up.” You spat, breaking the mood as you bit your lip to suppress a moan. He almost laughs when you then crane your hips back to give him easier access to keep penetrating you. The desk shuffles.

“Your mouth is saying one thing, honey, but your body is saying something else”

After hearing his words, you suck him in further, both of you now getting close.

“M’close. M’so close!” you whimpered, sitting up so that now Hongjoong could hold you in his arms, caging your body so his cock could stuff you better.

Your mouth hangs open in silent bliss, hands scratching his back. You leaned into his ear, making the final chord inside him snap.

“Make me cum, daddy”

And just like that, you’re clenching around Hongjoong’s massive cock as a creamy white ring begins to form. Hot ropes fill you up inside, tangled in a sweaty mess as he purrs, caressing the back of your head again in habit.

“So fucking good, sweetheart. You did so good for me”

The sounds of your breathing fill the studio, a pencil or two rolling quietly away on the ground from being shoved off the desk. He shakes his head when you try to pull your sweaty bodies away, hair sticking to your neck but feeling the way he refuses.

“Just let me love you,” he mumbles into your shoulder, dick softening inside you. “Just for a moment.”

You’re too tired to say anything back, so you finally give in.

Seven years passed by you two without even realizing how much you still loved each other. Though you wouldn’t be able to get that time back, for once, there was something that you and Hongjoong agreed upon.

You had no intention of wasting that time any more.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄:

Months later, and it still takes everything in Eunbyeol and Eunseo hearts to not scream at the sight of their parents when they walk hand in hand, smiling happily in public as they pick their daughters up from the first day of school.

The girls jump into their parent’s embrace, eying the two silver rings they now wore proudly together.

“How was school, darlings?” Hongjoong asks, pressing a kiss to Eunseo and Eunbyeol.

“It was fun! We watched a documentary about lovebirds” she smiled, looking back up. You laughed softly.

“Which reminded me to tell you,” she grins, watching as you, her sister, and father all looked at her.

“I hope you know that getting you and dad back together was my plan from the start.” she confesses, smirking at Eunbyeol who scoffs, crossing her arms.

“Nuh uh, this was my idea first!”

Before her sister could yell at her twin, you jumped in.

“Plan? What plan?” You asked quizzically, both you and Hongjoong standing there confused.

“To get you guys to fall back in love again, of course!” Eunseo smiles, both her and her sister now giggling softly together.

“How am I just finding out that there was a plan?” Hongjoong mutters, scratching his neck in confusion. You turned to the two girls, stopping in your tracks on your way to the car

“When did you two even think of all this?” grinning in astonishment as you felt Hongjoong slot his hand and intertwine it with yours. It felt natural now.

“Yeah, I'm curious too” he states, leaning close and becoming intrigued.

Your daughters look at each other before smiling.

“It’s a long story.”

But at last, time is something you finally now have as a reunited family of four, walking back to your car, holding hands with a twin on each side.

Listening carefully, as your daughters start from the very beginning.

taglist: @vent-stink @dazzlingstarrs @vcutparis @xpixie @potatos-on-clouds @showingmafandomlove @bibbleypoof @kpop-will-kill-me @avantalem @beabatiny @gabrielle-brugger @nsixns @amaranth1ne @stayminho @myblovedjyh @kkeshia @rebekah-reads @yoonbroom @4kwp @butterflydemons @iwaizumiismybae @soobinsputnik @stayatinykatsy @atitties @justconniez @kitten4sannie @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @cheolsthicthighs @morethingsfandom @geminiml95 @byuntrash101 @quailbagutte @syubseokie @newworldwritings @urmom26john @sleepy-kat-here @pearltinyy @hjshyhyssnmgwyjh @cursedeastern @starryunho @piratekingateez2001 @jiminbility @paumll @drinkingrumandcocacola @roomsofangel @channies-bbg-room @meanaonthemoon @teeztopia @pommelex @kiln9z @sanhwalvr @youresolivlie @edawg77 @a-0206 @summer-gyu @bvidzsoo @yoongzsmile28 @tournesol155

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fics-lovebot · 2 months ago

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enhypen fic recs pt.4

main masterlist - pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 5

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

these are my personal favs, so pls reblog if you like any of my recs❤️

random texts with bf!jay - ( @enha-stars ), love it

too sweet - ( @star-sim ) fluff, suggestive, badboy!jake, nerdy!reader, downbad!jake. Jay is scared he will hurt you in the future so he tries to break things off but at the end of the day he´s whipped LMAOOO, I LOVE ITTTTTT

say it back! - ( @star-sim ) FLUFF, non-idol! bf! jay, clingy cute!reader, whipped!jake, like fr, UGHHHHHHHH SO CUTE AND DOMESTIC

pics i posted on my ig story for my crush to see - ( @lattegyu ) ig stories, fluff, crack, smau, non idol!jay

pictures of bf!jay enha send you - ( @ddksoo ) text, fluff

justice and mercy - ( @thoughtsofmetaphor ) god!jay x virgin!reader, NAHHHH the potential rev harem this had is insaneee, i love it

eat the rich - ( @enhypencores ) chaebol!jay x fem!reader, wheeeewww, i love this sfdlsdjfljkshd he´s so manly and possessive

fuck buddy jake - ( @heeseungsbm ) smut, lowkey fluff bc he´s got a fat crush

texts with ex-bf!jake - ( @bywons ) fluff, CRACK, he´s down bad fr

pictures of bf!jake enha send you - ( @ddksoo ) text, fluff

necklace - ( @rikiislvr ) fluff, idol!riki, i WISH this would happen to me but i´m too broke to be frequenting the same stores as him alsjfha, need a part two asap plss

busy woman - ( @heedeungism ) fluff, angst, crack, lacrosse player!niki, rich kids au, highschool au, listen to me rn this is imPORTANT: this is one of THEE BEST NIKI FICS OUT THERE, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. i had to hide in every corner to read this at work bc 1) i couldn´t STOP reading it and 2) i couldn´t let anybody see me reading it bc it had me giggling like a dumb bitch. js go read it, pls and ty

string of fate - ( @acphengene ) fluff, angst, soulmate au series, idol!enha. YESSIIIRRRRR, i love love love love tHIS, one of the best enha soulmates au i´ve read so far, the niki one made me fucking cry omg, but my fav is deff jungwon, it was so good it made me read the whole series, did not dissapoint AT ALL, so do yourself a favor and read it to :p

helping hand - ( @ghstzzn ) smut. pro gamer!hee, bsf!reader. "heeseung had an unusual ritual before every competition as a professional league of legends player", you already know how it issss, some top tier head and now he´s begging and shi sjsjs, i loved this

bounded by fate - ( @tobiosbbyghorl ) fluff, ceo!sunghoon, lowk slow burn if you squint, secretary!reader, nahhhhhh why is he lowkey smooth and confident af, making me blush and shi

perv - ( @urlovebot ) smut. perv!sunghoon, non-con themes. oh,,,my god. i have no words,,i was literally reading this with a gaping mouth, ykw just go through her whole m.list atp

serendipity - ( @kaiyunsim ) fluff, spiderman!jake, if you love hot loser!jake as much as i do, you´re gonna LOVE this.

that was too far - ( @semisasseater ) angst, fluff, bf!niki. ni-ki took his joke a bit too far. this would SO happend to him irl too i fear

aftercare and pillowtalk - ( @enhani-ki ) fluff, bf!niki, suggestive. i loved it sm :(, and as an angsty fic lover & connoisseur my soul is bEGGING for a following part where hE breaks her heart (with hea ofc :p i´m no that sick and twisted).

king of tears - ( @enhaflixer ) angSSSt, fluff, smut, chaebol husband!sunghoon, maknae line cameo. WWWWWOW i ate this tf uPPPPP, girlllll this should be aired on netflix fosho!, so so gooD!

tying them up - ( @enhaflixer ) smut. WAIT WSIT WAIT WAIT WAITTTTT I WANS´T EXPECTING THIS I- miss girl you have opened my eYES to a better world, where pretty men cry. thank you.

fwb!sunghoon - ( @vampjaeyun ) angst. the ending :)))))))))))))))))) i´ll let yall see for yourselves. i almost crashed out at worK

strawberry kisses - ( @amoressb ) FLUFF. idol bf!niki. NAURRRR THIS WAS SO CUTE IT HAD ME TEARING UPPPPP :´) and not jake being an anti-romantic lmao

until i found her - ( @orimuraa ) FLUFF. down bad!enha, bad boy!enha. the niCKNAMES :((((((( thisissofuckingcute

is it a crime to be attracted to my girl? - ( @youngheejay ) suggestive, bf!sunghoon. lmaooooo this man was stressed oUT. and not him calling the others "bitchless losers" i cant

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hoonatic · 10 months ago

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emergency contact | park sunghoon x reader

prompt: weeks after your breakup, sunghoon finds out that he’s still your emergency contact. pairing: non-idol sunghoon x implied female reader genre: angst with hopeful/happy? ending; second chance romance??; exes to lovers??? word count: 2800 note: i’ve had a cute fic idea that i wanted to write forever…but this is not it. the sad demons have visited me once again. hope y’all enjoy nevertheless and any feedback is much appreciated <3

sunghoon was miserable.

it had been three weeks, five days, two hours, and thirty-two minutes since the two of you had gone no contact.

he wished he could say he was happy to be single, that he was no longer “locked down” and “whipped” as his friends had always called him. but the so-called “freedom” felt like hell since it meant losing you.

at first, he kept telling himself that time would heal the pain. “it’s natural,” he had repeated like a mantra, “she was your best friend and lover for years.” but no, this heartbreak was inhumane. his desire to see you, apologize endlessly, and spend days holding you until you could feel every ounce of his love was gnawing at his soul. if anything, it got worse by the minute.

he had tried so hard to balance work and the rest of his life, using the excuse several times that he was securing this future for your shared life with him. that one day, you’d be able to reap the rewards of his efforts and live comfortably together without stress.

but what was the use of all of that now? the future he had worked so hard to create was ripped out from his hands by no one other than himself.

you had accused him of being too busy for you. dates canceled at the last minute, a birthday forgotten, and all the texts left on read had built up to the argument that ended it all. he was always good at fighting, a little too good. he had retorted that you weren’t being supportive, and he was never one to sugarcoat his words. his tongue was sharp, and he did nothing to dull its blade.

but there wasn’t too much yelling on your part, and he thought that that hurt more. he wanted you to fight back, to stand your ground because he knew deep down that he was being the asshole. his toxic thought was that by you fighting back, this meant that you were still fighting for your relationship. but instead, you just stared with silent tears and a blank expression. seeing the indifference in eyes that had previously held so much love was a sight that would stay with him forever. so, in fear of you leaving, he ran instead.

he was a coward, leaving your shared home to run back to the apartment he had still technically owned but hadn’t lived in for more than a year. he locked himself away for a few days, but the realization that you hadn’t attempted to contact him burned more than he could put into words. you were done with him. he had hurt you, had the audacity to be the one to run, and now he had lost you.

he had even run from his job. he couldn’t stand to walk into the same building he stayed in when he forgot dates with you. his coworkers wouldn’t stop asking what happened to him, why he looked so rough. he even found an empty container that had once held lunch you made for him. but his final straw was getting promoted. his first instinct was to call you, but he remembered the sad truth before he could dial. any ounce of pride was washed away with shame in that moment. that same day, he quit without notice.

so there he was: miserable, alone, and unemployed with nothing left to run from but memories. he had spent the last week going through his phone and saving your pictures together in a locked album. he wouldn’t dare delete them, but he couldn’t stomach looking at you either.

he wished he could get drunk and sleep away the pain. he had tried, he definitely did - but that night, he dreamt of you. you were smiling at first, eyes ever full of love. you were speaking, yet he couldn’t hear you. but he could see how your words started to gradually look sadder, and slowly, tears started to fall as your grin dropped. he woke up that next morning crying with the conclusion that he would have to face this heartbreak sober.

but another day of scrolling through albums had stopped abruptly when he saw the notification that changed everything.

SOS i called emergency services from this approximate location after my watch detected a hard fall. you are receiving this message because i have you listed as my emergency contact.

sunghoon had to remind himself to breathe.

he had purchased that watch for you as a “just because” present months ago. you had complained of bad sleep and he wanted you to use it as a way to track your slumber. he hated seeing you tired. he knew that the watch had a fall detection function, but it had never been used before.

his heart was in his stomach as he went to his favorite contacts page and selected your name for the first time in weeks.

“please,” he begged, all notion of running away from you leaving his brain, “pick up please.”

but you just weren’t answering. so he tried again and again and again.

for a moment while the line attempted to connect, he wondered if this was how he had made you feel for months - desperate for a sliver of attention from him. but instead, he was desperate for a sign of life.

finally, after about two minutes of trying to reach you, his body moved of its own accord. before he knew it, his car keys were in his hands and he was out the door.

the car ride there might have been the worst part. the speed at which he drove at almost defied the laws of physics. other drivers were cursing at him but he wasn’t registering anything except the thought of your safety. he just needed to get to you.

why did he run? why didn’t he try to talk it out? if he was so afraid of losing you, why did he do the one thing that would guarantee that? he should have been there like he promised to be from the beginning. you would have been safe with him.

when he pulled up to the house you had shared for so long, he suddenly felt the world slow down. why were emergency services there? you should’ve canceled them by now.

he had to double park as the ambulance was blocking the driveway. why were they here?

the emts and police had arrived at the same time as him, which both increased his anxiety and soothed him. for one, that meant he had been quick enough. but why did you need them?

“sir, do you know–” an officer had approached him as he stumbled to the front door. all he could understand was your name. why were they asking if he knew you? of course he knew you. you, the love of his life. you, his soulmate by every meaning of the word. you were you. and you were safe.

as if sensing his distress, he felt an emt worker pull him to the side as the same officer prepared to break down the door. seeing this, sunghoon finally returned to his senses.

“w-wait! sorry, i have a key.” sunghoon’s hands were shaking. the only way that door had unlocked was by pure muscle memory because he didn’t understand what he was doing at all.

as soon as the door opened, sunghoon tried to step in. finally, he was close to you.

the officer, however, pulled him back.

“sir, you should wait here. we need to make an initial search before you can go in.”

“what, why? if she’s in there, i want to see–”

“sir, it’s just in case we find something we wouldn’t want you to see.”

all of sunghoon’s hesitation and fear went out the window at those words. his body flew automatically as he ran inside.

he screamed your name as he rushed in, ignoring the yells of the police officers who followed him in. as it had been for almost four weeks, his only thought was you. he just needed you.

he checked the ground floor first, eyes scanning the open space in less than a second as his body avoided an officer trying to grab him. sunghoon then moved to the staircase, long legs prepared to skip steps to reach you. then suddenly, he heard the voice his ears had been longing for,

“sunghoon?!”

his head shot up. there you were, finally. he saw the sadness, confusion, and fear all flash your face as you registered the emergency workers behind him. you looked exhausted and unruly, but he had never felt more in love.

he didn’t even remember climbing the steps, but suddenly he was at the top of the staircase and you were in his arms.

you could feel him trembling as he held you. you took his face into your hands to look at him, “sunghoon? what’s wrong? why are you here? is it my parents? is someone hurt?” you watched as his mouth opened but no words came out. after a few seconds, one of the officers spoke from the bottom of the steps,

“ma’am, we received an alert from your device that a hard fall had occurred.”

suddenly, you understood everything. taking sunghoon’s hand gently, you led him down the stairs, afraid he’d fall from shock. he followed you silently, but his grip tightened seemingly with every step.

that’s when you noticed your shattered watch on the third step.

you let sunghoon go and you could hear his deep breath when you did. you picked up the watch and offered it up to the officer as an explanation, “i’m sorry officer, it looks like there’s been a misunderstanding…”

the officer nodded in understanding, and dismissed the emts, “got it, ma’am. we will still need a formal report for our records since this was registered as an emergency call.” he motioned to your couch as he took out a pen and paper.

you reached for sunghoon’s hand once more and led him to sit with you. in the moment, you knew he needed you more than you would ever understand. so, as you explained to the officer, you held his trembling hand, rubbing soothing circles with your thumb.

“i was doing laundry here downstairs and had taken off my watch to prevent it from getting wet,” you recounted, “i put it on top of the basket of clothes that i took upstairs. i remember tripping a little going up the stairs - i didn’t fall, but that must’ve been when the watch fell."

"what about your phone, where is it? i'm sure your boyfriend must've tried to call you."

sunghoon slowly nodded at that, turning to look at you. you smiled sheepishly, "i left it upstairs and it was on silent while i folded the clothes. i’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

after finishing up your statement, the remaining officer prepared to leave. as he walked out the door, he gave a soft smile to the both of you,

“glad to see it was a false alarm, ma’am. you had this gentleman quite worried - ran so fast i couldn’t even grab him!” the officer laughed, “you two have a nice day now! sorry about your watch, though!”

after he shut your door, the silence enveloped your home. you closed your eyes and breathed deeply to prepare to speak to your ex-boyfriend. but as soon as you opened them, sunghoon started to cry softly.

he hugged you tighter than he ever had, and soon enough, his face was buried in your neck. his cries were silent, but you could feel his body shaking as his tears soaked your shirt.

“sunghoon…” you started, stroking his back, “i’m sorry i worried you, honey.”

you knew you shouldn’t be calling your ex pet names, especially an ex that had run from you without properly ending the relationship. but your heart still held so much love for him that it flowed out naturally. and you knew he was crying from more than just worry, so you doubt he minded at all in the moment.

his crying slowed down as his arms took to loosely wrapping around your waist instead. he pulled away from your neck to rest his forehead on yours. from this angle, you could see his swollen eyes and red nose - a sight so rare in all the years you had dated. he was never a crier after all.

but memories of several late-night conversations rushed your mind. he always said his number one fear was your death, and now you could see he had never lied about that.

he could see your mind go elsewhere so he called your name softly, “don’t say you’re sorry. i’m so happy, these are relieved tears. and i just really, really missed you.” he croaked out. you knew he had more to say, so you just nodded, letting him go on.

“and i’m sorry, baby. for everything. i shouldn’t have run, i shouldn’t have tried to egg you on to fight me back. i shouldn’t have even fought anything you said that night. you were right. i didn’t prioritize you. in my attempt to secure you for life, i let you go instead. i’m so sorry, i never wanted to break up.” he was rambling in earnest now, afraid that no words would make you take him back.

you listened quietly as he went on for a few minutes after that, hand continuing to rub his back, “i know honey, i know.”

“baby, you need to understand that i almost died thinking you almost died today,” you could’ve laughed at how dramatically he spoke, “i couldn’t breathe right thinking that our last conversation could’ve been an argument. that you wouldn't have ever known just how deeply i love you and need you. i have so much regret for how i treated you, but if you’d give me the chance, i have all the time in the world to make it up to you…let’s go on that vacation i promised you. we can leave tomorrow if you’d like.” he smiled hopefully at you.

“hoon,” his heart soared at the use of his beloved nickname, “what do you mean? don’t you have work? can you really leave with such short notice?”

“i quit my job.”

“excuse me?”

“no job that made me work that much is worth it. i’ll find one with better work-life balance…after our vacation. if that’s what you still want of course…” he spoke more quietly, as if afraid of rejection.

you sighed. you really should be realistic with this - you two had been broken up for a few weeks at that point. you knew the love was still there, but was this a good decision?

while there was still some hesitation on your part, you couldn't help but notice how gingerly he held you. his arms were still around your waist loosely, yet there was something desperate about their hold. you knew he was holding back from hurting you - you could tell how tightly he wanted to hug you.

he was so shaken up at the idea of you being hurt that he rushed over there despite the two of you not being on speaking terms. for someone who had trouble communicating how he felt sometimes, you knew his actions spoke louder than words. he always acted brave, but there was so much he feared. and you knew losing you was always at the top of this list.

you could also feel how he was simply soaking in the sight of your face. his eyes were shy, yet determined. he wasn't going to risk missing another second of staring at you. a part of you grew conscious, but you knew he was just taking in what he had missed for weeks.

“what about…” you started and almost giggled at how he perked up, “we take it slow - another two weeks or so to talk everything out and relax? to get us to a good place again before you hold me hostage in some foreign country?”

sunghoon smiled softly, kissing your forehead. you leaned in naturally to his warmth, to his touch that you missed so much. “that sounds like a great idea, love.” he spoke, “we’ll get you a new watch too. and i’ll do all the itinerary planning and packing whenever you’re ready, okay? i love you.”

“okay. and i love you too. can’t wait to enjoy your unemployment with you for now!”

one smile and nod from you had him taking you into his arms once more, relishing in your being. he was back where he belonged. he had experienced the scariest reminder ever that he needed you, and sunghoon was never letting you go now.

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limerlove · 3 months ago

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FIND YOUR WINGS, VALENTINE

❝ VI!ONE SHOT ❞

pairing. roommate!vi x femcoded!reader x exsituationship!caitlyn

caitlyn kiramman, a woman who yearned to have her cake and eat it too. violet, a simple girl who has fallen for someone emotionally unavailable and you — trying to disperse between heartbreak and a new love.

warnings. eighteen+, nsfw content: 17k wc. bartender!reader, melvika cameos, lesbian sex, semi-public sex, mutual finger-off, anal play, shy!vi, caitlyn is a cunt (in this), unfaithful mentality, valentine's day aura?

rayray rambles, chat! we made it. truthfully, this fic got away from in so many ways and i'm proud of myself for reigning it in. this originally was going to be a new years eve fic but it got so impossibly long that i wanted some more time with it. but i hope you enjoy it, this is my latest baby and a lot of love was put into it. happy valentines ♡

— special thank you to my amazing proofreader reader, @meganegatari, plu, i love you dearly.

‪‪and to my love, @sinstear, thank you for always listening to me ramble. happy valentines bubba, ily. even though you've already read 85 percent of this bc i was so excited about it

You could still feel her.

Like it was just last night with her finger buried deep inside, pinning you against your front door with her slender fingers, the soft pad of her fingers stuffed inside your pants, making you see stars. A last ditch effort to keep you around.

Caitlyn likes to chase but she becomes a bambi in headlights once she’s caught her prey. There was desperation for the last cry, a final effort to keep you around. You’d never seen such a progressive emotion from her.

Before tonight, every moment; every word said seems transactional.

The hauntingly blue windows of her soul look anywhere but you. You wonder if it's a tactic. Refusing to make eye contact when she’s most vulnerable. As if one glance at you would cost her the rest of her life, an outcome she can’t afford.

These days, she’s afraid of her own shadow. Unable to look anyone in the eyes, her spirit crushed like she’s anywhere but here. When you try to pull her back to shore, she recedes even further.

Nothing is good enough.

Caitlyn makes it abundantly clear that you aren’t. Insults bite into your skin like a bullet, the blow never to your heart, the place you desperately want it to be.

But for now, you lick your wounds and you let her have what she wants. Even if she’s fading from your grip, you can still hold her, you can still pretend she loves you the same way, and you can cry after she leaves. You wonder if she sees you for who you really are or if Caitlyn only sees what benefits her.

It’s a cycle that keeps you here, entangled with a woman who doesn’t have the decency to let you go. If Caitlyn is half the woman you believe her to be, she would have mercifully kicked you out of her apartment.

Then, there’s Vi.

Nothing with her is serious, not even physical, she just whines and dines you, she holds you like she loves you. Above everything else; Vi makes you forget. Even if it’s with a soft smile, a harmless joke that’s so stupid it makes you giggle — it’s a moment of peace. One you crave more than desolation.

There’s a softness to her that Caitlyn doesn’t allow. You’re sure that’s why the two didn’t work out. Caitlyn is rough. Kind when she needs something, vengeful when you get in her way but when she seeks retribution for her sins, it’s entirely too late.

Vi is everything Caitlyn isn’t, what she’s incapable of being — a simmering token of hope you keep close to your chest.

The more you think about it, the more your stomach twists in knots over your neediness. Entertaining Violet so she can quench your emotional thirst. And keeping Caitlyn around in good faith, a blind faith you place in her, hoping that you’re not wrong.

You can’t be wrong.

Somehow she’ll change, right?

“Why do you have to leave so soon?” Her accent bites into you like an icy river, devoid of emotion as she reveals what she really wants. A silky blue robe untied as her full breasts sit perfectly on her chest.

Almost as if it’s muscle memory, your thumbs circle over her pink nipples, it buds under your touch and Caitlyn does what she does best.

She grasps onto the reins of control, refusing to let go.

With a firm hand, she applies pressure on the back of your neck, beckoning your mouth to find home on her perfect tits and they do. At the moment, you’re her favorite toy and she lets you play.

Plump lips latching on her nipple while your free hand squeezes the other, your tongue flicking over the sensitive nipple as your teeth graze over the sensitive skin, a gasp falling from Caitlyn’s lips.

“Pretty girl just needs her mouth put to work. Give the other some attention, she’s feeling quite lonely.”

Doing as you're told, your desperate drool collects on her chest as you bite the swell of her chest, before sucking on her other nipple as if she’s lactating. Then the idea of Caitlyn’s belly swollen makes you whimper, moaning into her skin as she runs a finger up her own slit, your eyes looking up at her as you suck, flick, and bite.

As if your life depends on it. Maybe it did.

“Come back to bed, babygirl. I need my perfect little slut. I can fuck you in the shower just the way you like.”

The ammunition of her poisonous words might as well have penetrate your bloodstream. Displaced trust turns you into another toy for her to use. Trapped perpetually in a cycle you had a hand in enabling. Words full of steam leave a third-degree burn on your skin, not a single drop of blood to be found.

But even if you want to pull back, you can’t.

There’s no further arguments as you slip into the lion’s den. With soul-crushing desire, your bare chest presses against the fogged glass, Caitlyn using her favorite dildo as she fucks you into the wall of glass, a dignity you posses withers with each thrust. Perfectly manicured slim fingers pull at your hair as an arch to your back is forced.

With each thrust she becomes more aggressive, her pace is punishing and it’s meant for you to fall in her hands. But you’re resisting, holding off the orgasm and the high that comes with it. The higher you fall, the harder you crash. You know Kirakiller won’t be there to catch you.

You’ll burden the fall on your own.

“Cait, please—”

The slap of your stretched lips being thoroughly obliterated by her brutal cock can be heard throughout her apartment. She wants to make you come, that’s clear, but she also wants to break you. There’s nothing more a Kiramman loves, hearing you beg for mercy. To have the pathetic and whiny girl who blindly loves her, shattering at her grip.

“That’s not my name. You fucking know it’s not. Good little sluts say it, don’t they?”

Before you can even process it, she slaps your ass, three times, sending the orgasm raging through you. All Caitlyn does is fuck your pretty face into the glass as you take every inch of her. Then her pace halts as your heavy breath is heard over the shower. She turns the water off and you’re stuck there, unable to move.

Afraid.

Your heart would collapse right with you.

Caitlyn moves swiftly, like a knight coming in the dead of knight to steal the princess. On all fours, she rummages through the cabinet before locating the precious wand. With a profound smirk, she grips the handle as if it’s an extension of her limb.

“Looks like you’re getting punished today, babygirl. How do you wanna take it?”

The lines blur together over the next few hours until you’re stumbling out of the apartment. Caitlyn not directly kicking you out of her home but your stay is only welcome for as long as the fucking window is open. It’s nearly three hours past midnight, tears in your eyes as you tread home with a gaping hole punctured with her sharpest end of her carefully placed blade.

You wonder if she’s always been like this. Hot and hungry for power, ready to hurt anyone in order to get it. The angry flesh begs to be fed, and she gives in each time. Even when it means she sees the love depleted from your eyes, or when you refuse to make eye contact, or like tonight when she watches you hold in tears to escape out of her apartment.

Some nights, you did want to be handled with a gentle hand but it’s not something Caitlyn gives.

Anything more than a generous hand and greedy lips begging to lap at your cunt and Caitlyn comes up short. Living up to her name to the fullest.

Kirakiller, they called her.

There’s a dozen reasons for her name. How she slaughters everyone on the pitch, academically she’ll make you feel inferior to her own privileged, private education prior to university. How she kills your spirit if you aren’t someone she sees as an exceptional academic student for Piltover University.

All of it seems to be a game for her. With Cassandra Kiramman as the dean, the board members sit heavily in her overflowing pocket, she runs things as she sees fit. Her daughter being taken care of and on top of the world is her number one priority. There’s been a dozen to come after the Kiramman’s and none have been successful. Murmurs of corruption grace the hallowed halls but not a soul dares to challenge the wealth and power of the prestigious bloodline of the Kirammans.

Caitlyn “Kirakiller” Kiramman associating with someone who was merely on scholarship wasn't in Cassandra’s plans. Even if you didn’t even know it yet, you were too low on the totem pole to be associated with the future of a daunting legacy. An entire life laid out for Cait before she even took her first breath.

It was dumb to buzz her up to the apartment. Even more idiotic to respond to her texts in the first place but besides all her failed attempts, she still tries to worm her way through your heart to take what she believes is owed. Just like last week, you let her.

She leaves when you pretend to fall asleep after, the two of you telling yourselves it’ll be the last time, but it won’t be.

It’s a vicious cycle, one has your insides spinning, your stomach churning and your heart aching. But you’re too weak to end. It’s a tale as old as time. You want something more and Caitlyn can’t be bothered to be committed to the wrong type of girl.

It’s all about appearances and you’re not good enough.

Cassandra, the respectable dean and the mother who is the puppeteer of her daughter’s life, behind the scenes pulling the strings in order to maintain image, status. She holds it closer than her own blood; a need for her bloodline to prosper and Dean Kiramman will trample anyone’s heart to complete the task.

Whether she wants to fight against her mother’s future or not? You didn’t know.

Truly, you never know what she wants, besides getting herself off or getting you off, Caitlyn was stuck between a world she’s born for and one that’s decided for her. A child acting out but waiting until college to do so.

Kirakiller.

That’s what they called her. Ruthless in all of her conquests, never calling back, never fucking the same girl again, it wasn’t something Kirakiller did. She used, abused, and moved onto the next one.

But for some reason, she’s incredibly stuck on you.

The new year puts you at a distance when Cait refuses to bring you home for the holidays. Of course, the fight rages as soon as she’s done fucking you.

“What do you think this is?”

“You tell me.”

There’s a look in your eyes, gleaming and sorrowful, the rejection crystal clear. That’s all any of this has been. A severe procrastination tactic to put off what you want, her.

What makes it worse is Caitlyn knows it but she’s still here, trying, and who the hell knows why.

Hope. A poor woman’s faith guts you, ripping your insides of love and prosperity. In your line of vision, you just see claws tearing at your skin, all flesh raw and bleeding as she begs for more.

A wish that you hope for every time you see her. This time she’ll choose differently, she’ll be kind this time. I’ll be enough to love. This will be the moment.

But when she doesn’t, the accent you love so much burns you at the stake, you’re screaming on deaf ears. Begging for her to hear just one, but she snuffs you out. Like the moonlight you bring, she pretends you don’t call to her like the moon pulls the tide.

Instead, you’re met with Caitlyn’s greed.

“Why do I think this is? I expect some basic level of human compassion but you’ve forgotten that too. I’ve always given you the benefit of the doubt. Even when everyone tells me you’re fucking other girls besides me, even when I see with my own eyes how you act when you think I’m not around. You clearly don’t respect me. Every time I’ve tried to have this conversation, you avoid me. Do you think I deserve that?”

“There is nothing to even discuss. This is nothing.” Her accent is sharp, cutting right through your heart. A woman you love too deeply reaffirming how little she thinks of you.

Dismissal.

Absence.

You are nothing, might as well have fallen from her lips.

Her heart is ice cold, her piercing eyes bite like the bitter wind of winter. A slim view of fire rattling within her dark blue eyes, pupils dilate so much they practically turn black.

You feel your stomach tense, the pit in your stomach has once returned, denying you of what feels so real to you.

It’s just a game for her.

Always a game Caitlyn has to win.

“Fine. Then leave. But don’t come back next time, don’t text me when you’re lonely or horny, don’t call me when everyone else won’t hear you out. Forgot about me and let’s be done with it, yeah? Go back to those girls you love to fuck so much. The ones that are bright, shiny, untouched by your venomous heart.”

“I will. They sure will be a hell of a lot better lay than you, maybe they’ll let me fuck their ass.”

You scoff but your expression is stone cold as you watch her struggle to pull her clothes on. There’s no sudden movements made. Certainly no apologies.

Once Caitlyn fully dresses, she waits there as if you’ll change your mind. A wish she’s so desperately hanging onto as your eyes remain cold. A shiver is sent up her spine — you’d never been more ruthless — and for the first time her chest feels tight at the loss of you.

“It’s what you want. A pretty rich thing your mother will accept and the control in the bedroom you need since the real Kiramman controls every aspect of your life, even your love life. Good luck, you’ll need it.”

“You’ll come begging back, you always do.”

You want to choke Caitlyn with the smirk she’s currently wearing.

“We’ll see about that, Kirakiller. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

In an instant her face drops, her acute lips turning into a frown, cursing under her breath before she finally slams the door. It’s only then do you allow yourself to scream into your pillow, agony coursing through you, desperation, and most of all — a rage that wouldn’t be quenched.

—

The fairy lights, softly winking at you each time the sequence goes off. Violet craved to put them up around Christmas but never bothered to take them down. Perfectly, they fit with your shared home. The small apartment stuck between the suburbs and the city, close enough to campus where it was only a short drive, the two of you carpooling or Vi moving her schedule around to drop you off.

It happened to work out for the two of you. You didn’t think you’d get to be so lucky. Finding a decent roommate is a tall order, but now the two of you are inseparable and you couldn’t imagine your life any different.

If not for her, you didn’t think you'd survive spending the holidays alone.

Caitlyn made sure to isolate you but Violet holds you close.

The memory of new years solidifies the budding infatuation growing within you; as much as it excites you, it sends a freezing shiver down your spine. Like a bitter winter to an evergreen bush, who knows if it’ll last the season without one moment to be basked in the sun.

—

New Years Eve, 2024.

Sevika nursing an old fashioned. Trying to avoid the smell of cheap corona and budweiser intruding her relaxed nostrils as Mel sips on a glass of wine. Her smaller frame leans into Sevika’s arm looped through hers as their hips nearly become conjoined. They watch as Violet watches you. You’re standing there alone, fending off a few women who try to make a move on you.

Whispers of your former fling, Caitlyn Kiramman make their way across campus, the colossal cunt raging her anger during practice. Just as you’ve been reminded by her teammates who blame you for her toddler tantrum. Violet’s heart sinks to her chest as she watches Caitlyn make a straight shot for you.

The second she entered the room, Violet could feel the dread filling her body. Half because seeing her reminds her of all the horrors, everything she let Caitlyn do to her. Now, Caitlyn’s moved on to her next victim and she wonders if you’ll ever truly escape from her.

“Do you think we should–” Vi speaks softly, a murmur she didn’t intend for anyone else to hear. “...interrupt?”

“Calm down, casanova.” Sev interjects letting the whiskey soothe her throat.

“Easy for you to say, coupled up love birds.” Vi rolls her eyes as she watches the scene unfold before her.

The light in her eyes cracks, like a sparkler losing its flame. Each time Caitlyn attempts to worm back in your life, you’ve always let her. Even when she’s the last person who deserves even a moment of your time. It takes anything in her not to wince when you let Caitlyn touch your arm but after a moment you push her off.

Well, that’s new.

“You should go over there.” Mel chimes in, “Caitlyn would surely run for the hills then. She’s all bark but no bite.”

“Go be her knight in shining armor.” Sev says it like it’s a bad thing, her sarcasm biting into the air.

All Vi continues to scratch away at the label unraveling from the condensation, just as her heart rips each time Caitlyn gets closer to you. It’s a strange feeling. Her ex-girlfriend and the person she loves. Nearly spiteful her heart becomes, almost wanting to fling herself off a bridge. It’s more than Vi wishes to deal with and she tells herself she won’t.

You’re not worth the trouble, she’s just making her feelings bigger than they actually are, right?

Whatever Caitlyn says pisses you off enough to throw your drink in her face, coating her from hot to toe in the vodka cranberry Vi had made for you earlier in the night.

“You’ll eat those actions, babygirl. Next time, it’ll be you who is soaked and we both know it.”

Caitlyn screams for all to hear as she checks you with her shoulder before heading upstairs.

It’s five minutes before midnight and Violet watches as you crumble, running outside, needing to catch some air. You need something to make you feel less suffocated. Even with a drink thrown in her face, Caitlyn still finds a way to get an upper hand.

“Vi, would you be a dear and check on her? Sev and I will be there in a sec.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Violet sees you in the corner of her eye, trying not to break down, but she notices the tears threatening to spill.

“Don’t look so glum princess or you’re going to make me cry and nobody wants to see that.” The lightness of her tone makes you chuckle. Vi’s trying to make you laugh and she succeeds.

Everyone pours outside as the clock strikes closer to midnight, Mel and Sevika come out but they keep their distance. Vi kneels at your feet, gently wiping the tears away you finally let fall. The small hiccups leaving your chest as you feel inadequate, wondering if anyone would miss you if you just melted away — not a single trace of you to be found.

“She makes me feel so small, even when I leave, she wants more of me. I have nothing left to give.” You sob, hands shaking as you make fists trying to stabilize yourself. “No one understands how…how fucking awful and addicting she is.”

“I do.”

“Of course you, Violet. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. She’s just…”

“Frustrating?” You nod, trying to laugh off the heartbreak but the familiar glee doesn’t reach your eyes.

“And now I’m alone, on new years.” You say, cursing at the premature fireworks illuminating the sky. “While she goes to shag whoever wants to clean the vodka cranberry with their tongue.”

I want to taste the cranberry on yours.

Violet doesn’t speak those words. It’s just a dream — one that only drips in her mind until her thoughts pull at her like a pomegranate as it sheds from the skin.

“She’s an idiot for letting you go. Anyone here knows that.”

“Really? Funny ‘cause I’m here single. Caitlyn just wants me to crawl back to her with me on all fours just so she can say, i told you so, in that insufferable English accent. God, I wanna rip it from her throat.”

“Then don’t give her the satisfaction.”

“Easier said than done.” You say as everyone counts down from ten, “At least we still have each other.”

Vi smiles, her powder-blue eyes sweet on you. There’s nothing more she wants than to kiss you. But Vi will screw the both of you if she moves too quickly.

3…2…1!

The buzz of the party reaches an all-time high and you’ve never felt so close to hell. Watching as everyone kisses the person they love, the gleeful-holiday making them smile as they wrap in the warmth of their partner. Vi sees how sad you are, how close you are to breaking, so she does something stupid. An action that will only get her heart in all kinds of trouble.

Nearly almost planting her lips on yours, but saves herself with a peck to the apple of your cheeks.

She blushes and you smile.

She considers it to be a win when she gets a positive reaction from you. That’s all she really wants, to hear you laugh and you do.

Again.

The both of you speak nothing of it, the heartache too heavy and the love in Violet’s eyes too bright. You rest your head against her shoulder as the both of you watch the fireworks shining the midnight sky — it feels awfully like a fresh start.

God knows you could use one.

—

The last thing you want is to miss her but you do.

Longing instilled the moment she infected your blood; making each beat of your heart consistently flow for her. You couldn’t admit it, not her or yourself. It’s what she counts on. For you to slip, to venture back into the lion’s just so she can gut you from root to stem.

With your finger hovering over her number for the past few weeks, each time, nearly a moment from giving back into her needs. Not once had she called, texted, or even looked at your way. Not even when she sat across from you in the library last Monday. Before her tongue found home in the girl who threw herself in Caitlyn’s lap. Promptly deciding that was enough studying for the day.

The nights are the worst, you stay secluded in your room, tired of thinking about her and everything that’s transpired. How much you miss her, how much you love her — wondering if you ever should have — and how much you clung to this version of her that maybe just never existed.

It isn’t until Vi tries to get you out of the house that you realize how heartbroken you actually feel. How unbearable it would be to do anything but the bare minimum that’s expected for you to survive.

“C’mon, it won’t be bad.” Vi throws herself in bed with you, “You’re with me you’ll have a fantastic time.”

Vi cheekily smiles, “Plus, I can’t go without you. Those are the rules.”

“Oh really?” She nods, the sincerity reaching her eyes so blindingly, it makes the swell in your chest ache.

“Basically the law, so if you don’t want me to handcuff you, you’ll listen.”

Raising an eyebrow at the question, you watch her as your roommate goes into the closet and comes out with three dresses back in hand.

“You always look, um u-uh, really pretty in these.”

Violet’s always been like this. Unsure, a little bit flirty, and with a heart so gentle you would be too afraid to hold it in the palm of your hand. All it took was one introduction from Sevika and the two of you instantly clicked.

You cooked at the housewarming party for Mel and Sevika, in the middle of having a breakdown when you didn’t have crucial ingredients you thought you did have. It’s when Violet came to your rescue. Already in the kitchen watching you nearly have a panic attack over not being better prepared, she instantly grabbed the keys to her truck, off to assist.

With your former roommate flaking out after the second semester in your apartment off campus, and Violet coming off a messy breakup, the two of you helped each other out.

“Which one is your favorite?” It’s an innocent question.

It really is.

Then you remember the last time you wore it, Violet unable to keep her eyes off you when she thought you weren’t looking or how she would meet your eyes when you caught her staring. Dramatically clearing her throat as she scratches the nape of her neck, bashfully blushing.

“The black one. You always look beautiful, any of them really. That one is just my favorite.”

Feeling the fabric of the silk dress, the neckline is plunging and the back is open until it reaches your lower back and you don't dare bend down to pick up anything in this little number.

“Someone’s being sweet tonight.” You smile softly, kissing her cheek before you disappear into the bathroom. It’s long before you come out, but when you’re ready Vi nearly has to do a double take.

Visibly, she gulps.

Fuck, she forgot how amazing you look in that dress.

“Where’s it at this time?”

“You remember Natalie?”

“Oh?”

“It’s not—”

“I didn’t say it was.” But you’re smirking and Vi has no other option but to groan into her hands.

“You were thinking about it.” Harmlessly, you shrug.

“Regardless, it’s some new girl who’s gonna be on the team this season. It’s kind of a get together before the season starts.”

“You’re taking me to the kick-off banquet?” Vi winces as your voice shrieks, slightly piercing her eardrum in the process.

“Uh,” Vi runs a hand through her vibrant, messy head of hair. “Uh, yeah. It’s really not a big deal.”

“So, why not Natalie?”

“Does it matter?” Vi counters. She becomes uncomfortable about how she would have to answer the question. There wasn’t a way for her to answer without fully exposing herself so she pulls at her cuticles until she’s slightly bleeding before she stuffs them inside her pockets.

She doesn't want to have the conversation, and honestly, neither do you.

“The she-devil won’t be there. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? One night for yourself, there’s a little dancing, we can have a couple of drinks—”

“Y-You’ll dance with me…in front of everyone?” You sound more unsure of yourself than you ever have. The words are foreign on your tongue as if you’re speaking another language.

“Is that a statement or a question?” Vi chuckles before she stands up from your bed, “Give me ten minutes and we’ll head out. We can stop and get some burgers. The food they cater is ass anyways. All that money from the snobby rich parents and Piltover University can’t even splurge on anything decent.”

It doesn’t take long before she’s emerging into the living room, her white button up has the top three buttons undone, the tattoos creeping on the outside of her neck visible as does her name she has on her cheek. The one you chastise her for consistently.

“You ready?” Violet stuffs her essentials in her deep pockets before taking you in.

“Yeah, I think so, I was just waiting for you.”

She seriously has to assume your exes are severely ill for ever letting you out of their sight. Violet despises how rapid the beat of her heart is, how shaky her hands become when she offers a hand to help you off the couch. Only two nights ago, it was the two of you cuddled up, Vi shrieking in fear from your favorite horror film.

The terror in her powder-blue eyes made you laugh. Violet sees it as a big enough consolation for her downright distress.

You’re too gorgeous for your own good.

She may be pushing her luck tonight. Even pulling you out of bed makes her feel slightly accomplished. Between work and class, your mattress has been your chosen place to nurse your heartache. A few of your friends had been in and out, trying to get you to grab a fresh breath of air, or find the bottom of a bottle of tequila but all had failed.

“You look….” You bite your lip, watching as your eyes drag over her frame, overwhelmed by just how well she cleans up.

“That bad, huh?” Violet smirks as she makes her way over to you, and with your heels, she can’t help but admire your height. She supposes she does have a type. Who can blame her?

“Something like that.” Your face is burning, the world doesn’t seem so bleak when she locks the door with one hand, her left warm-calloused hand holding yours in a firm grip.

“How do I look?” You do a twirl, there’s a smile you try to contain when her eyes drag over you, taking all the time in the world as open the door to her truck, guiding you inside.

“You look beautiful but that’s no surprise, princess.”

The drive is quiet. Violet itches to place the palm of her hand on your thigh but she resists. With a quiet mind, she listens as you ramble about a new album you listened to earlier and she hands you her phone so you can play it. Immediately, you’re bewildered at the trust.

Caitlyn wouldn’t even let you use her phone when yours died. Ordering the uber herself as she left you on the curb as she took her sports car and faded into the intersecting street.

It’s only a twenty minute drive to the diner and the red neon sign greets you, the outside wall painted in a pastel-yellow, it’s gaudy and nearly unpleasant to the eye but there’s the charm about it. Zaun outlasted the gentrification of the corporate pollution, still one of the only places to remain standing and family owned.

You’re led to a booth where you both take a seat, glancing over the menu as you decide what you want, trying to make a decision in your mind is something that drowns you like a misty fog at the crack of dawn.

Finally you settle on a burger and so Violet. The conversation is easy with her. Everything seems to flow with a simpleness you find yourself reaching for. Like the last copy of your favorite book at the library, you crave to wrap your fingers around the crispy edges, sinking your smell into the spine of a new novel. Where the beginning feels like a first kiss — blissful notions of someone new — when the thought of love doesn’t seem so jarring.

Before you’re terrified of getting your heart shattered into a million pieces. Before love morphs into something violent, you turn to Violet and you wonder if she’s ever been scared to love. Does it come easy for her? Would she let herself go for the right person? You feel too broken to ever let yourself fall that freely again.

But she has blue eyes, a scar on her upper lip making her more charming, and tattoos adorning her back that only attribute to the surface level of her allure.

Shortly after you sink into your thoughts, ones you don’t believe you should even have, you're ravaging your burger when Violet notices the attention you're getting. It’s obvious. To everyone. But you just talk to her about anything but the elephant in the room, you’re so chatty tonight she might even think you’re nervous.

But it’s Vi. There’s nothing to ever be nervous about.

Nothing at all.

“God, this was such a good call. Who knew I needed to bury my sorrows in a pound of grease.”

“Carbs. They are a beautiful thing.” Vi winks, you chunk a fry at her but she catches it in her mouth.

You finish your food in silence, Vi smiling as she takes another sip from the cane-sugar coca cola. The sweetness of the syrup coats the back of her throat as she watches you watch her. She wants to say something but the timing is wrong. She wonders if you see a future or a rebound, maybe even just a friend, only time can tell and Vi fears she would wait a lifetime waiting for you to figure it out.

It’s how she loves. Free, without restrictions, even if she still mourns the love she once had burned to flames — you make her forget it all. Renewed in holy water, she basks in a touch that hasn’t scorned her, freely washing her of past sins.

“What happened to Natalie? I thought things were good.”

“For a time, yeah.” Violet says something without saying much.

“Vi, are you being coy?”

The blush coats her cheeks as she tries to shy away from the conversation. She feels the heat from your attention, the way her heart beats a million times per second as you have her cornered. Different in a way she would typically imagine when you came to mind. Even if she does try to stop herself, Vi can’t help but wonder about you and if you would feel the same way she does.

If you do and just aren’t allowing yourself to let go of the wall you have up in the horrendous shape of Caitlyn Kiramman.

The way you pry, your bold eyes slightly squinting at her as if you’re already figuring out the self-righteousness of the sinner. Secrets she hides under lock and key but even on a good day, the confession bubbles on her tongue as she catches herself choking on her own spit. You’re always so careful of the questions you leave hanging in the air.

In a moment of frustration, Violet thinks of how Caitlyn’s manipulative patterns may have sinked into your brain. She knows that much — the blue-haired witch has done the same to her. Making you question everyone’s motives, wondering if anyone could ever be truthful.

But others can.

Caitlyn can’t.

Vi distracts herself, avoids the question even if it is just a second to recollect her thoughts, a minute to buy time and divert from this conversation. It’s a truth she doesn't want unraveled.

“What’s the saying? Don’t kiss and tell.” She grumbles as she stuffs her face with another bite of the beefy patty. “But we just didn’t work out s’all. Plus, I’m not looking for anything serious I guess. She was.”

Another lie but Vi keeps her lips tight. She doesn’t need you to know why her latest attempt at a relationship blew up in her face, catastrophically.

“Maybe you and Kirakiller should date again.” You tease.

“Take that back. She’s the devil’s spawn and I’m still sorry you learned the difficult way. Just like me.”

“Well, she definitely lives up to the name.”

“I wish she would have changed her ways. You didn’t deserve to get hurt at all and especially by her.” Violet reaches across the table, soothing the back of your hand, rubbing circles into your skin. The action is sweet, lighting your skin ablaze with goosebumps as you watch her show affection, especially where other people can see.

At the moment, you want to be claimed by her. Marked as Violet’s girl and you would be proud to be. You close the thought from your mind as soon as it opens. This isn’t a date. Just because Violet flirts doesn’t mean she’s interested. The two of you are roommates.

Pull yourself together.

Jesus Christ.

She knows how much everyone can’t stop looking at you. The diner, outside the gas station even when Vi told you to stay in the car, and then the banquet. But you latched onto her, practically glued to her side as new sponsors came to speak with the new head captain. Vi’s nursing a beer when the music hits and she grins.

“Are you ready for this?”

What is she talking about?

Vi latches her hand with yours as she pulls you to the open floor, only a few couples begin to lightly sway to the classical being played. It’s different from what she was used to but she was nothing if not resourceful.

“I don’t bluff, princess, and I certainly don’t lie.” Vi tugs you close as you make no arguments, she leads as you find shining faith in her eyes.

It’s a new feeling, unfamiliar as it courses through your body. Vi isn't ashamed of you, as a friend, as a roommate; she’s full of warmth when she glances at you. Sending a sense of belonging through your skin, a home you want to throw yourself in before the foundation has even been laid.

Violet’s too good at this. You secretly love it but you pretend like you hate it. As if getting attention from someone as kind and hot as her is a bad thing. It’s nearly too much, almost making you sick with how much you’re enjoying being held by someone who actually wants to hold you.

She’s not playing chess and using you as a pawn.

It’s a recurring thought you have to remind yourself of, she’s not Caitlyn.

Violet doesn’t make promises she doesn’t keep, she doesn’t say careless compliments to only have sex with you. With a firm palm on your back, calluses kissing your spine, she’s looking at you — so much so it feels as if she’s looking right through you.

“You don’t have to—” She twirls you around before you can protest, guiding you back into her gentle care.

Vi shrugs, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me princess but I’d never go back on my word.”

The other couples start to move on the dance floor as each song blends into the next.

“That’s refreshing.”

Violet hand placed on your exposed back feels so warm it nearly burns her skin. Leaning in, leaning her head against yours. You smell of vanilla and something else entirely too sweet, maybe jasmine or fresh lilies. The delicate breath kissing your neck feels tempting. You would never consider yourself to be a siren, but with each promise laced up in your tongue, you wish to serenade her into a future with you.

“So are you, sweetheart.” Violet pulls away just enough to look at you, her temple presses against yours.

You can hear the shake in her breath, her grip around her back tightening like she’s trying to restrain herself. But she doesn’t restrain, she leans in, the tip of her pierced nose kissing yours. If either of you moved an inch forward, your lips could taste hers.

Is her chapstick cherry, strawberry, or maybe even blueberry? They look irresistible as the glisten, you need to crave the ache deriving from your bones. Violet has itched herself into every part of your life and she’s the only one to make you feel a sliver of joy again.

“We should…” The dazed woman doesn’t even know what she’s pleading for. This is all she’s been wanting but somehow her heart is pulling away, terrified to be crushed under the unforgiving weight of rejection.

“Yeah.” You say. Somehow understanding what she wishes for, silently you’re able to see her exposed skin, raw to the notion of a love dying to bloom in the beginning of spring.

Violet kisses your cheek again and somehow you feel the warmth of the fresh season. In the February rain, there is still sunshine spilling over the clouds — washing you in hope again.

—

The rest of your life fell back in place as if she never existed, except the ache in your heart that wouldn’t stop. You did your best to ignore it. Word got around Caitlyn went back to fiercely fucking. Apparently instead of sleeping just once a week while she was with you, she went back to her ever-growing appetite, nearly every night. It isn’t too difficult for her; not when there’s a line of women waiting to be at her beck and call.

You threw yourself into your studies, picking more shifts at the bar and hoping she doesn’t pull any of her usual stunts, showing up drunk and begging to fuck.

One more time, baby. This could be good for the both of us.

Caitlyn uprooted the past semester of uni and she didn’t even have the decency to apologize. All your friends with a knowing look of — I told you so — without actually dispersing the words from their tongue. It feels too much like a blurry dream but Sevika is good at making you smile. Even if you wanna throw yourself against a wall until the memory of Kirakiller fades for good.

The night had been busier than expected but nothing you and Sevika couldn’t handle. Even if there’s an ache in your knees, the muscles in your shoulders strained, it feels nice to just work. Everything flees your mind, all the insecurities bubbling inside you escaping to get out. The emotions you’re attempting to keep at bay and failing.

“You good, kid?”

“Yeah, life’s just a shit fire. Nothing new.”

Continuing to wipe the bar down for new customers, you clean off some glasses in front of you, as you dry your hands on a clean towel before tending to the other side of the bar.

The rest of the night comes to you in a blur. You’re flirty enough with the men to ensure a nice tip but when one tries to get too handsy, you tell them to fuck off or Sevika will throw them out. They eye up her frame as she makes her way over, height hitting at over six feet, her muscles visible through the fitted black tank she chose tonight. If you didn’t know any better, she would terrify you.

“Got a problem here?”

“I’m not sure, what about you boys? Do you think there’s an issue?”

With a quick shake to their heads, they take a nervous sip of their beer and the rest of the night goes along swimmingly. It’s last call when you spot the familiar pink-haired roommate, nursing her second bottle of beer it seems.

“How long has she been here?”

“Came during the rush for you, but didn’t wanna bother you. She’s been waiting for a few hours.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your tone goes high and squirrelly, murderous eyes finding her glimmering, silver eyes.

“Well, it's only Vi, right?” Sevika smirks.

That itself was a loaded question. If you’d been asked six months ago, it would have been a flat friend but now Vi had somehow turned into a friend. The almost-kiss you’ve been having dreams about. How she would kiss you — would it be tender — or would she be depraved about it in a way that would have you bruising your knees at the speed of lighting.

“Stop that. Vi is as harmless as a puppy.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Wasn’t Kirakiller here last month waiting for you and you didn’t bat an eye? Plus, the only thing she seems to be jealous of is Vi. The diva had a meltdown when she saw Vi picking you up after the end of your shift last week, or that’s just what I heard.”

“Mel needs to stop telling you so much.”

“Pillow talk. It’s a beautiful thing. Isn’t it?”

Rolling your eyes, you throw your apron at her, collecting your tips for the night. Vi still looks innocent as ever, Gert making friendly conversation with her as you just watch her. Her thick, wool beanie matches her hair and you can’t help but think of how cute she looks. Her fingerless gloves you always chastise her about, doing very little to keep her warm.

You knew she had a date tonight. Hell, it makes you nervous why she’s even here. Racking your brain with some excuse to get you out of this. What’s so important she couldn’t wait until you got home? She waits up for you every night. Doesn’t let herself fall asleep until she hears the familiar jingle of your keys outside the door. Pretending to read the book in her hands like she’s casually perched on the couch at three in the morning for any other reason.

“Well, she’s one of the good ones and I’m not.”

You’re frustrated as you split the tips, handing Sevika her half. Things with Vi had been more than complicated. You weren’t sure if you were over Caitlyn but you also knew things with Vi were getting closer to an edge you couldn’t come back from.

The flashbacks of the banquet you attended as her plus one just a few weeks ago haunt you. Her lips so close to yours, the hitch in her breath and whimper you let out that stopped it all.

You would be an idiot to ruin the best friend you’ve ever had. A deep secret buried in your mind tells you how much of a bigger idiot you would be if you let her slip right through your fingers.

“Doesn’t matter if you are or not. She sees something in you. Count yourself lucky. Oh, and before you head off Mel wants to invite you over for Valentine’s. Some big party she’s throwing. You know how she is. Be there or she’ll come and find you if you resist.”

The wink Sevika sends you is insufferable. Similar to her attitude this entire night.

“Yeah yeah, tell Mel I’ll be there.”

“Now that’s the loving spirit, lovergirl.”

You make your way over and Gert’s hand is touching Vi’s forearm, a look in your eyes that sends an annoying pit to your stomach. Gert’s eyes flutter and her smirk is evident but Vi only gulps when you make your way over.

Gert may just take your attitude for tiredness but Vi knows better. Your two seconds from blowing up the way your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding as you fight to act like a complete and utter cunt. Vi’s a very pretty girl. Women flirt with her all the time. It’s not anything you didn’t know but to see it up and close was new for you.

As was the jealousy practically sprouting out of you.

“Well call me, yeah?” Gert’s eyes sparkle, dodging you entirely as she walks away and into the back.

Violet gulps as it’s just the two of you.

“Why are you here?” You snip, arms crossed over your chest, unknowingly making your cleavage even more apparent. “Sev says you’ve been here for hours.”

“I came to see you but you looked busy.”

“Mhm, yeah. Busy. You look awfully busy.”

“Don’t do that.”

But you ignore her.

You rolled your eyes, the irritation raging within you. Fucking Gert. You drunkenly told her about your confusing feelings for Vi and she took that as Vi's single. It’s slim pickings out there but fuck, did Vi have to entertain it right in front you?

But you didn’t like to think about how she did. You weren’t dating, you weren’t fucking, you essentially were just roommates who cuddled sometimes, or went on these almost dates with and almost kissed.

Vi hasn't been dating since Natalie but she’s free to do as she pleases. It’s a colossal hit to your pride but you can’t be mad. You are, but you can’t be.

You really cannot be doing this.

Vi is just a friend. Only a friend. That’s it.

“I’m going but Gert will be off soon. Goodnight, Vi.”

It’s short and not so sweet. Swiftly turning around as you are practically running out the door. The chill of February hits you first and then you hear Vi and her voice calling after you but you just keep walking. Hoping she’ll give up and go back. You’re a lost cause, anyone with eyes can see it.

“Would you stop running away?” You turn around and Vi is so close that she runs into you, her arms wrapping around your waist to stop you from falling. “Jesus, are you insane? It’s fucking freezing out here. I don’t care if you’re mad right now, I’m driving us home.”

“Violet, let me—”

“No. You’re not getting sick. It’s past midnight. It’s not safe. We are not arguing about this.” You pout as she holds your hand and practically drags you back to her black truck. Opening the door for you as you get in, shutting the door once you’re situated before she gets in on the other side.

Igniting the engine, it revs on and while the car warms up Vi sighs, rather loudly. She’s always good about waiting until she calms down to speak. Letting the anger roll off her, the frustration you’re sure was caused by you. She slides the beanie off her head as the car reaches a normal temperature and runs her fingers through beautiful pink strands being kissed by the light of the moon.

The natural fluff to the strands is restored, no longer inflated by the beanie you had embroidered her full name on. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. She must feel it because Vi catches your gaze and instantly her eyes go soft. It’s too much so you turn your eyes away; focusing on the snow falling on the windshield.

“What’s going on? I’ve been patient for weeks but something changed and you’re not telling me.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“The truth would be a good place to start.”

Vi sighs, again, when you’re silent. No smartass rebuttal, no snide remark, not even an exasperated curse underneath your breath. Complete and utter silence.

But you feel trapped.

You’re terrified. Vi is too warm, loving, and painfully-pure. She might not know it, but she’s the girl you come back for. The one who you bring home to meet the family, the one who will bring you breakfast in bed when you feel under the weather and the one who will make sure you feel loved every single day.

When other people figure that out, if Gert does, it’s over for you. Because maybe it was foolish, pathetic, and possibly tragic but you were just trying to sort yourself out long enough to see if you want those things with her. Now, it’s only a matter of time before she dotes on someone else who can give her everything she deserves.

You should let her have this, it’s far better than her pleading eyes begging for something you’re not sure you can give. Caitlyn broke pieces you're not sure are repairable, parts of yourself that can’t be put back together. You didn’t even realize you had been crying until Vi’s wiping away your tears.

The pad of her thumb is careful as she wipes all the tears away.

“Tell me what’s wrong, princess. It’s just you and me.”

“I-I can’t. It’s too…I just can’t.” You confess, sniffling as you try and calm yourself down.

Vi guides you into the crook of neck as she does her best to hold you over the middle console of her truck. “It’s okay, princess. Shh, I’m right here.” It’s then that your sobs wrack your body and Vi decides she needs you as close as possible. Using her strength, she brings you into her lap, wrapping her tight arms around you as you sob into her neck. Salty tears stain Vi’s neck but she really doesn’t care.

All she cares about is you.

“It’s about Kiramman, isn't it?”

Vi can’t hide her disdain for the woman. That much is clear as day. Whatever happened with the two of them burned deep.

“Maybe murder isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Vi.” You chuckle half heartedly.

“There’s that smile..” You lift your head from the safety of her warmth, pressing your forehead against hers. Your breath is heavy on her lips, staring at the beautiful scar, the plumpness to her lips practically staring right at you. Close enough to see the constellations of freckles littered across her full cheeks.

Your timing is awful but your heart gives into Violet’s gaze, lips falling closer together to hers.

“Don’t make it like this.” Vi whispers, her powder-blue eyes gleaming at you.

“What?”

“Don’t kiss me for the first time because you’re sad about her. I can’t be her runner up. I’ve been playing that for too long.”

“I won’t kiss you, not if you don’t want me to.”

The tears are still fresh, but this need churning within you isn’t. Since the moment you met Vi, you’ve been fighting it. Fighting this.

“Fuck, I do but,” Vi stalls when you unzip her leather jacket, revealing her wrapped chest, abs on display. “Shit, princess.”

Fingers playing with the button of her trousers, waiting for her to push you away but she doesn’t. She does nothing of the sort. Vi’s breath is heavier than you’ve ever heard it. Looking down at your hands, waiting for you to pull the trigger on all of this. It’s then you realize Vi is letting you have all the control. If this is going to happen, she wants you to take it. It’s different from what you’re used to.

A choice.

It’s more than you could have expected. Vi isn’t pushing you away, isn’t telling you to stop. Not when you unbutton her pants and not when you suck on your fingers before slipping them beneath her boxers, feeling the soft curls and wondering if they match the drapes, before your fingers get perfectly acquainted with her.

“Oh fuck—” Vi curses as she grabs onto your ass, lifting the short skirt you’ve been wearing all night, rucking it up to your hips as she sinks her nails into the skin.

When you slip inside her, she clenches around your fingers, fucking her hips into your pace and Vi struggles to contain the whimpers. They flow out of her like a tidal wave. She’s been thinking about this moment with you for so long, just you and her — it’s the only thing Vi wants.

When Vi saw you tonight she thought it was absolutely ridiculous for you to wear this strapless top, only because your nipples poked through the small fabric, but now she’s grateful you did. It’s easy to slip as she sucks a pierced nipple into her mouth. Her tongue plays with the barbell, causing you to groan as she pinches and delicately pulls at the other. As Vi kitten licks your nipple, she finds home on your ass again, before ripping your panties off.

Her mouth is eager, hot, as she won’t stop giving attention to your chest. You’ve never wanted to kiss her more.

“Can you take two, princess?”

Eagerly you nod, a yearning yes falls from your lips. Vi doesn’t waste a beat.

You try to fuck Vi harder, but she doubles down on her efforts, her fingers so deep and you feel so full. Trying to chase the high, you ride her fingers, almost as if you were riding her, your ass unable to stop humping against her. It’s just the two of you, a silent competition to get the other one off first and you can feel Vi winning. Then she’s extending her thumb, rubbing circles on your clit, and you know you’ve lost.

“That’s it, just like that princess.”

“Vi, Vi, baby, oh my godddddd—”

Vi’s purely evil with every thrust of her fingers but she’s so full of light, an angel sent to you in your darkest hour. Batting her long eyelashes at you while she suckles on your bouncing tits, knuckle deep inside you as she gives you everything to just take. She’s too beautiful to look away from. With her pupils dilated, her blue eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. Letting off your perfect tits with an obnoxious pop, she kisses up your sternum as she marks you with her lips everywhere but the place you actually want.

But then her words revere in your mind once again.

Don’t make it like this.

“Look at me.”

Eyes drifting back to her as she curls her fingers inside you, your grip on her hair iron tight, unwillingly to let go of you.

“Such a beautiful girl, so special, so pretty when you form a sentence. The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. There’s no need to be jealous, babygirl, don’t need anyone else but you. Mhm, just you, alright? Yeah? Keep looking at me, yeah baby, just like this.”

You nod, close to the brink, her compliments send a rush through your head and your throbbing clit feels it.

The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.

“Baby, I, shitttt Violettttt—”

The name of her full name, the first time she’s ever heard it fall from your lips since the first time you met. Vi’s too close and hearing you scream her name isn’t helping.

“C’mon, princess. Show me how pretty you can be.” Vi commands and you come undone around her fingers.

Arching your back against the steering wheel, and the horn blows.

You giggle and so does she but the soft moment is short lived as your body twitches, selfishly basking in the way you irrevocably coated her fingers in your cum.

Bringing Violet with you as you pull at her hair, her face planting on on your chest as your breasts smother her moans as she jumps off the cliff with you. Sucking at the flesh, marking what she craves as you fuck yourself on her fingers, her pace even more brutal as Vi coaxes you through your blindingly, hot orgasm.

“Just like that princess, pussy just can’t stop drenching for me, yeah? My pretty girl can paint my face next time. Do you want that? My face covered in your cum, dribbling down my chin, on my tits…you’ll clean me up though. A good girl like you will. So fuckin’ pretty.”

One slap to your ass has you trembling, body shaking and that’s when Vi lays off, her fingers slipping out of you and you feel so empty without her.

As if you didn’t need any more torture, you watch as she lavishes at her fingers, covered in your cum, her high cheekbones suctioning as she sucks every last drop. Vi smirks as you drool a little bit before you wipe the saliva off. Sweet as always, she doesn’t say a word. Saving you the embarrassment from a crude joke.

One Caitlyn would definitely make.

“Um, sorry, I think I got carried away.”

“We both did, it’s okay, Vi.”

There’s a soft silence, it would almost become cumbersome if it wasn’t so peaceful. The only thing you can hear is her exhale of breath as Vi tries to regain some composure. All of it feels complicated, the severed tie to Caitlyn doesn’t seem so entirely severed when her ex-girlfriend makes you come in the driver’s seat of her truck.

If anyone found out about this, about the two of you, it would be the talk of the town. Caitlyn’s exes making a victory lap in Kirakiller’s grave. The victory is so triumphant even the goddess on top of the mountain gets scorched. It’s your worst nightmare. Your wish is to coddle this as long as you can. Savor the feeling, keeping Vi under lock and key.

You just want to have this one thing for yourself.

Even if you are far from her reach, she has a way of making sure any good thing gets ripped from you, torn from your hands before you even have a second to enjoy. As much as you enjoyed her company, this complicates.

But it doesn’t stop your heart from thumping loudly. A shiver runs up your spine as Vi pulls down your skirt. There’s a tenderness to her touch as she fixes your top, covering your chest once again. You nearly lock your lips with hers when she rubs your full cheeks with the pad of her thumb, smoothing along her jaw as she leans in to kiss the tip of your nose. Unable to snuffle it, you smile.

It’s genuine when the light reaches your eyes. Vi says nothing, anything would be too heavy, something neither of you are ready for. A silent agreement to enjoy this moment for what it is.

“Are you doing anything for Valentines? Mel and Sevika are having this party and I thought you might wanna go together.” The panic surges through her powder-blue eyes the moment she asks the question.

Is that why she came tonight? Did she want to ask you?

Reminding you of the first night you met, a party and Sevika and Mel’s but you find yourself to be in an entirely different position. The idea of a date without the pressure, you’d be surrounded by your friends. But you tremor with the thought of Violet wanting to spend Valentine’s day with you.

“But it’s, um, perfectly fine if you already have plans. It's just I don’t want to spend it alone. Powder is off spending it with Ekko this year, Vander is doing god knows what and Silco well, that would just be pathetic if I asked him what his plans are. I really just—”

“Violet.”

Violet.

The second it rolls off your tongue, a crimson hue forms on her freckled cheeks, even spreading across the bridge of her nose before it coats the tips of her ears. A soft pink unlike her vibrant locks of messy hair, partially due to your tugging and pulling.

“Sorry, Vi. It just slipped.”

“No. I mean not no. I wasn’t trying to be rude. You can call me, Violet, if you want to.”

I like hearing you say my name, it sounds even more beautiful than when you whispered it falling apart on my fingers.

But Vi couldn’t say that.

“Well then, Violet, I would love to go with you. Count me in.”

She didn’t need to know you already had plans on going. This was much better.

—

Mel decides to take you up on the offer of studying at the library tonight. With your future hanging on by the thread that is your scholarship, you have to keep your grades airtight. Not to mention the downfall of your situation with Caitlyn only puts a bullseye on your back.

The first couple of hours have been silent for the two of you, the accountability keeping you in check to stay focused. Then the third hour approaches and the two of you start to quietly converse in the nearly vacant library.

“Did Sev tell you who came into Leagues last night?”

Shutting your book, your eyes squint in confusion.

“Kiramman.”

“I thought the ship had sailed away during that fight. God, it nearly made me want to strangle her and we all know violence is more of Sev’s choice of resolution.”

“It has. She likes checking in on her so-called…wounded. She’s never been one for grace. I wish she would make it less obvious, Leagues isn’t even her scene. Her pompous ass would never be caught dead in there when we were, well, whatever the fuck you would call us. But she’s been quite the regular ever since I cut things off.

It’s surprising she would come to you, but on the other hand, she didn’t know where you lived. It was the only straw for her to grasp on. It’s probably killing her to know she’s been blocked on everything, no contact, a complete ghost town. Almost as if none of you even existed together, just a memory faded, one you hope to burn into ash.

“Well, Vi was there hanging out with Gert and—”

“She was?”

Mel suddenly felt like she said something she shouldn’t have.

“Appearances can be deceiving, they did talk for a bit, yes, but how does that have any level of importance?” Mel can’t hide her lips upturning.

“Nothing.”

“Hey kid, lighten up. I think you’re two seconds away from snapping that pencil in half.” The rasp of Sevika’s voice pulls you back to earth, but it’s too late for the pencil as the infrastructure snaps. You feel like a child, caught in doing something they shouldn’t do.

“Oh, so this is a thing? Vi?” Mel almost speaks a little too loudly, her voice reaching endless limits as the object of your affection is named in the very silent library. “I just thought you wanted to make Kirakiller jealous. Not actually…”

You bury your head in your notebook, wanting to strangle Sevika as you hear her chuckle, taunting you as your traitorous heart fails you in your time of need. Maliciously giving you up as your tragic negligence exposes you truly.

Even if it’s silly, needy, or a little bit selfish — you wanted this one part of your life to be concealed from beady eyes.

“Finally coming to your senses.” Sevika taunts.

“Enough. I’m not…Violet and aren’t…that’s not what this is.”

Mel gives you a knowing look, arching her perfectly arched eyebrow, hazel eyes with a ring of gold surrounding them piercing so deeply into your soul. It almost has you stuttering out how you let her fuck you in Violet’s truck, driving you back home with her warm, soft hand on your exposed thigh. Absentmindedly drawing circles into your skin.

“Violet?” Sevika and Mel say in unison.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Vi doesn’t let anyone call her that. The only one who's ever called her that is well, her family. She yelled at Kirakiller for calling her that whenever they fought. Vi looked like she could rip her tongue out.”

The information makes your head spin, there is only so much you can take.

“It’s just a name. Seems like Vi is preoccupied anyways. This is just so…”

“Hey Vi!”

You turn around, hearing her greet someone she was friendly with. In her athletic shorts and cleats, it’s clear practice had started again, her gym bag in tote. The sweat and grime layered over her face, the sleeves of her jersey rolled into her shoulders. With each movement, her muscles rippled in the dim lighting of the library.

The navy blue jersey complimented her vibrant strands of pink, she laughs at whoever she’s talking to and she looks so happy and at peace, it makes your heart soar. Rugby always made her the happiest. Vander and Vi used to play when she was just a girl, even Powder joined as they got older but when Violet got stronger, she restricted for playing seriously with classmates her own size and not old men whose knees could give out in any second.

She still doesn’t see you and you want to keep it that way so you turn around, minding your own even if your two closest friends in the world just watched you gawk over Violet.

“It’s just going to get worse. Living together. It’s only a matter of time until one of you…” Sevika gestures to the pencil lying broken on the table.

“Well, try not to act too disheartened at the party. Vi said she’s bringing someone. I’m sure it won’t work out between them. Ever since she’s gotten here she hasn’t been able to—”

Sevika places her hand on Mel, to cue her to silence herself as Vi walks up to the table, grabbing the chair closest to you and discreetly pushes it even closer to you when she takes her seat.

Immediately, you chastise yourself for loving how turned on you are by her sweaty body, her muscles clearly acquiring the pump from her practice, those stupid strong calves brushing against yours. You admire the scar against her top lip. Tattoos on display, making your head feel dizzy, and she leans over and asks if she can have a couple of your orange slices. Before falling right back in conversation with Sevika.

Violet does anything to be close to you. Mel and you are engrossed in a conversation, when she shows you the video you were discussing, Vi has to lean over to see. Her arm hanging off your shoulder, her neck craning to see but when she sits back, she keeps her arm around the back of your chair.

“How did practice go today?” You ask.

“Fine.” But the grass stains on her shirt tell you differently, so does the burn on her exposed shin.

“Who the fuck did you let kick your ass?” Sevika interjects before you have the chance to.

“Can’t kick Kirakiller’s ass. Dean Kiramman might throw me out faster than I can blink. I’m already on thin ice and Kirakiller just made it worse. She doesn’t like losing.”

Violet glances at you, her expression unreadable as she turns her attention back to Sevika.

“Got outvoted for Team Captain and she can’t fucking stand it. You know the pompous Kirammans don't believe in democracy. One for all and all for none. Some bullshit Kirakiller says while she’s trying to out-bench me in the weight room. Not my fucking problem. Hasn’t been for a while. She went in for some cheap blows during drills. It is what it is.”

Sevika nods her head, “Seems like you did a real number on her. She shouldn’t have fumbled half of this table.”

“Sev.” You shoot a glaring warning.

Violet visibly tenses but she doesn’t remove her arm, Mel elbowing Sev in the gut softly before she coughs up a quiet apology. The tension could be cut with a knife, but Violet just plays with the material of your cotton shirt, soothing herself as she tries to forget.

“Right, yep.” An awkward silence disperses before Mel and Sevika excuse themselves leaving you and Violet alone.

“Violet, I can talk to her. She shouldn’t be taking this out on you. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not you, alright? Not directly. Caitlyn likes to hurt when she’s hurt. I can handle her.”

Vi chew on her lip, breaking through skin as blood comes to the surface, the iron taste coating her tongue.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You question Violet.

“She knows she can’t lash out at the one thing she wants.”

The one thing we both want, Vi thinks to herself.

She takes the brunt of Caitlyn’s anger and she doesn’t even know why. Maybe an understanding but doesn’t know the full picture. You’re too much of a coward to let it slip. If everything goes south, the woman you adored could truly hate you and that’s the last thing you wanted. It’s silly to even hide a secret. Especially when you feel as if she sees right through your heart when her curious blue eyes look at you.

“Trust me, I’m playing against what I want but she’s not as done as you think she is. She’ll come back for you, princess. You’re someone anyone would come back for. I’m the low totem pole trash found underneath her designer sole, there’s never been a place for me in her life.”

“Don’t do that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No, it isn’t. You’re more than how she treated you. Don’t talk about yourself like that. It’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

Vi nods, tries to offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“What really happened? You look banged up and it looks more than just a rough practice. You know you can tell me anything. I’m all ears for you.”

Vi struggles for a moment, and contemplates on telling you the truth. You deserve to know the truth and she knows that but she also can’t stand for Caitlyn to hurt another piece of you. This entire time apart from Caitlyn, you’ve done your best to separate and get over her. She can’t be the person to make you feel any worse about the situation.

Caitlyn can’t get more in the way, she won’t allow it.

“Kiramman just being a cunt, okay? It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Okay but I’m cleaning that cut on your arm when we get home.” You nudge your shoulder against hers. Talking solace as she places her head in the crook of your neck.

“Whatever you want, princess.”

Then the question nags in the back of your mind, I saw her with Gert. But you’re putting her with Caitlyn. You think she’s cheating on you but there’s isn’t anything to cheat on. You’ve never spoken about that night in her pick-up truck but still dream of it.

Luscious, greedy cunt taking her fingers in ease as you fucked her to completion. The whines she made, how harmonious they were with your own. The image stays imprinted on your mind, scorching the deepest depths of your mind for all eternity to see.

But it’s not everyone taking a look.

It’s just you. Keeping a lid on it has been more than you bargained for. Vi is the person who has been there to help you. When you’ve felt like the cards are stacked against you, it’s her that pulls you out. Every day after the breakup, if you could even call it that, you evidently were just a warm body to fuck for Caitlyn, Violet was there to make sure you were okay.

The daily check-ins, making sure you were staying hydrated through all the tears, cooking dinner for the both of you when she knows you skipped lunch. It’s the little things you’re beating yourself up over and it makes you wonder what was really going on.

If Caitlyn had taught you anything, it was people did fuck you because that’s the only thing they want. But you wanted Violet to be different. More than you ever had than Caitlyn, you need her to be more than what you’ve always been.

“Are you alright, princess? Lost you there for a second.”

You hope she never does. And you never want to lose her. You swallow your jealousy, you decide to trust, despite your best efforts; your heart remains unprotected. You chose blind trust, even if you know better, you lean into the faith.

“Yeah, I’m here with you. Promise.”

—

There’s red, pink, and white — everywhere. Mel is passionate about Valentine's day. In weeks of build up, this party is all she spoke of. Dragging you along to shop when buying decorations, but you didn’t mind. Sevika covering you at the bar means one less shift this week. After last night’s events, you could use the breather.

If Sev wasn’t there, putting the men in place, the status of your safety would severely be in question. Vi came after you called, just complaining about it on your break, and thirty minutes later she sat on your section of the bar with one of her favorite books in hand.

“You didn’t have to come. See? Still in one piece.”

“Mhm and that’s how I want you to stay. Sorry princess, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s not like you needed any more reason to enjoy her company. You have too many. And they come to your mind as needy as a bee to honey. It’s why you bail on coming as a pair, you had a valid excuse, but you also knew if Mel knew why you were helping decorate their home she would literally kick you back to be with Violet.

Hanging the banner in the entry was the last of your duties and before you knew it everyone was shuffling in one by one. The party is in full swing by the time Violet walks in the front door and you nearly collapse from just how damn good she looks. A bouquet of flowers, an assortment of pink and yellow roses with a few lilies meticulously placed in the arrangement.

“I hope it’s not too much but I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“They are beautiful, Violet. You really didn’t have to.”

She smiles as she leans in to kiss your temple, “Of course I did.”

The rest of the night goes off without a hitch, the games Mel has planned are fun. Everyone engages with each other and it is surprisingly pleasant. The only unsettling feeling stirring in the pit of your stomach is the ginger in the corner who has been eyeing you all night but the shirley temples you’ve been drinking all night has you dazed, sitting on Violet’s lap with her arms wrapped around your waist.

Vi’s a bit inebriated as she plays with the hem of your dress, whispering how beautiful you look in your ear. You fidget in her hold, grinding against her even when you’re really not even meaning to.

Astoundingly, the door slams, her arrival being announced.

Uninvited and as prompt as ever.

“Oh, so this—“ Caitlyn gestures to Vi as if she’s the sticky gum on the bottom of her overpriced sneaker, “my leftovers is why you chose to end things?”

She’s charging as the ginger gets up from her seat, trying to hold Caitlyn back but she fails but in an instant, Vi stands up. Every protective bone in her body goes hyperactive, proving herself as a blockade between you and the devil herself. The smirk Vi wears makes Caitlyn violently scowl. She may be taller, but she’s smaller, thinner, not packing nearly as much muscle in her punch.

There was nothing she would love more than to punch that stupid, coy fucking smile off her face.

“What are you gonna do, cupcake?” She says the once endearing nickname, crathing to slither underneath her skin, she wants to piss her off to no end. Make Caitlyn regret ever fucking with either of you. It’s all this ever was, a game. Kiramman’s are always desperate to win, to annihilate your opponent. Any future moves made would be contingent in how she made you feel.

“Get out of my way, Violet.”

“Call me that again and I’ll knock your teeth out. And what are you going to do about it? Everyone may be afraid of you outside of the field, but in case you have forgotten, this isn't on campus where things are done the Kiramman way. If you wanna take a cheap shot at me, better make it count.”

With a careful gaze, Caitlyn’s eyes beam down to the hand clinging to Vi’s bicep, how you’re looking at Vi and touching her skin and how dreadful you look to her.

She directs her voice to you, “What? You’re gonna pick her over me? Like we mean nothing?”

Bitterly, you laugh, but it isn’t funny. Not one bit.

“It’s painful, isn’t it? Being on the other side of it.” Taking a step forward, leaning against Violet’s shoulder, intertwining your fingers together. “Those were your words exactly, Kiramman. This is nothing.”

“I–” For the first time, right before your eyes, she’s stunned. For the first time since she’s met you, she’s speechless.

“Caitlyn, we should just–”

“Maddie, enough.”

The both of you have done more than just rattle her, you’ve surprised her and Violet would be smiling so damn wide if Caitlyn still wasn’t in front of her.

“Baby, can we talk about this? Just a minute of your time and we can sort this out.” Violet won’t stand for the desperate pleas for a moment longer. She takes a step forward, getting in Kiramman’s face, “I think you and your little orange muppet should get the fuck out before I throw you out myself.”

“This isn’t any of your business, Vi.”

“When you’re talking to my girl like that, it really fucking is.”

My girl.

Violet seems to be two seconds away from physically throwing her out when Mel finally interjects. “Caitlyn, you are unwelcome, uninvited, and you’re trespassing. I ask that you please leave before other extreme measures need to be taken.”

A venomous scoff leaves her lips as Maddie drags her away, slamming the door on her way out.

You're rattled, but not from Caitlyn, but from the assertiveness you didn’t know Vi possessed. The implications of this would serve consequences to not just Vi but to you but you couldn’t focus on that right now. She had called you her girl.

Vi’s girl.

“Well now that’s out of the way…” Mel jokes, lightening the mood as the party jumps back in full swing. But all you hear is Vi’s voice calling you hers and it’s like she knows what you’re thinking of when she spares a glance.

“I’m sorry it just slipped but I couldn’t stand her looking at you like that. Like you were some piece of meat she can have whenever she wants.” Violet apologizes. Rubbing the back of your hand with your thumb, tracing her name into your skin.

“It’s okay, um, it was actually really hot…” Immediately, she takes a step forward in an effort to be closer to you. “I-I’ve never really seen you be so uh–”

“What princess?” Mischievously, she girls her head, biting her lip right before she licks them, her tongue piercing teasing you.

“I dunno…it was just really hot seeing you like that…calling me that.”

“My girl?” Vi smiles. It’s so genuine, making you swoon with a sincerity only she can give.

“Yeah, something like that, maybe.”

“I can call you a lot more things if you want. Wanna take a bet if they actually locked their bathroom?”

Neither of you have ever moved so quickly in your life. Clothes get thrown on the tile the minute the two of you are alone, pressing your frame against the door as she decorates your neck in sovereign possession. She never wants anyone to question, you’re her girl.

“Vi, do you, fuccckkkk, really think this is a good idea?” She only grunts in reply as you're nearly fully exposed, your weeping cunt grinding against the muscular thigh she offers so graciously. Your friendship with her hangs in the balance, and you don’t want to think about that right now but you can’t help but have your doubts.

“We can stop if you want to. Whatever you want.” Vi moves to remove her thigh until you whimper, tugging her closer by her pink hair towards you.

“I didn’t say that. Please, don’t stop.”

“Mhm, okay princess but only because you asked so nicely.”

Vi pushes her against your pussy, your hips falling more erratic as Violet gets lost in your neck. Lips marking whatever inch of skin they can find as your folds get the needed friction from her trousers. Blindly sucking on the sweet spot behind your ear, making you putty in her hands.

With a tight grip, you pull at her vibrant hair, her roots grounding you as the build in the pit of your stomach increases. But she pulls away just when you’re getting close. If your hands didn’t have the edge of the sink to hold onto, you’re not sure your legs would have supported you.

“Did you want to stop?”

“No.” Vi smirks.

“Then why the hell did you?”

She says nothing, infuriating you further. It almost pisses you off to the point where it’s painful. Vi keeps smirking at god knows what. Maybe she finds you just as pathetic as Caitlyn does. It may have been a distant future, when Caitlyn had actually been decent in her freshman year, her and Vi were the talk of the town until it all abruptly ended and no one knew why. You’ve never asked.

Vi’s friendly with you but not to the point where she’s an open book. She’s hardly an open book with anyone, she’s careful when she hooks up with others. Especially with the who, she doesn’t want someone who's going to go off and tell the rest of campus how many fingers she used while she makes them come.

But now, you like her. Really fucking badly.

The way she snapped on her, protecting you, nearly connecting her fist with Caitlyn’s sharp jawline. It’s one of the reasons you’re in here with her. But still, not knowing the reason makes you feel slightly unsettled.

There's been different rumors over the past few years surrounding Vi the sweetest girl around and Kirakiller. All of them painting Caitlyn in a god awful light.

Kirakiller cheated on Vi.

Vi left because Kirakiller didn’t want to make things official.

Kirakiller‘s tenacious appetite for the bedroom couldn’t be satisfied by Vi.

Kirakiller said Vi couldn’t make her come.

The list goes on and on, and on. Neither of them were seen to be around each other again, not until Caitlyn seemed to catch you in her web. It was the sin of the century. Vi’s roommate seeing her ex-girlfriend. It was messy to say the least. A few long weeks and you cooking Vi her favorite meal, buying her favorite sour candy in bulk, along with some new gadget for her computer she’d been wanting.

It’s all it took to forgive you. Her only request was to keep Caitlyn out of the apartment while she was here. She never spoke about her again and you never pressed the wound. If Vi didn’t ever want to talk about it but why they broke up gnawed at you.

But Violet doesn’t seem to give a shit about that right now.

“Get on your knees, princess.”

You obliged as Vi took off the sweater, revealing a grey fitted tank-top, showing off just how fit she stayed in the crisp of winter.

“Good girl. Now, take off my belt, yeah?”

You released the belt from the latch, pulling it through the loop and handing it to Vi. Her firm grip grabs the belt, as she kneels behind you, bounding your wrists together by the smooth, cold leather. It’s black with a silver clasp, it feels nice against your wrists as she tightens it. As far as you can tell, it’s new and it makes you wonder if she bought it for just an occasion like this.

Wrists bound behind your back, Vi slaps the fat of your ass before soothing over with delicate fingers, the calloused pads of her fingers playing with your puckered hole as she thumbs it gently.

Pulling it back for a moment, collecting saliva in her warm mouth before drooling over your ass. Smothering her own spit, a place you’d never let anyone touch. You've convinced yourself all this time it’s because of your boundaries but when Vi did it, you didn’t have a problem with it. Then you realize you have trust with Vi, one you hadn’t had with anyone else.

It was just a spur of the moment, two horny girls lonely and single, needing someone else but you also know Vi wasn’t one to sleep with half the campus. She’s a one-woman kind of girl. Maybe you need that trust.

You’re hesitant, still but you can’t bring yourself to say no. She’s attentive, making sure you’re alright with each moment. Not wanting to push you past a limit both of you can’t come back from.

“Is this alright?” Vi whispers into your ear as if she can read your mind.

“Yeah, it’s good.” You take a beat before moaning as you lean into her chest, “A little too good.”

Vi chuckles into your ear, the vibrations tingle throughout your body. Suddenly your mind is wondering how a simple giggle can make you feel so soaked. With a gentle hand, her thumb keeps on playing with your ass as she maneuvers you into her lap and that’s when you feel it.

A faux cock.

“Is that a—” You want to ask but for the first time in your life, you feel shy.

“A cock?”

“Someone’s cocky.”

You both giggle at your innuendo.

Lightly, with soaked fingers she pulls out of your lips, she rims your puckered hole, a coveted limit in your body but with her, you so freely wish to give it.

The eye contact feels awfully intimate but you can’t bring yourself to tear yourself away. It’s entirely new to you. Caitlyn never liked to look you in the eyes when she fucked you. Always something to hide, how she truly feels about you is privy to anyone else but her.

You didn’t have the right to know.

With Vi, everything becomes so clear.

It’s crystal clear when she asks if she can slide a finger inside your ass, it’s overly intimate when you tell her yes as your eyes never leave hers. Her eyes are as hooded as you’ve ever seen them but she won’t break eye contact. Not for a second. You’re questioning if she’s even blinking.

With each passing second, her pink hair surrounds you as her forehead pressed against yours, blue eyes open as she asks again if you’re okay with it. You give her another yes before her middle finger slides in your mouth, your tongue circling the digit before sucking on it dramatically. Letting off with a pop, Vi teases your forbidden hole one more time before she gently coaxes you open for her.

“Shit, Shit, that’s—” You squint your eyes shut. The new sensation is a little too much for your brain to process much less the fluttering pressure in the pit of your stomach.

“Look at me, princess. Keep your eyes on me, alright?” Vi lightly commands, her tone as sweet as you’ve ever heard it.

With the sweet words thrown your way, your eyes flutter open, long eyelashes kissing your brow bone. Vi smiles softly, her top lip lifting as she sees the way you’re looking at her.

Kirakiller is so fucking stupid, Vi thinks to herself be she keeps the words to herself.

Vi stretches you more as her entire finger sits within you, waiting for you to be ready for more and when you are, she nearly comes herself. You’re louder than anyone she’s ever been with. She’s thankful for the loud music Mel insisted on, some shitty pop tune drowning out the two of you. Violet’s never been so thankful.

Those shitty pop tunes are drowning the especially deafening screams of Vi’s name until your vocal chords are shot. With a strong wrist and the flick of her wrist, she can tell you’re already close.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.” Shining eyes are glossy as ever as you struggle to keep them open and focused on her. “Never felt this, shiiiittttt, Vi, please. I’m so close.”

“What do you mean? Has no one ever fucked your ass? You’ve been sleeping with Kiramman. How have you not—”

“Never let her.” That sends Vi’s clit throbbing viciously.

“Kirakiller’s an ass lover, everyone knows that.”

“Are we gonna sit her talking about her the entire time or are you gonna make me come?” Agitating you roll your eyes but Vi licks her lips slowly as a distraction, pulling your attention to her pierced tongue and then you feel another finger stretch at your ass.

“What did you say, princess? Something about coming?” Vi uses another finger, her long digits spreading the slit in your lower lips, making a mess as she spreads the pre-cum spilling out of you. “Be a good girl won’t you?” Vi pinches your clit and just like that your eyes shut again, a completely shattering orgasm washed over you.

Body twitching as Vi keeps you in her hold with a strong grip, your body riding against her fingers but she isn’t too pleased for a moment as she tuts.

“What did I say princess? Eyes open, now.” You struggle, again, but you’re able to meet her demand. There’s an urge to look away, to hide in Vi’s pink hair, her tattooed neck, but you do none of it. Dangerous eyes look at yours as she fucks you through it. You wanted to tug at her hair, pull her closer to you, but hands are bound so all you can do is take it, with loud moans being released, ones you’re trying to control but utterly fail to do so.

“So pretty like this, yeah? God, those gorgeous eyes of yours are gonna get me in trouble. Crying for me like that, makes me wanna take you back to our home and fuck you on my bed, baby. You’re such a beautiful girl and deserve to be treated like one, my sweet girl.”

Vi isn’t sure if you’re crying from the intimacy or from the orgasm, probably both. It’s not a secret since the start of the semester you’d been with Kiramman but Vi knew first hand what that meant. There’s no eye contact, no cuddling, no reassurances, it’s just sex. When Vi was going through it herself, she could see the toll it even took on Caitlyn but she didn't break. Her resolve is rock solid and Vi had learned it the hard way, just as she supposed you did.

It was an endless cycle and it seems Kiramman continued it again with you. It’s evil the way she pulls you apart, makes each part of you feel special, like you’re her entire world and there’s no one else but there always is someone else. Always. Kiramman will lie through her perfectly aligned teeth but there is always someone she keeps for a backup.

Vi wipes away your tears as she soothes you with soft whispers and delicate hands running up and down your back. It feels like the easiest thing she’s done, soothing you into serenity. With gentle care, she takes the belt off of your wrists, rubbing soft circles over the sensitive skin as you come back to yourself. The alcohol feels like a memory. Her kindness makes your head spin and your heart flutter.

Now, you understand why the two of them never worked.

Vi is everything Caitlyn struggles to be.

It’s like looking in a mirror of everything you want to be but knowing you’ll never be her. The imperfection of Caitlyn’s kindness and the overabundance of Vi’s is probably too much of a bruise to her ego. One could see how much it would eat her alive. Vi helps you relocate your clothes that are scattered across the bathroom floor. Shamelessly, she watches as you dress yourself again, not one to look away from the woman she had screaming her name not even five minutes prior.

“You’re so beautiful, can’t keep my eyes off you.”

“C’mon Violet. We live together, I’m the same ole’ me. Now, you’ve just fucked my ass.” You try to brush off the compliment. You feel more similar to Caitlyn then you’d like to admit. Vi’s wholeheartedness is overwhelming, leaving a sting of longing every time she looks at you with a light in her curious eyes.

You slip on your dress and Vi is quick to zip you up but not without kissing the nape of your neck.

Tonight’s actions suddenly feel very sobering.

Vi isn’t done with you as she lifts you up on the countertop, finding her sweatshirt before she covers her toned figure again. You’re wondering what she’s playing at. What she’s thinking about. Vi finds your heels, the versace platform heels Caitlyn had gifted you for your birthday a week after the fact. A pity gift. Similar to herself, you couldn’t say no, it was just too pretty.

They’re too expensive to come from a broke college student. Vi knows where they came from but she exercises that tight lip of hers.

With a gentle tap, she taps your calf lightly a couple times and you offer your leg to her as she slaps the heel back onto your feet, clasping the strap around your ankle before she does the same for the other. The both of you stare at the lingering hands on your thighs, rubbing soft circles into the skin, the bluntness of her fingernail causes goosebumps to spread across the skin.

Caitlyn is terrified of this, something so soft and fragile, her grip would be too tight; she’d break you in the process. She’s a chapter you want to close. All you want now is the woman in front of you.

Vi has only ever been just a friend and she treats you like this. An imaginative mind, one of your own making, starts to wonder…if Vi was in love with Caitlyn, was she even sweeter to her? If her golden heart wasn’t enough for Caitlyn, whose would it be?

The question makes you lost on the idea. Maybe it’s the post-nut clarity of being fucked like you just were, but you see Vi an entirely new light. One that feels as blinding as the sun but she’s smothering you with a perfect amount of warmth.

“So…that happened.” Lightly, Vi laughs trying to brush off the seriousness of the moment.

“Yeah and it seems you came packing.”

Mel has been talking her up all week, telling her she wasn’t just seeing things, all she had to do was give you space and you would come to her slowly. It seems like Mel hadn’t been totally wrong. You are clearly attracted to her but the more protective side of her mind wonders if this is all that it extends to — sex.

The flashback of Caitlyn and all her little twisted games comes to mind while your curious eyes inspect her intensely.

“It’s just a stroke of optimism.” Vi tries to control her breathing when you close your legs around her waist, crossing your legs over the other as you lock her into a secure position.

The tight dress you’re wearing bunches up again, almost resting on your hips.

“I think you were wanting to stroke something else.”

“Uh. No. I was, definitely…okay…maybe I was. A little bit.” Vi admits as you continue to play with her hair, your heel lightly grazing her bum as you tease her for just a little bit longer.

“It’s cute. I like it when you’re confident. You packed a cock in your pants because you wanted to fucked me tonight. Be proud about it. Yeah, maybe you didn’t get to use it but you sure did fuck me.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You’re so brave. Nothing stands in your way, when you want something you go after it. I could never do that.”

“Well, you kinda did. Unless, um—” But the words die in your throat. Suddenly they seem too real and if you tell her, this whole charade will be over, reality will set in and this magical night will only be reduced to primal, drunken needs.

For all you know, Vi didn’t mean any of this. Maybe you just wanted to get your pussy wet, wanted to fuck a pretty girl, needed to see some tits to get her through this lonely holiday. The one that patronizes the single.

Maybe that’s all this is. You’re just a nice piece of ass to fuck. It makes you feel dirty, the air feels thinner, and before you know it Vi’s whispering in your ear to take deep breaths.

“Princess, I’m right here, alright. Just breathe and tell me. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I-I just thought because you know, well, after the last month I thought I was more than just…”

“A girl I wanna fuck?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you are. Would that be such a bad thing? I know with Caitlyn you had something casual, and maybe you liked things that way, but I want something more serious. I don't want to play with your feelings and I don’t want you to play mine. If this is what you want then I think it’d be worth a shot but if not, we can just be friends, alright? There’s no pressure.”

“But Natalie…you said she wanted something serious and you didn’t.”

“I lied to you and I’m sorry for that. But I wanted something serious, just not with her.”

“You know what you want.” You stated it more like a question, puzzled and perplexed about a woman, for the first time, saying exactly what she’s looking for.

“Well…yeah? I respect you enough not to waste your time.” Her eyes gleam, expectant and waiting for you to answer.

“I’ve never had someone so honest with me. I kinda don’t know what to do with it.”

The most sincere eyes look into yours, as she leans into your fingers that play with her vibrant, violet hair. It’s all so fast but Vi nurtures everything once broken within you until you’re healthy once again, restoring the strength you once felt before your heart stopped listening to your head.

It’s a warm, comforting feeling you want to sink into. She’s the closest you’ve had to a semblance of hope. You wondered how anyone could ever let go of her. It wasn’t that she had just given you the best orgasm of your life, it was more than that. Vi made you feel more in thirty minutes than Caitlyn had in your entire time together.

There wasn’t a worry in the back of your mind if this mattered, if you mattered. Her eyes were so open, letting you into the love dripped like honey, full of sweetness, every empty jar of yours waiting to be filled.

“Don’t do anything right now then. For now,” Vi leaned forward, her lips ghosting yours. Close enough where her breath could be felt on yours. “I don’t know where you’re at but I’ve never felt like this, about anyone, and if you wanna start slow we can. Although, we have twice now so I don’t know how slow we can actually go, or we could even go on real date and then you can decide but—”

“Violet?”

“Yeah?”

“You talk too much.”

You lean in and Vi doesn’t waste the opportunity, capturing your top lip between hers, wanting nothing more than to get lost in every inch of you. Holding you like a delicate flower she’s afraid to crumple in her hands, Vi lets herself get lost in this.

For once she doesn’t think of the consequences, if this is moving too fast, wondering what Caitlyn would do if she knew and who she would actually be jealous of. It’s a slippery slope, you messing with her, Vi messing with you.

But she desperately wants it to be more than your roommate, more than a friend — more than secret meeting where Vi fucks you senseless. She can’t get into this and for it to mean nothing and she’s terrified Caitlyn already has her claws dung in deep to you. Then there’s a moan of Vi’s name being said, and her greedy tongue slips in your mouth as she aches for more of you.

Strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling your frame impossibly close to her, commanding your mouth with her pierced tongue as if she was born for it, the coolness of the stainless steel ball tangled with your tongue is a high you want to chase. With every touch, a shiver runs up her spine, like there’s a live wire exposed within you and only her touch can spark it alive.

Vi knows where you want to be touched before you say a word, like she has a connection to your mechanisms, every craving designed for her to carry out as if she’s the one who put them there in the first place. Violet’s pelvis presses against yours, as she gives you the kiss of your life, it leaves you breathless as you chase her lips, your grip pulling at her roots as if it’s your sole purpose in life.

The rest of the world melts away and it’s just the two of you. The lingering shadow of your ex fades into the background and all you see is Violet. Right under your nose this entire time and only now do you realize just how wonderfully perfect she is.

Violet ravishes in how good it feels to be chosen and it’s by you.

The angel who can fly all on her own now; wings no longer clipped by the devil herself.

Fin.

#❝ ⋮ ⌗ ┆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 ❞#(ᝰ.ᐟ) arcane works.#vi arcane #vi x reader #vi smut #vi arcane x reader #vi x you #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman smut

1K notes · View notes

leejenowrld · 29 days ago

Text

overdrive

word count — 33k

genre — smut, fluff, angst

synopsis — jeno is a legend written in midnight asphalt, too fast to catch, too reckless to forget, the kind of driver who disappears into smoke and sirens with your pulse still racing. you were never meant to touch that world—underground races, rigged bets, bloodstained payoffs but you’ve always known how to gut it from the inside. your job? dig up the dirt, rip through the rot, and run the exposé that takes down the syndicate from the top down. he was supposed to be your double-cross, your decoy and your downfall wrapped into one. you were supposed to stab him twice, once for the story, once for survival but instead, you let him fuck the truth out of you. now you’re in too deep, hips grinding in the front seat of his getaway car while your recorder’s still running, chasing headlines with your back arched and your mouth gasping his name. and the closer you get to the finish line, the more you realise—some stories don’t break, they burn.

fic warnings/contents — explicit language, explicit content, dark themes & moral ambiguity, violence, corruption, and crime, includes sabotage, mechanical tampering, crashes, assault, threats, illegal racing, blackmail, hacking, emotional dissociation, trauma aftermath from car crashes and near-death experiences, lots of fucking in this phew, explicit sex, semi-public settings (garage, racing tracks, in cars), mid-race blowjob scene, public/risky sex, oral sex while driving, power dynamic, dominance, sensory overload, rough, emotionally charged sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), praise, begging, name-calling (good girl/baby/slut/reporter girl), dirty talk & possessiveness, jeno is quite vulgar, dominant and unwelcoming at first and very hot, just wait, appearances from nct dream ‘00 line and mark, lots of racing (duh), badass hot y/n who races too, lots of technical talk, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, choking, spit, mild breathplay, light bondage, physical restraint. plot moves quite fast, did as much world building as i could. i hope you enjoy 🖤 been working on this a few weeks actually, this won the poll but i knew it would win any poll 😭 that’s why i’ve managed to upload it a week before jeno’s birthday <3

likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated 🖤 banner made by my lovely @umwaitwhatwhy

You tell yourself you won’t feel anything walking into this building. You practised it all morning, the tight jaw, the steady breath, the look of quiet indifference that could carry you through a firing squad without blinking but he moment you step into the thick glass lobby of Han & Associates, so blandly named it makes your teeth ache, sterile and sharp in its simplicity, it all feels like a weight sinking against your ribs. Cold marble floors gleam beneath your shoes, harsh with the echo of each step, and the walls rise tall and unfeeling, lined with a history of racing prints yellowed by smoke and dust. A history Taeyong once belonged to, long before he sold out his soul for ink and scandal. Long before he fastened his claws into your neck and called it mentorship.

The receptionist doesn’t even look up. She just tips her head toward the far office door, like she’s seen a thousand broken people walk this hallway before you. Maybe she has. Inside, the air is stale with old whisky and the scratch of metal blinds rattling in the breeze from the half-cracked window. His office isn’t flashy. No, Taeyong never believes in flash. He believes in power that sits quiet beneath the surface, like oil slick under water, waiting to catch fire. Framed covers of his greatest hits hang crooked on the walls, headlines that have dismantled careers in six-inch fonts. They watch you now like ghosts of every mistake you’ve ever made.

He doesn’t look up as you step in. He just flips a page in the file spread across his desk, fingers stained faintly with nicotine. "You know why you’re here," Taeyong says, voice flat like the ash at the bottom of his glass. His tone is sharp, old Seoul roughness beneath the polished newsman accent. "Sit."

You sit, spine stiff against the chair, hands knotted in your lap because you know better than to let them tremble.

He slides the folder across the desk. A slick of photographs spills out: Soul Line Motors, chaos captured in still frames. One of the racers, lean and sweat-drenched, jaw set in grim fury as he stands beside a car swallowed in smoke. Another, caught mid-brawl, fists raised and eyes wild beneath a mess of dark hair. A third, covered in grease from cheek to collarbone, mouth pressed tight like he’s swallowed a curse. There’s a scan of betting slips too, edges worn, one name circled in red ink like a target. The file reeks of desperation, theirs, yours, his.

“Officially,” Taeyong says, pausing to swirl his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light like it’s molten gold, “you’re their compliance monitor. League assigned. Eyes and ears inside the garage.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp as a blade unsheathed, but he doesn’t rush the moment. He lets it stretch, like he wants you to sit with it, feel the weight pressing into your chest. “They need you because they’re drowning,” he adds, voice dropping lower, rough like gravel beneath tyres. “That whole team’s hanging by threads and they know it. Race-fixing charges. Illegal betting syndicates. Dodgy sponsorship money bleeding into their books. They risk clawing at the bottom of the league’s and now they’re crawling to you, begging for a way out.”

You say nothing, but your pulse tightens beneath your skin. He sees it. Of course he does.

“They’ve agreed to it publicly,” he continues, swirling the whisky in his glass until it laps against the sides. “They think you’re their saviour. League compliance, external oversight, someone to parade in front of the cameras so the sponsors start breathing easy again. They’ll give you access to everything. Garage, transport, race strategy. They’ll feed you what they think you want to see. Give you a pretty little show of redemption.”

His lips twist, sharp and knowing. “But unofficially,” he says, and this time he leans forward, placing the glass down with a quiet, final clink against the desk. He lets the word hang there between you like a blade suspended over your throat. “You’re my goddamn guillotine.”

The words land hard, heavier than they should. You hold his stare, forcing your expression flat, emotionless. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing the old panic ripple beneath your skin. “You burn them properly,” he goes on, steady and merciless, “you give me something with blood on it, and maybe” — he tips his head, smirking like the outcome is already sealed — “maybe we’ll scrub your name clean.”

You say nothing. Not yet. But the fire builds in your chest, slow and choking. “Fail me, sweetheart,” Taeyong finishes, voice soft as a blade at your throat, “and I’ll bury you deeper than the racers.”

But it’s not enough for him to leave it there, and you know it. He’s the kind of man who likes to carve the knife in slow, twist it until it scrapes bone. He draws the folder closer, flipping it open again, letting the photographs spill across the desk like crime scene evidence. His fingers tap the image of the team’s car mid-spin, smoke curling from the tyres like breath from dying lungs. “They trust you,” he murmurs. “They think you’ll save them. But you’re not there to write them a fairytale, are you? You’re there to build me a fucking obituary.”

Your eyes flick over the faces in the photos — strangers, for now. Faces that will soon become names, names that will become weapons in your hands if you play this right. Or chains around your neck if you don’t. You inhale slow through your nose, sharp enough to cut through the staleness of whisky and dust. “I don’t need a maybe,” you say, voice low but clear, each word carved from the stone of your ribs. “I need my career back.”

Taeyong’s grin sharpens, cruel and thin. “Then make me bleed for it.”

He pushes the folder across the desk until the edges brush your fingertips, like a final transaction sealed not with a handshake, but a dare. You let your fingers close around it slowly, deliberately, as though by holding it you’ve already begun the execution. And as you rise from the chair, his gaze doesn’t follow the file. It follows you. Tracks you like a predator watching prey too confident to run.

“Bring me their ashes,” Taeyong says, the final word curling like smoke from his tongue, “and we’ll talk.” Your pulse beats hard at your wrist as you turn away, the weight of the dossier under your arm a cold reminder of the fire he’s asked you to set. You can feel him watching you as you leave, heavy and certain, like he already sees the blood on your hands.

The garage breathes like something alive. Heat coils in the ribs of the building, simmering beneath the fluorescent lights that flicker as if they, too, are choking on the weight of oil and sweat and smoke. You taste it at the back of your tongue, thick and acrid, sharp as the cut of gasoline in the air. The walls feel too tight for the number of bodies inside, men scattered around a makeshift briefing table, chairs scraped out at angles like they’ve already abandoned any notion of formality. It isn’t a room built for you, and you feel it instantly, the moment your shadow crosses the threshold.

Outside, above the main bay door, a crooked neon sign hums faintly through the haze, tubes buzzing a sickly red. ‘THE PIT’ it reads, jagged letters flickering behind a cracked plastic shell, an arrow beneath it scrawled like graffiti, pointing you straight into the belly of the place. No need to ask what they call it. The name hangs in the air like everything else here — burnt, broken, and permanent.

Eyes slice across your skin before you even take your seat. Heavy, unwelcoming. They don’t bother to mask their distrust, their disdain curling like exhaust smoke between their teeth. You keep your spine straight, folder pressed beneath your palm, your compliance badge clipped clean to your lapel, though it feels less like authority and more like a target painted over your chest.

You settle into the corner without a word, let their tension simmer unchecked as they shift in their seats, restless energy bouncing off the scuffed concrete floor. You watch them the way you’ve been taught to watch: quietly, precisely, as if they might confess something in the way their knuckles flex or their shoulders stiffen against the press of your presence.

There are seven men carved from collisions and chaos, every one of them carrying the wreckage of races gone wrong in the set of their jaws and the shadows beneath their eyes. Their faces you do not yet know, not in the way that matters. You know the leaked reports, the back-page headlines, the photographs that Taeyong had spread before you like playing cards in a rigged game. But here, in the raw heat of their den, they are something else entirely.

The principal, Lee Doyoung, stands at the head of the table like he’s bracing against a storm he already knows is coming. A former racer turned league-forced team manager, he carries the look of a man who’s seen too many podiums crumble and too many egos catch fire. He doesn’t smile when he sees you, but he offers a nod — clipped, formal, like it costs him something to say. “Welcome to Soul Line,” he says, voice rough, thick with the gravel of old track injuries and older disappointments. “You’ll find we run things tight here. Fast. Loud. Occasionally off the rails.”

His gaze sweeps over the group, then lands on you like the weight of a steel girder. “But we know why you’re here. League oversight. Full compliance.” A beat. His eyes don’t blink. “If we want to see the season out, we give you what you need.”

A scoff breaks from one of the drivers before the sentence is cold. He sits with his chair tilted back on two legs, arms folded loose across his chest, mouth curled into something between amusement and threat. His eyes track you slowly, too slowly, a mockery of interest as he drags them down the line of your body and back up again like you are not worth the respect of subtlety. “Guess we’re really fucked if they’re sending babysitters now,” he drawls, earning a few low snickers from the others.

You keep your expression blank, though your pulse sharpens in your throat. You have known men like him your entire career. Men who mistake cynicism for cleverness, who wield bravado like a shield against their own creeping fear. You will make him eat those words soon enough.

Your gaze slides past him, past the sneering technician polishing a wrench like it might become a weapon, past the mechanic whose arms are folded tight across his chest as if he’s physically holding in his disdain. But it’s the last man who catches you hardest. The one who entered late, who carries the weight of the room like it is stitched into his spine. He doesn’t look at you right away. He drops into his seat with the fluid ease of someone who has spent his life in the cockpit, on the razor’s edge between glory and ruin, and when he does finally glance your way, it isn’t a look. It’s a strike.

Dark eyes pin you where you sit, sharp and dissecting, as though he’s already found the weakest seam in your composure and is toying with the idea of pulling it loose. He says nothing, but his mouth curls, the smallest twist of disdain, and then he looks away, like you’re beneath even his scorn. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself against the heat blooming beneath your ribs. He doesn’t know you yet. Not properly. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, or the ruin you’ve been sent to deliver.

The principal barrels on, dragging the meeting into its grim necessities. Racing schedules. Sponsor obligations. League deadlines. Fines stacking like storm clouds on the horizon. You listen, tuning the words against the rhythm of your own thoughts, already fitting pieces into place. You can feel it in your bones — the edges of something bigger, something rotted beneath the surface of their bravado. They are bleeding, and they know it. The league has forced you into their camp as a measure of survival, but Taeyong made it clear before you ever stepped foot in their garage: you’re not here to save them. You’re here to light the match.

You wait for your moment. Then you take it. “Your last race transport logs are incomplete,” you say, your voice clean, sharp, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Several discrepancies in reported fuel usage and unaccounted travel hours. I’ll need immediate access to your internal records. Financials. Telemetry. Pit strategy.”

The silence that falls is not empty. It is electric.

His gaze snaps back to you, and this time it isn’t passive. It’s fire. His chair scrapes against the floor as he shifts forward, forearms braced heavy on the table, like he might devour you whole. “Maybe try watching a race before you question our pit stops,” he bites, his voice low and rough, edged with venom meant to sink beneath your skin.

It burns, but you welcome the heat. You meet his glare without flinching, without yielding an inch of ground. You’ve weathered worse storms. You’ve stood in boardrooms with men far more dangerous than him and watched them collapse under the weight of your evidence. You will watch him fall, too.

Before the tension can snap fully, the principal slams a hand down on the table, the crack of it loud enough to startle a few of the younger crew. “Enough,” he growls. His eyes are locked on the star driver, sharp with warning. “Cooperate. Our image is all we have left.”

The driver’s mouth tightens into a grim line, but he leans back in his seat, exhaling a slow, disdainful breath through his nose. His compliance is a farce, but it is compliance all the same. You press your advantage. “Full access,” you repeat, flipping the page in your folder, letting the rustle of paper cut the silence. “No exceptions.”

They bristle, but no one argues. The meeting fractures slowly, the tension bleeding out in all directions, footsteps retreating into engine bays and shadows, muttered curses tossed between teammates like tired rituals but he doesn’t move. He stays right where he is, anchored to the far end of the garage like the heat itself comes from his body — and maybe it does, because you feel it before you see him.

That awareness creeps up your spine like a lit fuse, slow and warm and unforgiving. You turn, too slow to play it off, and he’s already watching you. Not staring. Watching. Like you’re the track and he’s waiting for the moment you crack open. He’s stripped the fireproof suit halfway down his body, sleeves bunched around his waist, bare skin sheened with sweat under the flickering fluorescents. There’s oil smeared just under his collarbone, and something about that detail makes your throat go tight. The way he moves is thoughtless, practiced — wiping his jaw with a grease-stained rag, tossing it to the floor like it offended him — and then his gaze drags across your face, down the line of your throat, slow enough to sear.

He doesn’t smirk, not right away. It takes a moment. A shift in weight, a flicker of something darker in his eyes, and then his mouth curves — not amused, not mocking, but like he’s already three steps into a game you haven’t agreed to play. Like he knows what you taste like when you lie. Like he’s betting you’ll do it again.

Your eyes drop. Not because you want to, but because something pulls you there, to the sharp angles of his chest, the flush of his skin, and then lower. The suit at his hips is half-unzipped, loose where he’s shoved his hands into the waistband, and just above his belt line, the stitching catches your eye. A name. White thread on black fabric, the kind that isn’t meant to be read up close, only seen in motion, on a screen, under floodlights.

Lee Jeno.

The name tastes electric in your mouth, even unspoken. Of course it’s him. The face of Soul Line. The firebrand. The golden boy you once dragged in an article so brutal it got syndicated across three continents. You’d called him borrowed brilliance, fame wrapped around arrogance, a wreck waiting for the right turn. And here he is. Real. Sweat-slicked and simmering. Looking at you like the headline still bruises.

His voice comes low, too low, like it’s meant to hit somewhere private. “Thought you’d be older.”

You blink.

“More polished,” he adds, stepping forward a little. Not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air. “More bitter. Guess I expected someone who writes like that to look less…” His eyes drag over you again, slower this time, and the words coil hot between your ribs. “Soft.”

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your hands.

And then, finally, with a quiet breath that sounds too close to laughter — “You watching me, reporter girl?”

The words drip with something more than mockery, something darker, more deliberate, like he’s testing to see whether you’ll flinch or lean closer, whether you’ll break the standoff or let it stretch. He doesn’t know you’re not here to write a story, and you don’t offer him the truth. You meet his stare with a calm that costs you nothing on the outside but everything beneath your skin, letting the silence rise and settle like ash in the space between you. His jaw tenses, subtle, but sharp, like he’s not used to being left without the last word, like your stillness disrupts a rhythm he’s always been able to control. You don’t move. You let him sit in it. Let the tension braid itself through the heat of the garage, through the pulse low in your stomach, through the wire pulled tight between your spine and his. It’s not a line anymore. It’s a fuse. Not a story, you think, gaze still locked on his. A reckoning.

The pit doesn't sleep. Not really. Even now, hours after the meeting, the place hums like something alive beneath your skin. Doyoung’s words still sting, but they echo even louder once he’s gone, once it’s just you and the low thrum of the garage and the weight of what comes next. He gestures for you to follow with a jerk of his chin, and you do—past towers of stripped tires, the wet slap of coolant against concrete, the clatter of tools tossed onto workbenches like punctuation marks to arguments you haven’t earned the right to hear.

He doesn’t speak. Just leads you through the cluttered belly of the team’s world, deeper into the haze of oil and engine heat, until you find it: a narrow staircase, half hidden behind thick cables and hanging fire blankets. Upstairs, a converted office no bigger than a janitor’s closet. A mattress shoved in the corner, still wrapped in plastic. A flickering lamp. Two cracked windows with grime crusted into the corners. A desk that looks like it’s lost more battles than it’s won. It smells like oil, aftershave, and sleep deprivation. There’s a mug ring on the windowsill, long gone dry.

Too close to the noise. Too close to him. You’re in their lungs now. Daylight burns through the haze the next morning, and you’re dropped into their rhythm like a stone in the mouth of a river. No one slows down to make room for you. The introductions aren’t warm. They’re tests. You can feel it in every glance.

Renjun doesn’t look at you. Just turns a bolt harder when Doyoung says your name. Jaemin grins too wide and doesn’t blink long enough. His eyes skim your badge like he’s already calculated what it would take to strip it from you. Mark’s nod is brief, his eyes flicking from your clipboard to your boots to your mouth, then away. Donghyuck says, “Hey, compliance queen,” like he’s tasted the words before and decided they weren’t sweet enough. Eric mutters something under his breath. You catch “babysitter.” Sunwoo doesn’t say anything at all, but his eyes follow you with the patience of someone waiting to see where you’ll crack. And Jeno—Jeno doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look. You try not to flinch. Try not to look like the heat in the room is coming from more than the furnaces humming behind the walls.

You watch them prep for Daegu. That’s what they call it, like it’s a war and not a race. The Daegu Circuit. One of the tightest, most closely surveilled tracks on the internal league run. Only the top four teams are allowed to qualify, and Soul Line’s barely clinging to their spot. One more DNF— Did Not Finish, the league’s clean term for crashes, mechanical failures, disqualifications or some other issue that prevents them from crossing the finish line— and they’re out. No second chances. You know the pressure it puts on them. You feel it in the sharpness of their movements, the way even the laughter is clipped now, short-lived.

Jeno’s scheduled to run solo for the first lap trials tomorrow. Sunwoo and Jaemin will alternate team sets after that, and you’re expected to be there for all of it—every checkpoint, pit stop, and debrief. League orders, official oversight. You’re embedded under the guise of compliance monitoring, positioned as the league’s neutral eye, a silent safeguard to ensure they play by the book. That’s what they think you’re here for. What they don’t know is that your real assignment started the second you stepped inside. Last night, while the rest of the garage ran on fumes and noise, you stayed in the loft with the lights off, watching from the window and writing notes no one asked for. Notes meant to kill careers.

The garage operates nonstop, no digital logs, no formal security system. A direct violation—the league requires time-stamped movement for every staff member on the floor, and Soul Line tracks nothing. The main car still bears a sponsor logo flagged last season for money laundering—tied directly to illegal betting rings. It’s currently under investigation, not cleared, not safe, and definitely not allowed to be plastered across a vehicle that’s meant to represent professional sport. You clocked Renjun and Mark mid-argument near the toolshed, whispering about a part being “too hot to use again,” something that sounded like it could cost a race or a life. Renjun slammed the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the wall.

Later, after lights out, Sunwoo and Jaemin sat hunched over a tablet replaying what looked like race footage but you know the league archive doesn’t release raw data without clearance. It was off-grid, off-record, and all the more valuable because of it. Everything you’re gathering is being dressed up as routine monitoring. It’s not. You’re here to help them dig their own grave, and they don’t even know they’ve handed you the shovel.

When you asked for the transport and fuel logs, Donghyuck smiled too easily. “We clean them up before inspection,” he said, then laughed—too sharp, too knowing, the kind of laugh that doesn’t ask to be questioned. Not long after, you caught Eric hauling crates labeled SCRAP, only to spot the corner of a box split open, revealing modded engine parts you’ve never seen on any licensed schematic. And Jeno—when you approached him about accessing his telemetry files, he didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. “They’re encrypted,” he said flatly. “Ask again and we’ll all pretend this meeting never happened.”

You logged every word.

But it’s more than just infractions. It’s how they move. How they function. Like a body. Flawed, bruised, stitched together by necessity and something more raw. You watch Jeno check Sunwoo’s wrist mid-conversation, eyes darting to a bruise like it offends him. You catch Mark slipping electrolyte tablets into Eric’s water bottle. No fanfare. Just instinct.

They aren’t clean. Not even close. But they’re not monsters either. And that’s what makes it worse. Because if they were easy to hate, this would be easy to do. If they were just reckless boys with oil on their hands and arrogance in their veins, you wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. But they’re more than that. They fight. They bleed. They care, even if they pretend not to. And somehow, in the thick of all that noise and grime, they’ve started to feel more real than anything you’ve had in months.

Your notes are ready. Your evidence stacks high. But you still feel it—the ache under your ribs when Jeno walks by without a glance, the itch in your spine when the music dies just as you step into the room. You’re the knife. You know it. The one thing they didn’t see coming. The quiet cut that could end all of this. You keep telling yourself your career is on the line. You keep pretending you don’t like how the pit smells like sweat and steel and something real, that it doesn’t settle under your skin in a way your last newsroom never did, that it doesn’t feel like the first place in years where the silence is honest.

The floorboards creak as night settles into the pit, the kind of quiet that doesn’t mean peace—just pause. You can still hear the click of cooling metal, the soft thrum of a charger left humming too long, the faint static of the radio someone forgot to turn off. But it’s him that makes the air shift. Jeno walks back from the showers, shirtless, a towel slung low over his shoulders, jaw set in brutal silence. Water clings to his skin in thin rivulets, tracing over bruises like old maps, burns like ghosts. His body is carved in motion, every step too fluid, too confident, like he doesn’t know how to exist unless he’s in control of the room. He doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to. But the moment the lamp in your window flickers against the glass and casts your silhouette into the open air, he slows. Not much. Just a fraction. A stutter in his stride like muscle memory reacting to something it doesn’t know yet but already wants to learn. Then he keeps walking.

Your chest aches. Not soft or sweet, it burns. Like friction. Like pressure. Like heat trapped beneath skin. It’s not affection. It’s not even desire. It’s something more dangerous. Hot and reckless and wrong. You think that’s the end of it. You think you can breathe again. You’re wrong. The garage has emptied—mostly. The lights are low, the shadows long. You’re bent over a stack of reports by the storage wall, trying to focus on the ink, on the facts, not the way your blood is still pulsing too loud in your ears. You don’t hear him approach but you feel him. That heavy, quiet presence that always moves like a storm forming behind your spine.

“Looking for cracks in the concrete?” he asks, voice rough and too close, low enough that it vibrates behind your ribs. You turn. He’s cornered you, not physically—not yet—but the space between you feels paper-thin.

You don’t blink. “No, looking for the truth.”

His eyes darken. “You think you’re gonna catch us slipping, compliance girl?”

“You don’t know me.” The words slice out before you can stop them, low and sharp, but not enough to cover the crack in your voice. He hears it. You can tell by the way his eyes narrow—not surprised, not amused, but focused, like he’s finally found something worth pressing into. The air between you stretches tight, thick with heat and history neither of you want to name.

“No?” he murmurs, stepping in closer. His voice drops, gravel-edged and deliberate, like he’s chewing on something filthy he intends to spit at your feet. “I know exactly what you are.”

Your back tenses. “Then say it.”

He leans in, not enough to touch, but enough to make the space between your mouths feel criminal. “You’re not here to fix anything. You’re not here to save us. You came to prove what you already think is true. That we’re cheats. That we’re dirty. That we’re broken boys who never deserved a shot at the circuit. You came with a shovel, and you’ve been digging since the minute you walked through that door.”

His breath grazes your cheek, hot and damp and way too close. Your fingers twitch against the folder at your side, but you don’t move. You hold your ground. He’s trying to get under your skin, and the worst part is—it’s working. “You’ve been here less than a night,” he continues, and now there’s a darker undercurrent curling beneath the heat of his voice, “but you already know where to look. You already know which bolts to count, which questions to ask, where the smoke’s thickest. You don’t talk much, but your eyes don’t stop moving.”

He takes a step closer, and you swear the air gets hotter, heavier, like he’s dragging all the oxygen into his orbit just to see how long you can go without it. Your back hits the metal siding behind you, a cold kiss against the heat burning beneath your skin. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence presses in, devastatingly close. “You think you’re subtle? You think we haven’t seen your type before?” he says, voice quiet now. “You’re not. You think we haven’t seen people like you before? Girls with pens and clean nails and that little moral high ground look in their eyes? You came here with a target and a deadline. You came here to catch us in the act, I don’t think you understand how obvious it is.”

Your stomach drops. Because that’s the truth. And he’s not supposed to know it.

He leans in, just enough that your shoulders brush when you inhale. “And I bet you already have, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Already scribbled something down about Renjun’s parts, or Jaemin’s footage, or the decal on the front wing. I bet you can’t wait to file it, can you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s a roaring in your ears, and it isn’t from the garage anymore. You came here with leverage. You came with power but suddenly, he has all of it.

“I asked you a question.” His breath is on your neck now, burning at the base of your throat. “Are you gonna pretend you’re still neutral? That you’re not already writing our autopsy in that pretty little head of yours?”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Because you thought you were playing a long game. You thought you had time. You thought they’d be easy to fool but he’s already seen through you and somehow, that terrifies you more than the exposure. Part of you wonders what else he sees and worse—how much of you he’s seen.

You expect to be gone by morning.

It’s the first thought that surfaces when the light cracks through the warped blinds above your head, thin and bleached and too sharp for how little sleep you got. You sit up slow, spine aching from the floor mattress, mouth dry, stomach tight. Last night, the way he cornered you, the way he looked at you like you’d already bled the truth all over the floor, you were sure it meant the end. You were sure Doyoung would be waiting outside the door, clipboard in hand, ready to escort you off the premises with a warning not to come back but when you step down into the pit, no one says anything.

Doyoung doesn’t even glance your way. The rest of the crew moves around you like smoke — clipped greetings, loud tools, sharp energy that crackles beneath the concrete. And Jeno? Jeno walks past you like you’re air. No nod. No look. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just the firm, deliberate press of his shoulder brushing yours, like he’s reminding you that you’re still in his way.

And yet — you’re still here.

You follow them to Daegu in the back of the team transport. No one talks to you. Jaemin scrolls through footage with Sunwoo, muttering under his breath. Donghyuck hums something tuneless, tapping out a beat on his knee. Renjun’s buried in his notebook. Mark sleeps with one earbud in. Eric keeps glancing at you like you’re the threat no one’s acknowledging but still, no one tells you to leave.

The Daegu Circuit rises like a concrete beast against the sky — industrial grey carved into sunlit asphalt, flanked by swarming paddocks and glass-walled control towers that glint like they’re watching. Heat shimmers off the ground in waves, thick with burnt rubber and sweat and the static buzz of engines throttling into warm-up. The scent hits first — scorched tires, petrol, synthetic lubricant — and then the noise swallows you whole. Every few seconds a car screeches down the trial lane, tires screaming against the edge of control. Officials are shouting orders from booths and radios, pit crews hauling gear across the compound in a chaos that only makes sense to those who’ve lived inside it too long to question. You follow the Soul Line crew at a measured pace, clipboard in hand, badge clipped neat to your jacket, your eyes sharp behind your sunglasses even as your chest coils tighter with every step. You’re not supposed to be here. Not really. Not after last night. Not after what he said. But your name hasn’t been stripped from the roster. Your badge still opens the gates. And no one’s told you to leave.

Not even him.

The Daegu Circuit isn’t kind. It stretches wide beneath a noon-struck sky, every surface gleaming with heat and speed and warning. The concrete hums under your boots as you walk behind the Soul Line crew, the pit lanes lined with cables and sun-bleached crates, radios crackling in sharp bursts, tyre stacks sweating under plastic sheeting. The official sectors shimmer in the distance, white and silver, pristine in a way that only makes Soul Line look more like a threat. Their garage bay is one of the smallest, pressed against the wall like an afterthought, tools half-unpacked, engines still being tuned like they’ve only just made it in time. Inside, the tension breathes. Renjun’s crouched low beneath a console, swearing into his headset, one hand braced against the floor while he tries to salvage something from the tangle of wires. Mark hovers behind him, flicking between telemetry maps on a smudged tablet. Jaemin’s pacing, muttering about torque splits, while Eric hauls tyres across the back wall with his jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. Sunwoo’s in the corner, quiet as always, arms crossed but eyes sharp. They don’t acknowledge you when you step inside, but you didn’t expect them to.

You find Jeno almost instantly — not because he says anything, but because the gravity around him shifts the moment you’re near. He’s standing near the centre console, suit rolled to his waist, shoulders drawn back like he’s already locked into race mode. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Just nods once at Doyoung, low and clipped, before slipping his gloves on without looking away from the track layout glowing in front of them. You catch yourself staring. You always do. His focus is a weapon in itself, hard and quiet and absolute.

But just as Mark adjusts the last split screen, the telemetry panel behind him flickers — once, then again — and dies. Not all at once. It stutters first, a blink too long to be a delay, then freezes mid-read. Data spikes flatline. The right side of the monitor collapses into black, a red alert flashing in the corner like a wound torn open. You hear the sound more than see it, a high whine of static cutting through conversation, pulling all eyes to the screen.

And then everything stops moving.

“Fuck,” Sunwoo says, already moving. “Internal feed’s down.”

Renjun curses louder, diving back under the system rig. Mark blanches, tapping the screen again, again. It doesn’t blink back. The air in the garage thickens, seconds dragging in real time. This trial run is Jeno’s solo, a compliance-mandated lap that needs to be broadcast live, internally tracked, and logged in the system for Daegu to count as cleared. The league officer walking toward them clearly knows that too. Clipboard already open, expression unreadable. You feel the current change, flicking sharp as a blade through the air.

Doyoung hesitates. “We’re resolving it,” he says, already one breath behind.

“You’ve got two minutes,” the official replies, watching the garage like a hawk. “No recorded data, no compliance confirmation then the run will be void. You’ll have no other choice but to forfeit.”

You don’t wait. You already saw the clause in the league documents. You made sure of it. You take a step forward, voice level, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Fallback protocol. Clause Twelve, subsection three. In the event of a system crash during a compliance run, the assigned league officer may ride passenger to record manual telemetry.”

Doyoung’s head jerks up. “That’s not—”

“You signed it,” you say. “Three weeks ago. When the league granted your provisional license. Page seven.”

The official nods. “She rides. Log everything manually. If she doesn’t get in now, you lose the lap. Final call.”

Jeno turns, and the air inside the garage locks around your throat like a vice, like every breath between now and the next word could be your last. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just looks at you, slow and measured, gaze slicing clean down your body before dragging back up to meet your eyes, and what you see there isn’t anger, not exactly — it’s colder than that, more precise, the kind of quiet that only comes before something breaks. His jaw ticks once. His fingers tighten around the edge of his helmet, the leather glove groaning faintly beneath the strain, and when he finally opens his mouth, it’s not a voice that comes out, it’s a verdict. “No one gets in my car.”

“She’s cleared,” Doyoung says, the words low, reluctant. “You knew this might happen.”

“No one’s ever ridden with me,” Jeno says, sharper this time, a little louder, like the rest of the garage might’ve forgotten. He looks at Doyoung, not at you. “No one.”

“And if you refuse,” you say evenly, not moving, “the league will log a compliance rejection. Which means a penalty. Which means disqualification. Which means you don’t race again today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.”

Jeno’s jaw ticks. You can almost feel the tension coming off of him in waves now, tightening the space around you until it’s hard to breathe. For a second, you think he might really say no. Just walk off the track, consequences be damned but he looks at Doyoung again, then the league officer, then at you.

And then he turns away.

You don’t wait for permission. You hand off your clipboard to Mark, strip off your jacket, and climb into the passenger side of the car. The cockpit is already sweltering, every inch of metal radiating heat, the air thick with engine fumes and burnt rubber and something deeply, unmistakably him. You pull the harness across your chest, snap it tight, adjust the mic at your collar. He doesn’t look at you. Just pulls the helmet over his head, flips the switch on the ignition, and settles into the driver’s seat like he’s preparing for war.

The cockpit is brutal. Not just the heat, though that clings to your skin like a second suit but the size of it, the pressure, the closeness. Every surface smells like metal and flame retardant, burnt rubber and sweat. You pull the harness across your lap and shoulders, click it into place, but your hands aren’t steady. The helmet’s bulkier than the ones you trained on. You miss the chin strap the first time. Then fumble the latch. Your fingers scrape against the buckle, trembling just slightly, just enough to piss you off. And then you feel it — that shift beside you, the weight of someone watching, the silence tensing.

Jeno doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look but he reaches over, short and sharp, and his fingers slide under your jaw to catch the edge of the strap. He tightens it with one quick pull, firm enough that your breath hitches, not from the pressure but from him. His arm brushes your chest as he pulls back. The side of his hand grazes your collar. Still, he doesn’t look at you. Just settles into his seat like the interruption didn’t happen, like he didn’t just touch you like that.

Your knees graze again when he shifts, suit creasing against your thigh. You try to breathe. Try not to notice how loud the engine sounds, how much hotter the air is inside the cockpit. Your fingers go for the mic clip at your collar, but before you can adjust it, his hand is already there — securing the wire, fixing the placement. His breath ghosts your temple when he leans in. The scent of him is clean sweat and smoke, and something electric underneath. The car hums beneath you, but it’s his voice that rips through your nerves.

“Don’t speak unless I ask a question,” he says, quiet, controlled, like each word is measured against the beat of your pulse. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. And if you so much as breathe out of rhythm…” His jaw flexes. “I’ll eject you mid-lap.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. The words knot somewhere behind your ribs, too tight to untangle. But then he speaks again, low, like the cockpit was meant to carry his voice straight to your spine.

“I can feel everything in this seat,” he murmurs. “Every twitch. Every shift. So sit still. Unless you want me to know exactly what you’re thinking.”

You go still. Not because he told you to but because you don’t trust what’ll happen if you don’t. The heat rises. The harness digs into your hips. His thigh presses back into yours, and when the engine roars to life, it doesn’t drown him out — it amplifies him. He still hasn’t looked at you.

The engine roars and every other sound is swallowed whole, like breath caught in the chest and held too long, like the track outside has cracked open its jaw just to take you. The world becomes motion, breath and pressure. The engine screams, your spine slams back, and the air between you and Jeno becomes blistering. His voice is in your ear — low, rough, pure focus. Every sharp inhale echoes through your headset. His grip on the wheel is brutal. Controlled. Every turn pulls you with him, the G-force snapping through your ribs like a wire strung tight.

You don’t speak at first. You’re just observing. Watching. But not neutrally. Never neutrally. The cockpit hums with vibration, every shift of his body dragging your attention deeper into the tension between movement and control. His thighs tense when he shifts gears — a sharp flex and release, muscle tightening against the harness straps. There’s sweat on his neck, a glint of it catching the light where it gathers just beneath the helmet. His knuckles are pale against the wheel, movements exact, like he’s not driving but commanding the track to yield.

Then Seoul unspools around you.

Through the side panel, the city blurs — silver and glass and colour. Neon flickers on the edge of your vision, signs in hangul flashing past like constellations blinking out mid-sentence. For a heartbeat, you catch the Han River in full view, stretched like a ribbon of mercury beneath the sun, cutting the skyline open — and in that same breath, Jeno takes a turn so sharp your shoulder slams into the cockpit wall and he doesn’t so much as flinch. You swear the car lifts, even for just a second. He brings it back down like gravity answers only to him.

It’s electric. Blinding. Your pulse doesn’t match the engine anymore — it’s faster. Hotter. You can’t tell where your breath ends and his begins. You call the data aloud, sharp and steady, even when your hands tremble across the board, even when your legs are shaking, even when you’re sure this — this right here — isn’t compliance anymore. It’s something else. Something living. Something hungry.

The fourth lap coils around you like a whip, tighter than the last. Speed builds with a different weight now — not just velocity, but violence. The track narrows in sector three, the turn pinched between two cement barriers, and the pressure doesn’t let up. You feel it in your chest. In your teeth. In the low, steady growl of Jeno’s breath through the comms. His hands are surgical on the wheel, knuckles bloodless, every movement calculated — until the blur in the left mirror shifts.

Onyx Line. You catch it first — that flicker of silver, too fast, too close. They aren’t just overtaking. They’re closing in. The rear of your car jolts, the slightest kiss of impact, subtle enough to slip under compliance review but hard enough that you feel your harness snap tight across your ribs. The car pulls slightly left. Jeno curses under his breath, sharp and low, already correcting but the pit doesn’t flag it. No one calls it out. Not a sound comes through the headset but static.

You lean forward before you can think better of it, your voice breaking the seal of silence like a blade slicing clean through water. “They’re trying to box you in.”

He doesn’t respond. Not right away. But you see the way his shoulder tenses, just barely, and that’s answer enough. “Sector five’s downhill,” you continue, voice tight, fast. “They’ll try to push you into the brake zone. Cut your line.”

His voice hits like a strike. “Stay out of it.”

You snap your head toward him. “I’m not trying to win,” you bite. “I’m trying to keep your fucking car on the track.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even twitch but the way he exhales, harsh, through his teeth, feels like a warning. Still, you see it. The hesitation. The gear shift that’s half a second late. The doubt crawling under his skin. “They’re baiting you inside,” you say, lower now, steadier. “But the outside gives you more line. You’ll see it on the curve. Take the edge early. If you time it right, you can box them in.”

Another beat passes. Long. Stretching over the scream of the engine, the blur of the city flashing by in streaks of steel and sun. You think he’s going to ignore you again but he moves. He takes the curve just before the downhill, earlier than regulation, tighter than safety and for a split second, you’re convinced you both might die. The tires scream. The car skids by inches and then Onyx Line is behind you, choking on your tailwind, and the pit erupts in your headset, all voices shouting over each other, asking how the fuck he pulled it off.

Jeno doesn’t answer them. He doesn’t even breathe for a second. Then his hand slams the gear forward. The car launches into the next sector like it belongs to the sky. His shoulder knocks into yours on the turn, hard and deliberate. His voice cuts in through the headset — lower now, rougher, something carved out of disbelief and heat and something you can’t name. “You’re in this now, compliance girl.”

The pit explodes in static, voices tripping over each other as the comms erupt, but you keep going, eyes locked on the telemetry feed as it scrambles to catch up. “Brake late at the next split,” you murmur, voice steady despite the rush burning through your limbs. “Sector five runs hot. It’ll mess with the tire balance.” You don’t expect him to listen, not really, but he does. He obeys without thinking, not out of trust but instinct, and the car veers tighter into the split than it should, clinging to the curve like it’s magnetic.

“There’s a blind curve in six,” you add, just before the track swallows it whole. “Ride the left edge. You’ll see it before they do.” His hands adjust again, every muscle in his arm taut beneath the suit, the twitch in his wrist perfectly timed. The car cuts clean through the turn, a whisper’s width from the wall, and Onyx disappears from the rear feed like smoke blown out a window. The tension in the cockpit doesn’t ease, but it changes, shifts into something harder to name. It’s just the two of you now — and for the first time since the engine kicked, you know he’s not ignoring you anymore.

“You trained for this?” he mutters, the words rasping low beneath his breath, unreadable but laced with something that might be curiosity, might be wariness.

“I watched you,” you say, your voice quiet but certain, your pulse a war drum beneath your skin. “You telegraph more than you think.” You don’t hear a reply at first, only the sound of his breathing, the precise tension of his fingers tightening on the wheel, the cabin pulsing with every heartbeat.

Then something shifts. He leans in slightly, like he wants to feel your words closer, and adjusts the mic at his collar. His voice crackles through your headset again — low, direct, enough to drive a current down your spine like exposed wire. “Keep talking.”

So you do. You trace every turn as if you were born in his blind spots. You anticipate the angles before the corners show, you call out variances in downforce before the system even flags them, your voice slicing through the cockpit in rhythm with his hands. You read the patterns, warn him about the tire rotations from other teams, the lift coming off the left apex that’ll cause drag if he doesn’t compensate. He doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t acknowledge it. But he listens. You feel it in every adjustment, in every calculated risk he lets you steer him into, in the way his body keeps echoing your commands before the pit can even breathe.

When the final sector looms — fast, brutal, and risky — you barely have to think. It’s already mapped in your head. But his voice returns before you can speak, deeper this time, more grounded, like he’s testing something. “Your move, compliance girl,” he says, and it’s not mocking anymore. It’s an invitation. “What’s the play?”

And you give it to him without pause, without flinching, because you’re not observing anymore, not monitoring, not logging. You’re in it. Like you’ve been racing beside him your entire life.

You barely make it off the track before he grabs you.

Not rough but fast enough that it startles the breath from your throat. One second, you’re caught in the afterglow of chaos, the echo of the crowd still humming in your chest, the thrum of victory laced tight around your ribs. Then his hand is on your arm, all heat and command, dragging you off-course, away from the crew, away from the laughter and the noise. No warning. No words. Just Jeno, moving like something’s clawing at the inside of his lungs. You think, for a moment, he might take you upstairs, toward the office loft or the van where your things are. Somewhere private, but neutral. But he doesn’t. He leads you past the edge of the paddock, past the backup tires and crates of gear, and then down — a stairwell tucked behind the west bay, steep and shadowed, concrete cracked like it’s holding old confessions in its bones.

He doesn’t speak as he pushes you against the wall. It’s not violent, but it’s firm — his hand braced beside your head, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. He smells like smoke and sweat and burned rubber, like victory bleeding into adrenaline. His suit is peeled halfway down, clinging low to his hips, and his breathing hasn’t evened out. His jaw is locked. His eyes, when they finally lift to yours, are full of something you can’t name. It isn’t fury. It isn’t triumph. It’s raw.

"You’re done," he says, voice frayed and low.

You blink once. "What?"

"You don’t ride again. You’re finished."

You almost laugh, because it’s ridiculous. "Because I helped you win?"

His eyes cut into yours. "Because you could’ve fucking died."

And there it is. Not anger. Not pride. Fear. Laid bare in the rasp of his voice, in the way he looks everywhere but at your mouth, your throat, the line of your collarbone — like he wants to forget the sight of you pressed into his cockpit seat, your breath uneven in his headset. “You didn’t care when I got in the car,” you say quietly.

He exhales sharply. "I cared the second they clipped us."

The air between you crackles. That hit — Onyx slicing in like a blade — you’d both felt it. But where you’d felt the lurch in your chest and anchored yourself with facts, data, instinct, he had felt something else. Something he doesn’t know how to name.

You step closer before you can think better of it, and his shoulder stiffens like your nearness brands him. “So that’s what this is? Fear?”

He shakes his head once, slow. “No. This is me not making the same mistake twice.”

You frown. “What mistake?”

“Trusting you.” And now it sinks in. You should’ve seen it coming — the shift in his tone, the sharpness of his silence in the car, the way his hand tightened on the wheel every time your voice cracked through his headset. This was never just about the race. It was about you. About what you did. What you wrote.

“Picture this,” he says, and his voice isn’t angry yet — just low, heavy, like he’s dragging the memory up from the wreckage. “I’d just graduated. Fresh out, brand new to the circuit. Doyoung tells me there’s a profile being done — says your company’s covering my debut, and that you would be writing it. I was fucking proud. More than that. I was excited. It felt like everything was falling into place.”

He steps closer, and this time his eyes don’t leave yours. “I looked you up. Read every article. Not one hit piece. Not one cheap headline. You wrote with bite, yeah, but it was honest. It gave people a chance. I thought maybe I’d get that too. Something that said I was worth watching. Something that said I belonged.”

His breath catches, sharp. “I waited for that article like it meant something. Like it’d be the start of a career that wasn’t just noise and sponsorships and pressure. I thought maybe you’d see me.” His jaw tenses. “And then it dropped.” His words hit like rubber burning on pavement. “The article you fucking wrote.” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

“You called me a ‘golden boy burning on borrowed fuel.’ Front page. Bold font. Byline gleaming like a fucking trophy. You made me a headline, a punchline, a warning to every sponsor with a checkbook. You didn’t just report on me — you defined me before I even got a chance to drive.”

He shakes his head once, slow. Bitter. “And then I see your name again. This time on the roster. Walking in like some league-appointed savior, like you’ve got our best interests at heart. Flashing that badge like it means something, talking like your clipboard’s gonna fix what you broke.”

His gaze turns hard.

“You don’t get to ride with me ever again. Not after that.”

Your breath catches before you can steady it. You weren’t ready for that—him. Not like this. Not with every word sharpened to a blade and dragged across your name like it deserved to bleed. You knew there’d be fallout. You braced for resentment, for jabs and silence and looks that cut like wire but you didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect him to speak like the memory of your words still echoes in his bones, like you didn’t just write a headline—you carved a scar.

You open your mouth to respond and nothing comes out. Just air. Shaky and shallow. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard like it can anchor you, like it can excuse you. “That article,” you start, voice thinner than you want it to be, “it wasn’t supposed to—”

He doesn’t say anything, but you see it. The way his jaw flexes. The way he looks away like he might lose it if he doesn’t.

“I was given a brief,” you continue, forcing the words out now, faster than you can clean them up. “I had a deadline. I didn’t—I didn’t know who you were yet. I only had what they fed me. I didn’t have access to the real—”

He laughs. It’s hollow. Like a backfire. “You mean the story they wanted you to write?”

You flinch. Your throat burns. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you. I swear to God, I didn’t know it would get that kind of traction. I thought—I genuinely thought I was doing my job. That if there was pressure around your name, maybe it would spark a second look. Maybe someone would pay more attention, take a deeper interest, give you the shot you—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. Not loud. Just final.

You fall quiet. Shame clawing up your spine, curling beneath your ribs. Because it sounds stupid now. So fucking naive. Like anything about this world was ever that simple. “I didn’t think it would follow you,” you say eventually, quieter. “I didn’t think it would haunt you.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And you wish he hadn’t. Because there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn—anger, yes, but beneath it, hurt. Deep. Unshakable. “Well, it did.”

You nod slowly, swallowing back the sting in your throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I need you to know I carry it.”

His stare is merciless. “So what? You come back to rewrite it? Give the golden boy a redemption arc so you can fix your reputation?”

His voice bites like asphalt in a crash, but it’s the next words that land deeper, lower. “You're a fucking liar.” He steps closer, jaw tight, the fury in his eyes steady, unwavering. “You walk in with your badge and clipboard, talking about compliance and reform like you’re here to save us, but you reek of motive. You want to document a downfall. You want to be the one who caught us mid-sink, wrote the article that buried the last illegal thread of racing alive. You think I can't see it? You think I don't know exactly what you're doing?” His breath shudders, close enough now that you feel it trace your collarbone. “I won’t let that happen. I won't let you turn us into your fucking headline.”

You freeze. Because he’s not wrong and that terrifies you. Not because you slipped up. You haven’t. Not once. You’ve kept every expression measured, every line rehearsed, every observation veiled under the perfect sheen of professionalism. But somehow, he knows. He sees straight through the armor. Reads the red under the ink. You should hate it. You should push back but your heart is thudding too loud to think straight, and for a moment, all you can feel is the echo of his words inside your chest.

You lie. To him. To yourself. To whatever compass used to point toward your version of right. “No,” you say, swallowing down the tremor in your voice. “I came back to tell the truth this time. All of it. Even if it buries me.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his lip twitches. But you keep going anyway. “Soul Line matters,” you say. “You all do. Mark. Renjun. Jaemin. Sunwoo. Eric. Donghyuck.” You meet his eyes. “You.”

Your voice softens, not with guilt but with something closer to conviction. “People need to see what this team is. Not just the grit, not just the mess. The heart. The way Mark checks the tire heat twice when no one’s looking. How Renjun runs his hands over the frame like it’s skin, not steel. Jaemin never stops running his mouth but he always knows where everyone is. Sunwoo barely speaks, but he watches everything. Eric’s bruised to shit and still carries half this team on his back. Donghyuck acts like this is a joke, but he’s the one who checked on me after the lap.” You swallow, hard. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what this place is?” Your eyes don’t leave his. “And you— You didn’t say a word to me. Not once but you reached for the wheel differently when you thought I was scared.” You breathe in, shaky. “So don’t tell me that you don’t care.”

You hesitate, because the words don’t come easy, not when they feel like confessions. “The way you raced today,” you murmur. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Your voice is low, measured, like saying too much too fast might break the moment. “The control, the instinct—after they clipped us, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You adjusted mid-corner like you’d already accounted for it. Like your body knew before your brain did. That’s not luck. That’s not just talent. That’s precision. That’s discipline.”

His face doesn’t move, but you catch it — the flicker behind his eyes, the twitch in his jaw. You keep going. “And you shielded me,” you say. “No hesitation. Just one arm across the cabin. One second, and you were already moving. You didn’t look at the track, you looked at me. You made sure I was still breathing before you even thought about finishing that lap.”

Your voice slips softer, but firmer too. “That’s why I respect you. As a racer, yeah. But also—” your breath catches for a second, and you force yourself to hold his gaze “—as a man. You don’t just drive like you want to win. You drive like you’re protecting something. Even if you don’t admit it.”

He blinks. The silence between you deepens, too thick to step through. So you stop thinking. You step back, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt before you even realise what you’re doing. It peels over your head and falls to the floor in a single, soundless breath. You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the charge still running hot beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the way his eyes have been stripping you bare since the second lap. Maybe you just want to see if anything can crack that iron control.

“Fuck, Y/N.” It’s the first time he’s said your name. And it breaks something open.

His gaze doesn’t drop. “So teach me,” you whisper. Your voice is softer now, trembled but sure. “Teach me what the truth is.”

His jaw locks. His head shakes once. “Don’t do that.”

You step into him like you’re crossing a threshold, not a room. His breath hitches when your hand curls around his wrist, dragging it slow across the line of your waist, then higher—up, over the swell of your ribs, until his palm rests against your bare skin. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t breathe. You guide him like you want him to feel every shiver, every beat pulsing under your skin. When you reach behind you, fingers finding the clasp, you don’t break eye contact. The snap is quiet. The fall of the straps even quieter. Your bra slips off your arms and hits the floor, and his hand is still there—hot, motionless, like the heat’s bleeding straight through his skin into yours.

“Come on,” you whisper, breath skipping, mouth parted just enough to taste the tension between you. “Am I really so bad?”

His stare drags like a touch, slow and hungry, not blinking, not breathing, just devouring every inch of skin you’ve exposed. His gaze catches on your tits first, bare and flushed, then your mouth, still wet from biting back sound, then your eyes—dark, blown wide, waiting. There’s nothing soft in the way he looks at you. It’s possession, plain and fucking filthy, like he’s already imagining what you’d feel like with your legs spread and your voice wrecked. His jaw clenches, hard, sharp, and you watch the muscle jump as he swallows it down. His voice, when it comes, is ruined—low, gritty, like it scrapes out from the back of his throat with too much want behind it. “No,” he says. “I am.”

And then he’s on you. His hands crash into your waist like they’ve been starving for the shape of it, fingers spreading wide and squeezing hard enough to bruise. You don’t get a chance to brace for it—your back slams into the wall with a dull, shuddering thud, and then his mouth is on yours, open and wet and biting. His teeth clamp down on your lower lip like he’s trying to punish you, dragging it between his before sucking the sting away with a tongue that doesn’t ask for permission. Your moan slips out before you can stop it, high and trembling, thick with want, and he swallows it like it feeds something in him. He kisses like he’s coming undone, like breathing doesn’t matter, like the only thing that exists is your mouth and how filthy he can make it. There’s no rhythm, no pause for air, just spit and teeth and tongues clashing, everything loud and hot and desperate. One thigh wedges up between your legs and pushes until it slots perfectly under your cunt, grinding up with bruising pressure. Your hips jerk, rolling down hard without thought, chasing that friction like a drug, grinding against the dense, flexing muscle of his leg until your clit starts to throb.

You claw at him, frantic, hands bunching the fabric of his fireproof suit as your fingers scramble for something—his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head—anything you can cling to while your body rocks shamelessly down on his thigh. The friction is sharp and constant, your thin layers doing nothing to soften the ache, and every shift of his body presses him harder into the soaked heat between your legs. You can feel how wet you are, can hear it when he shifts, the drag of your cunt sticky and slick against his thigh. You moan again, louder this time, and his breath catches like he’s unraveling just from the sound.

“Jeno—” you gasp, broken and shaky, but he doesn’t let you speak. His growl vibrates against your lips, rough and low and filthy, and he drags his mouth down your throat, licking a slow, hot stripe over the pulse hammering at your neck. He sinks his teeth into the skin just beneath your jaw, not hard enough to break it but enough to make you whimper, then trails lower, mouth latching over your collarbone and sucking until it stings. You shiver as he shifts his attention to your chest, mouth pressing over your shirt, tongue tracing where your nipple sits beneath the fabric before his teeth catch and tug. Even through the layers, you feel it. It burns straight through your chest and down between your legs, making your thighs twitch around his. You arch off the wall, grinding harder, desperate for more, your head falling back with a curse when the pressure gets too good to handle.

Your legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, the movement automatic and hungry. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you in one swift pull, gripping tight until you’re pinned between him and the wall, his hips rocking up into yours with a force that makes you gasp into his neck. The grind is brutal. He fucks up into you through the layers of your clothes like he means to leave a memory of it in your bones, his cock thick and hard and straining against his suit, dragging against the soaked seam of your underwear every time his hips jerk forward. You clutch at him, nails scraping down his back, mouth open and panting against his skin as the pressure builds and builds and builds. You roll your hips with him, chasing every harsh thrust, every obscene press of cock against clit, each one knocking the air out of your lungs. You can feel how close you’re getting—how the wet heat between your legs starts to pulse, how your thighs start to shake, how your voice starts to break with every breathless moan.

He’s cursing now, jaw clenched, breathing ragged, and he mouths it against your skin like a prayer turned blasphemy. “You hear that?” he grits out, voice low and wrecked, hips snapping up again so hard your moan turns into a cry. “That’s you. That’s how fucking bad you need it.” His hand curls into your hair and yanks your head back so he can look at you, so close his nose brushes yours, his forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. “Say it,” he growls, grinding into you again, his cock rubbing right where you’re soaked through and throbbing. “Say it’s mine.”

Your voice catches, slips out soft and slurred, “It’s yours,” but it’s not enough. He slams into you again, harder, until your body jolts against the wall. “Jeno, it’s yours, I swear—fuck—”

“Then take it,” he growls, his mouth crashing into yours again. “Take everything.”

He doesn’t give you a second to react. One hand wraps around your wrist, tight and unrelenting, dragging you across the dim space until your knees knock against the sleek side of a car you haven’t seen before. It’s tucked behind the main garage bay, half-assembled, stripped for parts, wires hanging loose from the open console. The floor is stained with oil, and the air is thick with the scent of burnt rubber, engine coolant, and old heat. Fluorescent lights above flicker, throwing your shadows across the walls in broken stutters. Before you can steady yourself, he spins you, forces your chest down onto the hood. The metal is still warm from testing, hot against your ribs. Your palms slide over the surface, searching for grip, but he’s already there. One hand plants flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down, the other bunches your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug that makes your breath catch.

His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice so raw it barely holds shape. “You wanted the truth?” he murmurs, the words thick with hunger and need, it pressed into you like a brand. His hand flexes at the base of your spine, anchoring you there, and then his hips drive forward in one brutal thrust. The sound you make is a strangled cry, punched out of your chest as your body jolts forward against the hood, metal squealing beneath you. The burn is instant. Sharp. Hot. Stretching you full in a single stroke that knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you trembling. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, just breathes heavy against your neck as his cock pulses inside you, thick and unforgiving, dragging heat through every nerve. You clutch at the edge of the car, gasping, because nothing in you feels untouched anymore—not your body, not your pride, not the part of you that wanted to win this. He thrusts again, and it feels like truth. Violent. Inescapable. Yours.

The first thrust knocks the wind out of you, the second drags a moan from somewhere low and guttural, and then he stops pretending there’s rhythm. It’s just force now, just the slap of skin against skin and the raw scrape of breath in your lungs. He fucks into you like he’s hunting something he lost in you. Your thighs are slick and trembling, knees starting to buckle under the pressure. The hood rattles beneath your stomach as you clutch at it for balance, palms sliding over the gloss. He slaps your ass—hard, fast—then grabs it, fingers bruising deep as he mutters against your shoulder, voice all gravel and heat. “Look at you,” he breathes, low and dark, “making a mess all over my cock, crying for it like you didn’t come in here thinking you were above all this.” Then he thrusts again, hard enough to knock the thought from your brain, deep enough that your mouth drops open around a gasp that never gets the chance to land. The metal screams under you. Your hips jolt. Your back arches. His hand slides up the curve of your body, wraps around your throat like he owns it, and then he leans in, chest hot against your spine.

“You wanna act like you’re here to help?” he snarls, teeth dragging along your ear. “Then fucking take it. Prove it.” You barely register it—just the shift of his weight, the grind of his pelvis—and then his spit hits your tongue, thick and warm. Your lips part for it like they know better than you. You swallow, loud and deliberate, and the growl he lets out rips straight through you. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand it into memory, every sound you make echoing off the walls, every curse from his mouth driving you closer to the edge. You don’t even notice your moans getting louder until his hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the cries that come with the next thrust.

“Quiet,” he mutters, hot against your ear. “You don’t want them hearing how wet you are for the man you tried to destroy.” It hits too close. Shame and arousal twist inside you, something dark and desperate, and you grind back against him harder.

The heat off the car hood is blistering, licking up your stomach, sweat sliding down the dip of your spine in a slow, stinging crawl. Your thighs ache from how wide he’s forced them, every thrust a punishing slam that jars your ribs against metal. His grip on your waist is bruising, teeth gritted behind every ragged breath as he watches your body fold and tremble for him. He’s deep—so deep—cock splitting you open raw, dragging against every nerve ending like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. But it’s not enough. Not when you start pushing back harder, grinding on him like you need to feel every vein, every ridge, every hateful inch. That’s when he shifts.

His hand slides up from your hip slow, the drag of his fingers steady and possessive as they coast over the sweat-slick plane of your stomach, trailing up past the swell of your ribs until he’s curling them under your chin. He tilts your head up, not gently—just enough to force you open, to bare your throat to the hot, smoky air, mouth slack as your breath stutters out. He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. Just holds you there like you’re something to own, something to break open and rearrange. His mouth is right at your ear now, the shape of his words scraping across your skin like gravel. “This what you wanted?” he rasps, voice all venom and heat, hips still pounding into you with an unrelenting pace. “To fuck the man you tried to bury? Say it.”

You hesitate. It’s instinct. A flicker of resistance, a breath too long—but that’s all it takes. He punishes you for it instantly, hips snapping forward with a brutal thrust that knocks the air out of you, slamming your stomach against the car. You cry out, hands scrambling to brace against the hood, body jolting with the force of it. His grip tightens, not choking, but controlling—commanding the angle of your head, forcing you to feel everything. “Say it, reporter girl,” he snarls, mouth at your cheek, tongue hot behind clenched teeth. “Or I’ll stop. And you’ll beg for me next time.”

You manage something—a broken whimper, a plea that barely makes it past your lips—and it’s enough. But he’s not done. Not even close. His fingers slide between your lips next, two thick digits forcing their way into your mouth until you’re gagging around them, drool spilling out past your chin. “That’s it,” he grits, pace vicious, cock driving into you so hard the whole damn car shudders. “Take it. Choke on it if you have to.” You suck around them desperately, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and he watches with something dark and starved gleaming in his eyes. Then he leans in and spits into your mouth again—slow, messy, deliberate—watching the way your throat works as you swallow it down like you’ve been starved for it.

And then his hand comes down. Fast. Sharp. The slap cracks across your ass, lower this time, angled to sting—and it does. Fire lashes up your spine and your knees nearly buckle. Another lands before you can recover. Then another. Until your thighs shake and your breath starts to hitch, your body trembling under the weight of every mark he leaves behind. “Gonna mark you up,” he growls, breath ragged against your ear, “so every step back to the team hurts. Let them see who you belong to.” You whimper again, half-lost already, and he doesn’t waste another second—rips your panties the rest of the way off, shoves the soaked fabric into your mouth without hesitation. “Quiet now,” he mutters, slapping your thigh one more time, rougher than before. “Earn it.”

He moves again. Shifts his stance—one knee braced on the bumper, hands planted on your hips like he’s anchoring you to the car—so he can fuck up into you with more force, more depth, the angle cruel and perfect all at once. Your cries are muffled, swallowed by lace and cotton, but your body can’t lie. You’re shaking. Tightening around him. One of his hands slides down, rough fingers finding your clit with terrifying precision, rubbing fast, merciless, until your vision whites out and your legs give. You’re close. Too close. You feel it crash up your spine, that blinding wave about to drag you under—

“Don’t cum,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your cunt clenches, high-pitched whine muffled behind the panties, and his pace only gets rougher. “Not until I say,” he snarls, fucking you harder. “Not until you beg me to fill you.”

You sob around the fabric, shaking your head, then nodding frantically, fingers clawing at the edge of the hood as you choke out, "Please—please, Jeno—need it, need you to fuck me full, need to feel you drip out of me when I walk—please—I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, just don’t stop."

He hisses a curse, pulls out too fast, too rough, and before you can protest, he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. "Up." He hauls you with him, dragging you behind a stack of tires near the far end of the garage. You trip over something—rubber, crates, you don’t care—but he catches you, spins you, and sits down hard against the slicks, dragging you onto his lap in one violent motion. "Ride me," he says, voice cracked open. "Fucking ride it out."

The space back here is secluded, shadowed, almost intimate in the way the light cuts low across the floor, catching on chrome rims and glinting off metal. The rubber smell isn’t harsh; it’s heady, grounding, mixing with sweat and sex and the sharp bite of gasoline in a way that makes your head spin. The walls are close enough to press against, heat rising from the stacks behind you, from the slick surface of his fireproofs, from the furnace of his body beneath yours. It’s filthy, but it’s beautiful—hot and heavy and yours.

Your thighs tremble but you obey, dropping onto him like you’re starving for it, the stretch instant and obscene. His cock drives into you thick, soaked, and you swear you feel him everywhere at once—under your ribs, punching up into your lungs, deep enough to make your whole body jolt. You gasp, clawing at his chest as he groans, head tilted back against the wall, sweat beading down his throat.

You wrap your arms around his neck, press your chest against his, and move—grinding, lifting, fucking down on him with a pace that’s feral, greedy, loud. He holds your hips tight, knuckles white against your skin, eyes locked on the bounce of your tits against his chest, the way your mouth drops open when you take him deep. You whine, high and shameless, your moans echoing through the cavernous space.

He thrusts up to meet you, fucking into your heat with brutal rhythm, each stroke a wet slap, each drag of his cock filthier than the last. "That’s it," he pants, voice wrecked. "Make a mess. Drench me. Let it pour." One hand slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, vicious circles, the other wrapped around your throat again, holding you just at the edge of too much.

"Gonna cum on my cock like a good little whore?" he murmurs, lips at your jaw, breath hot. "Do it. Paint my dick, make it fucking messy."

You sob out a gasp, cunt pulsing, bouncing faster, chasing that brutal edge. The way he fucks you from below—rough, precise, desperate—makes your whole body seize, and you’re so wet you hear it, the slick suck of every thrust. He slaps your ass once, then grabs it, bouncing you harder, fucking up as you fall down, and the rhythm is animal, unhinged, ruined.

"You hear that?" he growls. "That’s your pussy, baby. Fucking greedy. You love this shit, don’t you?"

You nod frantically, tears caught in your lashes, babbling nonsense against his mouth—"Yes, yes, need you, so full, can’t stop, don’t stop, please"—and he snaps, slamming into you harder, chasing his own high now, sweat slicking your bodies, his mouth dragging over your throat, your tits, your shoulder.

"Keep going," he grits out, voice raw. "Let the whole fucking circuit hear you."

And you do. You fall apart with his name on your tongue, his cock splitting you open, the taste of him still thick in your mouth, the sound of skin and breath and heat echoing around you like thunder.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He growls your name through clenched teeth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane, like he’s driving blind and you’re the last red flag waving before the finish line. His grip bruises into your hips as he fucks up into you like he’s still chasing time, like the race never ended, like the adrenaline hasn’t left his bloodstream and he needs this—needs you—to come down. But he can’t. He won’t. You’re the sharpest corner he’s ever taken, tight like a hairpin turn, and every thrust is a gamble between glory and total wreckage.

Your body jolts with each impact, spine pressed to the wall, hips crashing down against his with unrelenting pace. It’s not rhythm—it’s instinct, pure reaction. Your hands twist in his hair, your teeth catch on the side of his throat, and you can’t even feel your thighs anymore. You ride him like you’re trying to outrun something—maybe the shame, maybe the fear, maybe the way your chest cracks wide open every time he moans like that for you.

“Fuck—fuck—Jeno, someone could walk in—someone could see—” You whisper it, voice shredded, barely there between gasps. But you don’t slow down. You can’t. Your cunt clenches around him every time your body bounces, muscles fluttering with aftershocks and overstimulation. The thrill of being seen sharpens everything—your moans louder, your movements filthier, like you're taunting the risk of exposure.

“Let them,” he snarls, voice guttural, mouth dragging over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. His eyes are glassy, wild, his entire body wound tight as a snapped throttle cable. “Let them see what it looks like when you get fucked open by me. Let them hear how wet you are when you take me this deep.”

And you are—wet, noisy, shaking. The sounds your bodies make are obscene, echoing between tire stacks like muffled gunshots. Your back hits the wall again, and you arch into it, your nails dragging down his back so hard they tear through the thick fabric of his fireproofs, scraping welts over burning muscle. You want to leave marks. You want to ruin him like he’s ruining you.

“You’re wrecking me—” you cry, voice high and broken, “worse than any crash.”

He grunts, slamming into you harder, more erratic, his control unraveling with every breath. “Good. I want you fucking totaled. Want you so ruined you can’t walk back out of here without my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking, heat spiraling fast and brutal. Your clit drags against his pelvis, your cunt so swollen and sensitive you’re already teetering again. The tension inside you coils sharp and thin like tire rubber screaming over asphalt.

“Cum again,” he demands, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Right fucking now.”

You do. It rips out of you with a scream, your whole body seizing up, mouth slack, eyes wide, and you swear you see white. It doesn’t crest—it detonates, a chain reaction through every nerve ending. Your vision blurs. Your legs tremble. You cum so hard your body goes limp against him.

And still—still—he’s not done. He wraps his arms around your back, locks you in place, fucking up into your oversensitive cunt like he needs to leave a permanent imprint. Like he can’t stop until he’s emptied himself inside you so completely that nothing else exists. You can feel it building, the way his thrusts stutter, the way his jaw locks, the way he gasps your name like he’s about to crash into something massive and final. You drag your nails down his spine one last time and beg, “Inside. Please, finish inside.”

He slams into you once—twice—then again with a guttural growl, hips jerking, cock twitching deep in your cunt. Heat floods you, thick and hot, and his whole body shudders with it, chest pressed to yours, breath caught between a moan and a curse. You stay wrapped around him, shaking, dripping, ruined. And for a long, breathless moment, all that’s left is the smell of sweat and rubber, the echo of moans, and the heat of his body buried deep inside you like he never plans to leave.

After that night in the garage, everything shifts. You fall into a pattern—not routine, not schedule, just moments stolen between obligations and lies. A blur of weeks, shadows of time lost to bodies instead of words. You haven’t touched your bed since the race. Every night ends in Jeno’s room or doesn’t end at all. You lie to everyone, skip out early, fake texts about being home when you’re already naked on his sheets. It becomes the only place you sleep, wrapped in warmth and sweat, in his chain brushing your collarbone, in the slick drag of his fingers pushing back into you before you can drift off. Every orgasm tastes like betrayal. Every moan feels like a secret wedged deeper into your chest.

The first time after the race, it’s in his car—on the track, engine ticking beneath you, heat rising from the hood. You crawl into his lap, knees scraping leather, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air. His gloves are still on. His racing jacket is unzipped just enough for your hand to slide inside. He mutters something about visibility—how anyone could see—but he’s already hard, already guiding your hips down onto him. You ride him with your forehead pressed to his, moaning into his mouth as the last of the floodlights dim behind the fogged glass. Your thighs slap into his, slick and fast, and when you come, it’s soundless, breathless, your spine curling like you’re trying to hold it in.

The next time it’s the underground garage storage. You trip over a loose axle and he catches you, laugh breaking into a grunt as he spins you around and throws you into a crate stack. Oil drums knock together. A motion sensor light blinks overhead, buzzing faintly. He kisses you like he’s daring the shadows to look—sloppy, open-mouthed, teeth scraping your jaw as he yanks your shorts halfway down and shoves inside you with one sharp thrust. You gasp into the collar of his hoodie, nails clawing for purchase against slick rubber and metal. He fucks you like the world’s ending—like the only thing that matters is the sound of your cunt swallowing him whole.

Some nights, you find him already under the car in the maintenance pit, oil-slick and shirtless, flashlight swinging from above. He sees you crouch down, doesn’t say a word—just grabs your hand and pulls you under with him. The air’s warm, still, heavy with grease. Your shirt rides up the second he lays you back. He mouths at your chest while his fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your underwear aside with one curl of his wrist. When his cock slides in, you both freeze—because someone’s walking overhead, boots clanging against the grates. You taste metal in your mouth from how hard you’re biting your lip. His hand covers it anyway, palm hot, thumb pressing into your cheek. He fucks you in slow, aching thrusts, each one dragging moans that barely make it out. When the footsteps vanish, he grabs your thighs tighter, slams deeper, makes the wrenches rattle.

Then the tow truck. He drives it out to the backlot under the excuse of testing hydraulics. You’re half-asleep in the passenger seat until he reclines it back and pulls you on top of him, his mouth already on your throat. You straddle him in the flashing pulse of red emergency lights, each blink casting sharp shadows across your ribs. You grind down hard, thighs burning, his grip brutal on your waist. The windows fog fast. Your moans echo inside the cabin, breathless and high, and he doesn’t stop even when your body shakes from release. You fall asleep on his chest after, heart hammering against his, the lights still blinking over you like warnings you ignore.

Another time, it’s the tarp-covered car shoved into a corner of the lot. It’s old, useless, rusted around the edges. He peels the tarp back halfway and tosses you onto the hood like he’s done it before in dreams. The metal’s freezing, biting into your back, but his mouth is fire on your skin. He fucks you like he wants to erase every second you spent away from him—fast, messy, teeth on your shoulder, hips rutting so hard the car rocks. You’re crying out nonsense, body seizing around him, legs locked tight behind his back. He doesn’t say anything after. Just watches you breathe, watches the way your chest rises and falls. Wipes sweat from your lip with the pad of his thumb.

The sex doesn’t stop. It never stops. You miss meals. Miss calls. Your inbox floods with messages you leave unread. You sneak out of meetings early. Sometimes you forget where you’re supposed to be—because you’re pressed against his door, begging for his fingers, his mouth, his cock. Your skin smells like him, tastes like spit and motor oil and need. His touch lingers in bruises: purple kisses blooming on your hips, teeth marks under your jaw, fading welts down your thighs. No one’s caught you yet—but people are watching.

Sunwoo lingers too long in doorways. Mark keeps looking up at the wrong moments, brow tight, mouth tighter. Jaemin asks about a missing route log one day in a meeting, and Jeno cuts him off so fast you flinch. Someone else jokes that you always look exhausted lately. Someone replies, “Jeno looks more relaxed.” He won’t look at you in those meetings. Won’t speak. But afterward—after—he corners you in the stairwell, lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times, thighs around his waist, your back against the concrete wall, his hand pressed over your mouth like silence is safer than truth. His hips snap up and he growls against your throat—he can’t stop, he won’t, if anyone finds out he’ll lose it but he’s long past caring. He pulls you into his room and locks the door after.

You haven’t spent a night in your own bed since the race. Every night ends here—in his room, in his sheets, in a silence that tastes like sweat and unraveling. You wake up in different positions but always touching. His arm over your waist. Your leg between his. Your hand pressed flat to his chest like you’re anchoring something there. Jeno talks more when he’s tired. When your body is tangled with his, when your cheek is warm against the slick skin of his chest, when both of you are too sore to move and the air tastes like sex and silence. He tells you things no one else knows. how his dad measures love in achievements. How silence was louder than screaming in his house. How he learned to be useful before he learned to be loved. you hold your breath when he speaks, like you’re afraid the truth will slip through the seams if you exhale too hard.

You’ve learned that Jeno remembers everything he shouldn’t. Birthdays of people who don’t talk to him anymore. License plate numbers of teammates that quit years ago. The names of every street he’s ever raced on. He recites them to you at night, half-asleep, hand on your hip like you’re a part of the archive too. He tells you he never had a baby book, never had keepsakes, so he stores it all in his head—every win, every loss, every person that left. You find out he doesn’t keep photos on his walls because he hates proof that people grow distant. His memory’s obsessive, and somehow, he makes you feel like he’s memorizing you too.

He tells you he used to be angry all the time. That he still is, sometimes, but it doesn’t come out in fists anymore—not since he got kicked off his first circuit for breaking a guy’s jaw. That every scar on his hands meant something. That every win still feels like punishment. He hates the way people look at him. Hates the idea of being reduced to a pull-quote, a punchline, a headline he can’t rewrite. He tells you that if you ever wrote something about him—if you turned this into content, into evidence—he wouldn’t survive it. “Not ‘cause I’d be pissed,” he mumbles against your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like a vice. “Because it’d mean none of this was real.” You don’t respond. You just hold him tighter.

You learn he’s good with his hands beyond racing. The kind of boy who takes things apart just to know how they work, then puts them back together better. He builds things without instructions. Knows how to fix a leaking pipe, change his own tires, gut a dashboard and solder it new. He tells you he likes when his hands are busy because it stops his mind from going places he hates. That’s why he fucks with his rings so much. Why he always asks to fix things for people but never asks them to stay. He’s never said it aloud, but you realize: he’d rather be useful than loved.

You learn that he once got stranded in a thunderstorm and walked three hours home rather than call his father. That he’s afraid of deep water because he almost drowned once but won’t admit it out loud. That he hates cucumbers, doesn’t trust people who wear sunglasses indoors, and always triple-checks that his windows are locked before he sleeps. He tells you he never used to sleep through the night—until you. He says it so casually, you almost miss it. His trust is quiet, handed over in fragments, never begged for and you carry every one of those pieces like a secret map back to him.

Hope is the thing he fears the most. He doesn’t say it like that—but you hear it in the way his voice falters when he talks about the future. About the car he’s been building since he was sixteen. About the idea of leaving everything behind one day, driving until the roads run out. “I used to think I’d go alone,” he says one night, fingertips brushing lazy circles on your hip. “But now I think… fuck. I think I’d want someone there.” You’re quiet. He’s not asking. But the way he looks at you after—raw, hesitant, like he’s already bracing for the disappointment—makes your chest tighten until it hurts. He trusts you. And it terrifies him.

That night, he touches you differently. Slower. Like he’s scared he won’t get to again. His mouth moves across your skin in a blur of reverence and need, every kiss a silent plea to stay. He slides into you like a prayer, slow and deep, groaning against your throat when you wrap your legs around him. There’s no rush, no anger, just pressure building in waves, rolling through your body like heat caught beneath your skin. He keeps murmuring things against your lips, “I don’t want this to end… I can’t lose this… I need you to be real with me.” You kiss him like you’re answering, like the words are trapped in your chest and only your body can speak them.

His hand wraps around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw, voice low, not a question. “Tell me you’re not gonna write about me.”

You hesitate. Your thighs tremble around his hips. He sees it. Feels it. You still haven’t said anything, and the moment stretches thin and hot between you. He thrusts in again, slow and heavy, and again—a rhythm that builds without mercy. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t make me feel this and then turn it into something cheap.” His tone isn’t angry. It’s something far worse—broken.

“Jeno…” You breathe his name like it means something. Like you mean something. But it’s not enough.

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t fuck me over.” His voice catches like he already knows you will. “If you do this… if you turn this into an article, if you sell me out—it won’t just hurt. It’ll kill something in me. You understand? I won’t come back from that.”

You blink up at him, dazed, flushed, heart in your throat. “I… I promise. I won’t. I couldn’t. I swear, Jeno. I swear on everything.”

He groans, loud and guttural, like it splits him in two. He fucks into you deeper, harder, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading along his spine. “Say it again. Say it like you mean it.”

“I won’t hurt you,” you whisper, eyes wide, voice shaking, hands fisting the sheets beneath you like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded. “I won’t. You’re safe with me.” He doesn’t answer—not with words—but the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, mouth brushing yours like he’s breathing you in, like the taste of that promise might be the only thing keeping him sane. His lips trail down your throat, along the slope of your collarbone, across your chest, every inch kissed like it’s sacred, like he’s trying to commit it to memory before it’s ripped away. His thrusts never falter, just slow to a rhythm that feels almost too intimate—hips rolling deep, dragging the pleasure out of you inch by inch, groaning softly every time you clench around him. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, his fingers trembling where they brush the underside of your knee, and when he finally comes, it’s with his mouth on your skin, soft curses breathed against your neck like prayer. This isn’t just sex anymore. It’s survival. It’s surrender. It’s everything that might ruin you if you let it—but you can’t stop now. You wouldn’t even know how.

It’s the penultimate race in the league season, and tension clings to the night like smoke. Jeno’s team is neck-and-neck with their biggest rival—a flashy, overly sponsored crew known for bending rules and pushing boundaries under the guise of innovation. The circuit tonight is brutal. Carved through an abandoned industrial sector downtown, the track is lined with rusted scaffolding, sharp corners, and overhead floodlights that flicker like they’re watching. Underground and invitation-only, it’s one of the most dangerous courses in the league—high-speed, high-stakes, and reserved only for the elite. The air tastes like oil and ozone. Thunder rolls overhead, low and distant, as if the city itself is holding its breath.

Paranoia has gripped the circuit for weeks. There’ve been engine failures that don’t add up, drivers pulled from wrecks they swore weren’t accidents, and rumours of tampering passed between pit crews like cigarettes. Whispers say someone is rigging results, crashing contenders, tilting the balance in favor of a shadow player no one can name. The league board is on edge. Every pre-race inspection is stricter than the last. Every car is scanned, stripped, tested. No one trusts anyone.

Hours before the race, Jeno’s car throws a red flag during inspection. A supposed glitch in the turbo system—something about throttle torque maps and inconsistent boost ratios. He shrugs it off, says he’ll need a second in the car for calibration checks. The board’s backup tech is MIA. Chaos spirals. The committee wants the race to run on time. A lead official says, “Just send her in. She’s cleared the seat before.” The calibration error is bullshit. Everyone knows it—except the board, except the cameras, except the ones so desperate for order they’d believe anything wrapped in technical jargon.

Jeno plays his part too well: straight-faced, tight-lipped, pointing to the interface and muttering about turbo sensors, drive lag, cornering offsets. The rival team is already in position, tension thick enough to feel in your teeth. This race matters and if the standings shift tonight, everything burns or everything ascends. And of course, there’s only one person they trust to monitor from the inside. One person who’s already survived the passenger seat. You. The board insists. The crew nods. Someone claps your shoulder. You see the smirk on Jeno’s mouth before you even slide into the car. This was always the plan. His hand brushes your thigh when you buckle in. You let him.

The tarp over the car is standard: a cooling technique for elite vehicles with borderline-illegal mods. But tonight it’s a veil. Steam clings to the edges, the outside world reduced to shadows and noise. Inside, you’re already fucking him. His gloves are off. His jacket’s unzipped to the sternum. You’re grinding in his lap, head tilted back, thighs shaking as his hands dig into your hips. The seat’s pushed as far as it can go. The scent of sweat and leather and exhaust coils around you. He fucks up into you slow, dragging the rhythm out like he wants to memorize it, like he’s burning your body into the shape of survival.

Your voice breaks on a moan, soft and mocking. “You faked the error, didn’t you?” His mouth finds your neck, biting down like a confession. “You lied—just to get me in this seat again.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t need to. The way he’s breathing says everything. His cock twitches deep inside you. His hand wraps around your throat, not to squeeze—just to feel the sound of you coming apart against him. “Tell me I was wrong,” you whisper, cunt clenching again. “Tell me this wasn’t the plan.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath broken. “I wanted you here. I always want you here.” He’s shaking beneath you, muscles locked as he slams up harder, your soaked thighs slapping against him. “I don’t want to race without you anymore.”

“You have five minutes,” he growls, voice jagged now, mouth dragging along your collarbone. “Three to come. Two to remember who you belong to.” You clench around him, shuddering, nails clawing into his shoulders. He slaps your ass, mutters something guttural—Mine. Outside, the countdown begins. Inside, your world narrows to the stretch of your cunt and the way his cock owns every inch of it.

He tells you to get off but you don’t. Not like he means. You slip from his lap, knees hitting the floorboard, breath hot against the zipper of his racing suit. Rain drums faintly against the tarp above, muffled only by the thunder of engines in the distance. Jeno grabs your wrist, panic flickering through his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” he rasps, but you’re already palming his cock, dragging it out with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Focus on the road,” you whisper, lips brushing the head. “Let me handle the rest.” You take him into your mouth, wet and warm, sucking slow as the tarp flaps open. The lights burst through the mist. The flag drops. And Jeno’s foot slams the gas so hard the tires scream.

The car tears forward, jolting your body, but you steady yourself with one hand gripping his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock. His hand flies to the wheel, the other buried in your hair, not pushing—just holding. Like he needs the weight of your mouth to ground him. You suck deeper, tongue circling the swollen head, spit slicking down your chin as he moans, low and brutal. The track blurs past the windows. His body tenses, hips twitching every time your lips drag down his shaft.

“Jesus, baby… you’re gonna make me crash,” he mutters, voice strangled, one eye on the curve ahead, one hand yanking the gearshift while his knuckles go white around the wheel but he doesn’t stop you. He couldn’t if he tried. Your head bobs faster, sucking him down until your throat flexes around him, warm and tight and relentless. The sound of your mouth, the hum of your moan, the obscene slap of your spit and skin—it fills the cockpit like smoke.

He comes with a choked groan, thighs clenching, cock pulsing between your lips. Cum spills hot across your tongue, and he nearly veers off course from how hard he jerks the wheel. You swallow it down, kiss the tip with a smirk, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. He glances down, dazed, blown open from the high, then back to the road like nothing happened.

You strap in, settle beside him, still panting. He says nothing at first, only breathes. Then he mutters, voice raw: “You’re fucking insane.”

You grin, eyes on the track. “And you’re still hard.”

The race embodies a scream. Smoke off the line, headlights carving through the dark, engines snarling so loud your bones vibrate. The track is narrow, brutal, a looped-out stretch of urban circuit walled in by concrete and shadows. Jeno’s hand finds yours just before the first corner, fingers tight, jaw clenched, the city reflected in his visor. You’re both strapped in, breath synced, heart rates out of control. He looks insane—sweat along his temples, hair damp under the edge of his helmet, one glove peeled halfway down his wrist as he shifts with surgical force. You watch the veins flex in his forearm every time he takes a turn. He looks like control itself. Like speed and danger and sex all wrapped in smoke. His voice cuts through your headset, low and cocky. “Next turn—cut left before the barrier. I’ll slide under them. Trust me.” But it’s you who leans forward, watching their tail, catching the hesitation—“Don’t. Brake now, feint wide, then drift in. They’re bluffing on the inside.” He does. You shave two seconds off the lap time. You don’t speak for a full minute after that, too breathless, too aware of the way your fingers are still laced tight. You’ve never felt more alive. Or more fucked.

Somewhere between the fourth lap and the chaos that follows, it hits you. He’s yours. Not in words. Not in soft post-sex whispers. But here, in this — the wheel under his grip, the blur of his jaw as he glances at you like you’re his compass, the way he speeds up just to hear you gasp. There’s something lethal in how you crave him. Something doomed in how easily you lean closer every time he glances back. There’s a moment—late, fast, brutal—where another racer jerks into your lane too early, trying to squeeze through a gap that doesn’t exist. Jeno doesn’t see it. But you do. “Right! Now!” you scream, grabbing the wheel. The car fishtails. The tires scream. You both slam sideways into the drift, metal sparking against the wall. But you pull through. His head whips toward you. There’s no sound in your earpiece, just the way his chest heaves, the wild throb of his pulse in his neck. You saved him. You don’t say it. You just squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

But that’s when the quiet changes. Something in the car flickers—a stutter in the dashboard feed. You catch it in the corner of your eye, a line of numbers that shouldn’t be moving. It’s not telemetry. Not yours. Not his. Something foreign. Embedded in the system like rot. You track it with your eyes while Jeno shifts into fifth, one hand still on your thigh. The feed updates again. A line of override commands, blinking too clean. You tap into the comms panel. There’s a secondary frequency active. B32-NT. It’s not familiar. Not part of the team. What bleeds through makes your stomach drop: engine values, route adjustments, foreign mod control codes. Someone is piggybacking Jeno’s system. You don’t know who. But it’s real. You stare at the display, reading it again and again—external override logged, failsafe pressure spike pending. Your throat closes. You realise what it means. Someone is trying to crash this car.

Jeno feels your stillness before you say anything. His voice flickers into your headset, hoarse. “What did you just see?” You don’t speak. Not yet. His knuckles whiten on the gearstick. The car rockets into the final lap. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mutters, jaw tight, eyes locked forward. “Shit.” He knows, he knows but it’s not over. You wait. Let the race end, let the asphalt burn and the smoke rise and the flag drop.

Only after—only after—do you pull him away from the others, into the dead space behind the pits, where the shadows bleed deeper and his breath hits the air like mist. “What the fuck was that?” you demand, voice shaking.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at you like he’s drowning. “I’ve been seeing traces for months,” he finally says. “Not our crew. Not my mods but someone’s in the system. Ghost signals. Live feeds but there’s no names or trace. Nothing solid.” You blink. Your blood roars. “You knew?” He nods. “I didn’t know who. I’ve been trying to figure it out but I come to a dead end every single time I try.” You don’t respond. You remember the override code. You remember the kill-switch. You remember the moment the data blinked red but none of it’s concrete. There’s no fingerprint. No face. Just shadows. Just ghosts. You think of your exposé. You think of Jeno. And for the first time, you don’t know which truth will hurt more.

You’ve spent months convinced you were chasing the right story. That if you followed the mods, the maps, the margins, it would all point back to him—to the crew, to the boys who let you in without knowing what you carried. But it doesn’t. This doesn’t smell like Jeno. It reeks of strategy. Of bureaucracy. Of someone older, higher, smarter. Someone with reach and reason. Your fingers shake when they curl into his jacket.

“If I hadn’t caught it…” you start, then stop, the thought unfinished. Jeno nods once, sharply. “I know.”

There’s a silence. Heavy. Final. The kind that feels like the edge of something. He stares past you toward the track, then back to your face. “They’re going to keep trying,” he says quietly. “Whoever they are, they’re not done. Not until someone crashes. Not until someone gets hurt.” And for the first time, it clicks. The engine failures. The stray crashes. The random spikes in pressure gauges across other teams. None of them were random. They were tests.

The next one was meant for him.

And now it’s war.

Your phone buzzes once. Twice. Three times. You don’t even have to check the screen to know who it is.

taeyong — why haven’t you given me any update?

taeyong — i told you to watch how the team responds to pressure and this won’t cut it.

taeyong — i told you didn’t i? if you don’t make this report good enough then it’s your job on the line.

To Taeyong,

I understand the expectations placed on me in observing the Soul Line team. While the environment has been intense and often volatile, I have witnessed a culture built around high-risk strategy and deeply embedded loyalty. There is a pattern of behavior that raises concern — particularly the team’s obsessive relationship with performance pressure, their willingness to override safety protocols, and their instinct to close ranks when challenged.

My observations suggest a structure driven by emotion over reason. The lead driver, in particular, displays erratic decision-making and a deep mistrust of external oversight. While I cannot definitively name breaches at this stage, I would strongly advise close review of their telemetry and performance mods pre-race. This team operates with intensity, but also secrecy — which makes it difficult to assess intent versus instinct.

This is not a final report. More information to come.

Sincerely, Y/N.

You close the thread before it finishes loading. Your fingers tremble as you paste in the draft you’ve barely looked at since you wrote it. It’s nothing. A paragraph stitched together from half-truths and safe language, dressed up in professionalism but stripped of anything real. No names. No details. No conviction. It’s a lie written to hold off the blade. A submission designed to survive. You hit send. Jeno doesn’t know and that’s the worst part.

You find him in the garage two hours later, crouched beside the front wheel of his car, palms greasy, face shadowed beneath the low fluorescents. He looks up, just once, and it’s enough. The guilt finds your spine and crawls up your throat like poison. You kneel beside him. “We need to talk.”

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t even blink. “I’ve seen pieces of it before,” he murmurs, voice flat, quiet like he’s trying not to scare it away. “Data drops that didn’t make sense. Logs changed when I wasn’t looking. I thought it was glitching. I didn’t know it was gonna get someone killed.”

You look at him and it hits you all over again—he’s been carrying this. Alone. He rises slowly, wipes his hands on a rag, leans back against the worktable like the weight of everything has finally caught up to him. “I’ve been trying to trace whatever this is. For months. It’s not coming from our systems. It’s not a mechanic’s fault. It’s deeper. Admin-level. Someone’s been piggybacking my drives. Someone powerful. Someone who wants this team erased.”

Your heart skips once. Then again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second, you see it—the fear beneath the fury, the exhaustion hiding behind his arrogance. “Because I didn’t know who I could trust,” he says. Then after a breath, quieter, breaking: “But I trust you.”

It cracks something open inside you. A sound escapes your mouth like apology. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his jaw, tilting his head toward you until your foreheads brush. His breath is ragged against your cheek. Your voice stumbles out between whispers. “You can trust me. I swear. You can.” He kisses you like he’s sealing a pact. Slow. Rough. Desperate. Your hands wind into his shirt, pulling him closer until you can’t tell where the lie ends and the truth begins.

That night, you hatch a trap.

You write a new report. Not for submission. Not for truth. For exposure. For whoever’s been listening in, trailing wires through Jeno’s system, shadowing every frequency like a ghost behind the wheel. The document is clean. Clinical. Just enough detail to sound legitimate—technical weaknesses, isolation tactics, a lone vehicle running test laps with no team support. You embed it deep, tuck it into a shared circuit file with just enough metadata noise to get picked up by the wrong person. The language is quiet, coded, nonchalant. But the subtext is loud: this car will be alone. this car will be vulnerable. this car is yours to take.

You don’t tell the others. Not yet. Just Jeno. You find him hunched over the console in the garage, sweat curling down the back of his neck, knuckles white where they grip the edge of the dashboard. He doesn’t turn when you enter. Doesn’t speak. You stand beside him in the hum of silence, until you finally say, “It’s sent.” His jaw tightens.

“And they’ll believe it?”

You nod once. “If they’re watching, they already have.” That’s the moment the tension shifts. From fear to strategy. From prey to predator.

But you need help. Someone who knows the systems deeper than you do. You meet them in a subterranean parking structure before sunrise. Jeno calls them a friend. You’re not sure what to call someone with knife scars and navy-black eyes who speaks in server terms and war metaphors. “Whoever’s behind this has admin keys,” they say, tapping their comm device hard against the dashboard. “That’s not sabotage. That’s infiltration.”

Jeno stiffens. His voice drops an octave. “Then we pull them out.”

It starts slow. Not with confrontation, not with grand declarations but with the quiet shifts only people who’ve bled for the same cause can feel. Jaemin’s the first to notice. He watches Jeno after a silent test lap, leaning against the side of the car with his arms crossed and something unreadable in his eyes. When Jeno climbs out, doesn’t meet his gaze, Jaemin says, “You’ve been hiding something.” It doesn’t sound like anger. It sounds like heartbreak. And when he says, “Whatever it is, I’m not letting you carry it alone,” no one argues. He’s the one who stays up all night with the code—hands steady, eyes burning—until he writes the patch that helps intercept the next signal. When you find him hours later, blinking against the harsh light of the garage monitor, he just asks, “You’re really with us?” And you nod. Because it’s the only answer that matters.

Sunwoo takes longer. His trust was never easy but one night, as you head out after a late strategy meeting, you find him leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, expression sharp. “Something’s wrong,” he says. “You’re not saying it but I can feel it.” He doesn’t ask for proof. He doesn’t even ask for the truth. Just watches you like he’s weighing every word you don’t say. And when the board tries to shut everything down on the eve of the final race, claiming rule violations and internal instability, it’s Sunwoo who steps forward. “She’s with us now,” he says in front of the entire committee. And he doesn’t flinch when they look at him like he’s signed a death warrant.

Renjun uncovers the siphon like it’s a wound he should’ve noticed sooner. He’s reviewing fuel data for the last ten races, his fingers jittering over graphs and overlays, until he goes still. The numbers don’t lie. “They weren’t trying to crash you,” he says, voice tight. “They were trying to drain you.” The fuel bleed is too small to flag, but over time, it chips away at power, speed, endurance. It’s sabotage disguised as sloppiness. He steps back from the console like it burns, shaking his head. “They made us think we were the problem.” And you don’t say it, but you think it, too. They still do.

Haechan’s the one no one expects. He laughs too loud, talks too much, flirts with danger and drinks like it’s sport. But in one meeting—mid-story, mid-smirk—he stops cold. “Wait,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t those two managers last month mention something about a new supplier?” He says it like a joke. But no one laughs. The room goes dead silent. You realise then that every piece was scattered across mouths and memory, too fractured to matter until now. Until Haechan put the last line on the page. His voice drops. “Fuck. I didn’t know I was saying it until I heard myself.”

None of them knew. That’s what hits the hardest. They thought they were slipping. Misjudging turns. Fumbling starts. Missing cues. They blamed themselves. Worked harder. Slept less. Pushed further into exhaustion trying to make up for mistakes that were never theirs to begin with. The kind of sabotage designed not to destroy in one clean blow—but to wear you down. Quietly. Slowly. Until you forget what it felt like to win without guilt.

This isn’t just about the team anymore. It’s about everyone who’s ever been chewed up by the machine and told it was their own fault for bleeding. Every mechanic who got blamed for a fault line they didn’t draw. Every rookie driver who was thrown onto the track like bait and then discarded the second the numbers dropped. Every sponsor deal that vanished without reason. Every whispered threat behind closed doors. Every statistic twisted into a weapon to justify silence. It’s about how power rewrites failure to look like yours. How they make you believe the crash was always coming because you weren’t fast enough, sharp enough, worth enough. It’s about the way guilt is planted like a virus, how doubt infects belief, how easy it is to punish passion when it stops being profitable. And now, you see it. You feel it. This was never just a race. Never just about winning. It was about survival. About memory. About saying: We were here. We mattered. And we won’t let you erase us.

And this time, no one’s backing down.

The car gets rewired that night. Jeno tears the system down to its bones, exposing every wire like a threat. Jaemin shadows him, rerouting frequencies, faking damage patterns, embedding a signal loop with just enough heat to draw attention. Renjun adjusts the fuel map, codes in a deceleration script that mimics failure. Haechan throws a tantrum in the middle of the garage, screaming about “another shit-tuned engine,” loud enough to echo through the lot. Sunwoo leaks it to the wrong board member. Lets them think the team’s imploding. That they’ve already lost. And you? You pull it all together. Stitch the lie into shape. Fold the tension into every look, every breath, every step you take beside them. You never say what you’re doing. Just that it’s time.

And beneath it all, that signal—the one you planted, the bait laced in weakness and noise—pulses steady in the circuit. Waiting. Watching. Daring someone to bite. The bait pulses like a heartbeat in the circuit. Waiting to be bitten.

Later that night, Jeno takes you to the edge of the city, where the asphalt is cracked and the streetlights flicker like bad memories. The car hums under your thighs, parked in a quiet stretch of road carved out from the ruins of an old industrial district. It's too late for traffic. Too early for dawn. The world feels suspended, caught between one breath and the next. You're wearing one of his jackets, oversized and half-zipped, thighs bare against the leather seat. When you look at him, he's already watching you.

"If you ever have to get out," Jeno says softly, tapping the wheel, "I want you to know how." You don't ask what he means by get out. You already know. And you don't ask why he sounds like he's preparing for goodbye. You just nod.

He shifts, pulling you across the center console until you're sitting on him. His hands settle at your hips, warm and grounding. The engine is off, but everything else hums—his breath, your pulse, the tension tangled between you. "I need you to feel it," he murmurs, guiding your hands to the wheel, then lower, to the gearstick. "Know where to shift. Know when to let go."

You nod again, but it doesn't feel like enough. You're trembling slightly, the nerves creeping in, but then he leans up, lips brushing yours, a kiss that’s almost reverent. "You're okay," he whispers. "I'm right here."

You adjust your thighs over him, the heat between your legs almost unbearable with the layers barely separating you. You feel him hard beneath you but there's no rush. No desperation. Just this. Proximity. Breath. Touch. His fingers graze up your thighs, slow and coaxing, sliding beneath the edge of the jacket as his lips press to your jaw. You start to move your hips, instinctive, grinding back against him in a slow rhythm that makes both of you groan.

Your palms are slick against the wheel, pulse jittering beneath your skin, and your thighs are still stretched across his lap when he reaches forward—slow, steady—one hand curling over your wrist to guide you. His voice is soft, nothing like the chaos that lives outside the car—just him and you, the silence between gear shifts, the scent of sweat and fuel hanging thick in the air. “Don’t oversteer,” he says, chin brushing your shoulder, breath warm at your jaw. “Feel the curve before you take it.” Your foot hovers too light over the gas, and he nudges it down with his own, body flush behind you, his hands covering yours on the wheel like a second skin. The car hums beneath you both, eager, alive. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”

The engine purrs when you accelerate, and his arm tightens across your waist, anchoring you back into him, your ass dragging against the hard line of his cock still barely tucked back into his jeans. You feel everything—every twitch of muscle, every exhale when your fingers catch the turn just right. “Good girl,” he says under his breath, and you shiver. He teaches with tension, with touch, with the controlled burn of letting you drive while still having the power to take over. “Brake before the turn. Ease off just before the apex. You control the car—don’t let it control you.” His thigh shifts under yours, coaxing you into the perfect seat alignment. “And remember,” he whispers, dragging his lips along your neck, slow like sin, “you’re not just riding this thing. You’re fucking taming it.”

Your breath stumbles as the car surges forward, tires kissing pavement in the smooth glide of power managed, not forced. His hands roam—over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—as you take the wheel again, this time more confident, every instruction melted into the rhythm of your bones. His voice drops lower, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You know what the real thrill is?” he asks, hand slipping between your thighs to grip the inside of your knee. “Knowing exactly when to let go. And exactly when not to.” You squeeze the wheel harder. You don’t want to let go of any of it. Not the speed. Not the heat. Not him.

The curve winds in before you can think, but your body knows the rhythm now. You let go—really let go—hands light on the wheel, breath in your throat, smile spreading slow across your face as the speed pours into your bloodstream like electricity. The road unfolds like it’s yours to take, every shift smoother than the last, every press of the pedal syncing with the thrum of your pulse. You laugh, breathless, winded, heart flying, and Jeno’s grip tightens at your waist. “There she is,” he whispers against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Knew you were made for this.”

His hands move over you constantly—along your thighs, between your legs, curling under the hem of your skirt like he needs to feel you grounded in this moment. His voice drips into you between instructions, between praise. “Tighten your angle—fuck, good girl—just like that, you feel it?” And you do. Every word, every inch of his body behind yours, heat sliding down your spine in slow waves. You drive like you’re weightless, like the car is an extension of your body, like the world outside the windows no longer matters.

You ease the car into park with your hands still shaking. The engine idles beneath you, cooling slow, ticking in rhythm with the breath in your chest. Jeno doesn’t say a word. Just reaches behind him, clicks the seat all the way back, and reclines. His eyes lock onto yours in the rearview mirror. There’s no command, no invitation. Just him, waiting. And you—already turning, already climbing back into his lap like instinct, like muscle memory, like gravity.

You don’t pause. Don’t tease. You pull your panties to the side, reach between you, and slide down onto his cock in one smooth, breathless motion. His hands catch your hips like they always do—tight, reverent, greedy—and your knees dig into the leather seat as you start to bounce, fucking him hard and deep, the way he needs it, the way you need it more. His mouth finds your throat. Your moans fill the car. And everything else—the engine, the silence, the stars behind fogged glass—just disappears.

The car isn’t moving—not in the way it was meant to—but your body is. His seat’s all the way down, legs spread, and you’re perched above him like gravity gave up on rules. His hands frame your hips, fingers digging into the muscle like he can feel every inch of tension you’ve carried, every sharp breath you’ve been too afraid to exhale. The engine ticks quietly beneath you, warm like a secret. “You’re gonna need to know this someday,” he tells you again, softer this time, but not any less serious. “If it all falls apart, if I can’t drive… I need to know you’ll keep it alive. I need to know you can.”

You nod, even though you don’t understand all of it, even though the weight of what he’s saying lands in your gut like something hot and heavy and terrifying. You nod, because the way he’s looking at you makes your chest pull tight. Because this doesn’t feel like a lesson—it feels like a handover. Like trust being transferred with every breath, every stroke, every sound that slips out between you. He doesn’t ask if you’re scared. He doesn’t have to. He just touches you like he’s answering the question before you ask it. “Don’t think,” he murmurs again, low and careful, fingers sliding up the back of your neck. “Just feel me. Feel this. That’s what racing is.”

You do. You feel him hard against your thighs, cock resting right at the seam of your panties, your skirt bunched up around your waist. His voice is right in your ear, his chest under your hands, and when you roll your hips down slowly, it sends a shock through you both. “That’s it,” he whispers, breath catching. “Right there. That tension—that edge—that’s what you ride.” The metaphor’s thin now. Barely there. Because the pressure between your legs isn’t symbolic, it’s slick and real and throbbing, and you’re so wet you can feel the way your panties stick when you shift again. He growls low in his throat. “Fuck, you feel that? You feel what you do to me?”

You gasp, whisper his name, and this time he doesn’t stop you. He helps you pull his jeans down just far enough, his cock already leaking against his abs. You guide him in slow, your hand wrapped around the base until the stretch hits, and your mouth falls open like it’s holy. “Jeno—” It’s barely a sound. Just breath and need. He grabs your hips again, holding you steady as you sink the rest of the way, clenching around him so tightly he curses through his teeth. “That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, baby. You feel so fucking good—so perfect.”

You start to move, hips rolling in shallow, trembling circles, your hands gripping his shoulders like they’re the only thing holding you together. He lets you take your time. Lets you find the rhythm. “You’re doing it,” he breathes, kissing under your jaw, sliding one hand down to guide the pace of your hips. “You’re riding it—fuck, that’s perfect—just like the curve, just like I taught you.” You moan, loud and desperate, because it’s so much—his cock filling you deep, the praise in his voice, the way he never stops touching you like he’s trying to memorize your skin. “Jeno,” you gasp again, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t stop. He fucks up into you hard, once, twice, catching your rhythm, slamming deeper with every bounce. The car seat groans beneath you, the sound of wet friction loud and obscene, your moans catching on the rise of your breath. “Ride me like you own it,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “Like it’s yours.” His hands slam you down harder and you cry out, head falling back. "You feel that? Every inch of you takes me so fucking well.”

“I love this,” you whisper. “Fuck—I love this.” He kisses you like the confession cracked him open, mouth devouring yours, tongue pushing deep, like the only way to breathe is through you. His hands are everywhere—your ass, your waist, up your shirt, gripping your tits through your bra and squeezing hard. “This is how I want you before every race,” he mutters against your lips. “Full of me. Fucked out. Focused.”

You ride him like it’s instinct, like every shift of your hips is mapped into muscle. You lean forward and lick up his throat, whisper, “Then win it for me.” He growls. Thrusts harder. “I will. You survive the track, you can survive this.”

You clench around him again, tighter this time, and he falters. “You’re gonna make me come,” he gasps, eyes fluttering. “Fuck—baby, keep going. You’re so good to me. So fucking good.” You press your forehead to his, eyes locked, and whisper, “Don’t pull out. I want it. Want it all.”

That’s what does it. That’s what undoes him.

He comes with a guttural sound, cock pulsing deep inside you, his hands shaking against your skin. And you—eyes fluttering, breath stuttering—come with him, thighs quaking, mouth open against his throat, everything in you breaking loose.

When it’s over, you don’t move. He holds you there. One hand tangled in your hair. The other still on the wheel. Like he’ll never let go. Like you're his now. Like this was never about racing. It was always about you. You stay curled over him, skin damp, chest heaving, his cum still warm and dripping down your thighs. He hasn’t let go of you, arms locked tight around your waist like if he loosens his grip you’ll vanish with the air. You press your lips to the edge of his jaw, breath still broken, fingers dragging lazy, reverent lines over his collarbone like you’re drawing a map only you can follow. “I’ll race the world for you,” you whisper, soft, certain, like it’s already been decided. He exhales like it breaks him. Doesn’t say anything back. Just kisses you—slow, deep, grateful—and lets his heart beat out the truth against yours.

The final league race doesn’t feel like an event. It feels like a reckoning. Night drapes over the circuit like oil, thick and untouchable, swallowing the edges of the stadium until all that’s left is light—too much of it, everywhere. Giant flood beams cut the air like surveillance drones, tracing arcs of brilliance across the gleaming hood of the Soul Line car. The stadium is full to the edges with noise, bodies stacked in metal seats, live feeds blinking across jumbotron screens but you don’t hear any of it. Not really. You only hear the low hum of the engine cooling beside you. The steady inhale-exhale of Jeno’s breath as he straps his gloves on.

Then he reaches across you, slow and deliberate, one hand slipping under the curve of your ribs as the other pulls the seatbelt across your body, locking it into place with a sharp, metallic click. His fingers linger at the buckle, brushing the inside of your thigh, and when he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear, it’s softer—more dangerous. “Make sure you stay strapped in, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

You smile—tight, breathless, too aware of the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg. The belt presses across your chest, snug and final, but it’s his voice that really pins you there, low and possessive, crawling under your skin like voltage. He’s already leaning closer, his weight shifted toward your side, sex dark in his eyes like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say with his mouth. “I’m not,” you whisper back, turning just enough that your mouth grazes the corner of his jaw. “Not unless you tell me to.” It’s not a flirt. It’s a vow. Because you know what’s coming—you know the track won’t forgive a single mistake, that the walls are closer than they look, and the enemy is watching from the sidelines. They’re inside the system. Inside the car and the only thing holding it all together is him. And you. And this.

Everything was already rigged to burn. A corrupted file wiped his telemetry logs four days ago—Jaemin caught it, barely, running backups at 3AM with trembling fingers and a whiteboard full of loops no one should’ve had access to. Renjun found brake inconsistencies again, this time not random. Targeted. Precision siphoning of his system only. Sunwoo nearly broke a monitor when he realised the race order had been tampered with—they were always supposed to run last. Now they’re first. No time to adapt, no time to pivot. The garage was chaos. Accusations, calculations, pacing but when the yelling stopped, the decision was unanimous. This isn’t about placing anymore. It’s about making it out alive.

So you laid the trap. Every member of Soul Line laced the circuit with blood. Jaemin coded a fake vulnerability into the car’s telemetry—just enough to look like an opening, a mistake. Renjun reconfigured the fuel intake readings to simulate a leak. Haechan played his part loud and reckless, laughing too hard, spilling the line you’d planned—“If Jeno hits 220, the whole thing might blow.” And you, sat in the shadows of the comms tower, uploaded a ghost report seeded with doubt. Analysis that said the team was cracking, that they wouldn’t survive the night. The bait was placed. All that was left was to wait.

Jeno starts strong. The engine growls under his touch, tyres hugging the corners like they were born for them. The route is brutal—tight bends, blind drops, no rails, a custom course knotted through the dead zone east of the city. A stadium-circuit hybrid, carved like a scar through concrete and gravel. You sit beside him under the guise of safety telemetry. The board doesn’t know you’ve simmed this race a hundred times. Jeno does. He’s the one who made you run it. He said, “If anything goes wrong, I want you next to me.” You said yes before your heart could catch up.

The first two laps are clinical. Calculated. You can feel the math of it in every turn he takes—precise, deliberate, clean. He’s all reflex and rage in perfect sync, slicing through corners like they’re nothing but slits in fabric, every movement mapped and burned into his bones. The engine purrs beneath you like it knows him, the track bends as if it wants him to win. It’s beautiful to watch but you feel it before he does—something small, off-tempo. The cadence of his breathing stutters. His right arm tenses longer than it should and his eyes, usually calm and locked forward, flicker just a little too often toward the apexes.

By lap three, it’s not subtle anymore. The steering wheel jerks in his grip. Not much, but enough. Enough to make him snarl and wrench it back like he’s fighting something beneath his skin. “Shit,” he bites out, jaw locked tight. “Something’s—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t. His knuckles are white, his chest rising faster now, the calm unraveling thread by thread. You glance over. His pupils are blown wide, trying to recalibrate, but the lights on the visor dance wrong—too quick, too loud, blinding instead of guiding. “It’s blurring,” he says finally, voice cracked with disbelief. “Fuck. I can’t—they tampered with my neuro visor.”

Then it hits again. This time, lower—his right glove spasms, not violently, but wrong. It twitches against the shift handle, gripping like it’s trying to pull control back from him, not support it. You watch his body stiffen, like he’s fighting his own limbs, not just the track. “They rigged the actuator,” he growls, the words jagged between clenched teeth. “It’s not syncing to my neural pattern.” That’s when the car bucks slightly under you, not enough to crash. But enough to warn. Enough to say this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a hijacking and if you don’t move now, one of you won’t make it past the next turn.

The car lurches violently as the front wheel clips the edge of the track, the left fender skimming the barrier with a screech of metal that cuts through your spine like a live wire. You jerk forward in your seat, only held back by the belt he buckled for you minutes ago, and beside you, Jeno curses under his breath—short, raw, guttural. His gloved fingers fumble at the wheel, desperate to correct the turn, but it’s already too late. The steering isn’t responding. It’s not syncing with him anymore. You glance over and see the panic bleeding through his control—jaw locked, brow furrowed, sweat shining on his temple even under the floodlights. His arm jerks once, then again, not from the G-force, but from something worse. Artificial tension. Programmed resistance.

The glove—designed to sync with his neural output, to amplify his reflexes—is hijacked, every movement overcorrected, jerky, wrong. His hand twitches when he tries to shift gears, and the whole car jolts as the actuator fights back. “Shit,” he growls, mouth barely moving. “They did it. They fucking did it.”

You reach out without thinking, one hand gripping the wheel, the other bracing on the console. “Let go,” you say, low but steady, voice cutting through the static buzz in the cockpit.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He keeps trying, keeps pushing, glove spasming, head shaking as his vision struggles to sync. “No. No—don’t. This is my race. You don’t—this isn’t—”

“You can’t drive like this,” you snap, tightening your grip on the wheel as the next curve barrels toward you like a dare. He hesitates. Too long.

The tires shriek as you scrape another edge, rubber burning hot under the strain. Jeno swears again, chest heaving, both hands locked on a wheel that no longer listens to him. You turn to him fully, eyes locked on his, and say it with no room for negotiation. “Move.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to—”

“You’ll kill us.”

That’s what cracks him. Not the heat, not the pain, not the way the car’s barely clinging to the track anymore. It’s the way your voice breaks on the word kill. Like you’re scared. Like this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a goddamn trap.

His throat bobs. His fingers flex once. “Then who the fuck—”

“Me.” Your voice is steel, even as your heart pounds so loud it fills the cabin. “I’ve trained for this. You taught me. You said if anything ever happened—”

“That was theory,” he bites out, furious. “It wasn’t meant to be real.”

“It is real.”

He still won’t move. Not yet. His eyes flicker to you, then to the road. He doesn’t want this. Not because he doesn’t trust you but because he does, giving up control means risking you. Means putting you in the same danger he’s spent the whole fucking season trying to shield you from.

The car jerks again. The glove spasms. And finally, finally, he says it—hoarse and barely audible: “Don’t crash.”

You don’t answer. You crawl over him while the car flies forward at 210, knees knocking against his thighs, chest pressed to his as you shift across the console, hands never leaving the wheel. His hand catches your hip instinctively, holding you steady as you straddle the seat, and for a second it feels obscene, intimate, terrifying. Your faces are inches apart. His voice is shaking. “Please. Just—come back to me.”

“I will,” you whisper, breath against his mouth. “But only if you let me save you first.” And just like that, the seat shifts. The balance tips. You slide into position. The car keeps going. But now—you’re the one driving.

The world opens beneath you, a map of lines and breath and velocity, and you take the next curve with your entire body—lean into it like a lover, like the wheel itself is an extension of your spine. It responds instantly, shivering under your grip, humming with every calculated twitch of your hands, every demand you make of it. The engine doesn’t roar—it purrs. Like it knows it’s yours now. Like it always was. Jeno’s voice stays low in your ear, even as his chest heaves beside you, even as his hand—still trembling from the override—clutches the edge of the console like he’s holding onto the edge of a dream. “Brake before the ridge. Downshift out of turn six,” he breathes, but it’s different now. Less instruction. More awe. “That’s it, baby—just like that. Fuck, you feel that? That’s you.”

You follow it. Feel it. Own it. The track stretches wide and brutal ahead of you, but you don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Your nerves burn clean. Your thighs shake from the G-force but you never loosen your grip, not once. You taste sweat. You smell scorched asphalt. You are inside the rhythm now, part of the car, welded to every scream of the tires. And he knows it. “You’re doing better than I did,” Jeno mutters, almost stunned, and there’s reverence in the words, thick and raw and his. “You were made for this. Made to drive me fucking crazy. Made to win. My girl—fuck, baby—my girl’s got it.”

You take the next corner smoother than silk, the car humming obediently beneath you like it knows who’s driving now. You brake just enough to eat the turn and burst out of it cleaner than before. The curve releases you like a breath, and Jeno groans something low and ragged beside you—pride, arousal, disbelief, maybe all three tangled.

It happens subtly, almost like a whisper against the throttle. There’s a flicker in the dash—quick, irregular, a spike that doesn’t belong. It doesn’t come from your car. Your eyes narrow, trained now not just for speed but for sabotage. You shift your grip, steadying the wheel with one hand as your other moves to the console beneath. Jeno had wired in a private panel weeks ago, veiled beneath the false skin of a basic diagnostic feed. You access it without hesitation, fingers flying across the touchpad. The interface lights up in pale green, jittering with static, revealing a pulse signal threaded deep within the network. It loops, unnatural. You trace it.

The override isn’t yours. It doesn’t mimic your engine’s behaviour or Jeno’s previous telemetry. It’s foreign. Behind you, the crowd screams, the pitch shifting into something shrill. A rival car veers on the external feed, a sudden break in formation. You watch it spin, metal shrieking as it hits the side barrier. The violence is too precise to be clumsy. No driver reacts that late unless they’re fighting something stronger than themselves. You feel it all around you now—the wrongness crawling under your skin, sinking into your bones. Jeno’s jaw tightens beside you. His voice comes hoarse, barely audible over the roar. He tells you they’ve widened the net. This was never just about him. It never was.

The wheel vibrates beneath your hands. Not from the road. From the interference. The override is spreading like contagion, not targeting a single unit but siphoning through every admin-allowed frequency. It’s a lattice of control, invisible and lethal. You slam the brakes during a straight, heart hammering as the car jolts. You only need a few seconds—long enough to freeze the signal. Long enough to crack it. Jeno reaches down, retrieving the final card you both agreed on: the burner drive from the tech informant. He plugs it in. The interface floods with code. Terminal access granted. Live keys blinking red.

The track breaks apart in screams and smoke. Ahead of you, Vulcan’s lead car stutters mid-turn—then jerks violently sideways like something yanked the steering column out of his hands. He spins, crashes into the barrier so hard the right wheel flies off in a blur of shrapnel. Another vehicle—Strix blackline, number 08—loses throttle input entirely, the engine coughing once before the back half lifts clean off the road and scrapes into a wall. Sparks bloom across the asphalt. The crowd doesn’t know whether to cheer or panic. One by one, the remaining competitors jolt off pattern, their telemetry collapsing like dominoes. It’s not random. The sabotage is systematic, precision-led, triggered by control bursts hidden inside the league’s own admin shell. No warning, no way out. They weren’t just watching Soul Line. They were studying everyone. And now they’re erasing the field.

“What the fuck,” Jeno breathes. His hand clamps your thigh, grounding himself as the dashboard explodes with an influx of encrypted signals. You reach forward again, fingers flicking over data lines, your breath caught behind your teeth.

“It’s not a virus,” you say. “It’s remote access. Someone’s inside the race feed right now.” You peel back the firewall layer, revealing a user ID pinging off internal relay towers with near-zero latency. “They’re not spoofing. They’re using board credentials.”

Sunwoo’s voice crackles through the comms. “Is this linked to the Vulcan crash?”

“Confirmed,” you answer instantly. “The override was triggered three seconds before Riku lost control. They injected a counter-steer command into his stabiliser.” You glance at Jeno. “This isn’t random. They’re targeting specific cars. This is a cleanup.”

Jaemin chimes in from the garage, breathless. “I’ve got a mirror trace running. It’s bouncing back from Admin Sector B.” There’s a pause. A tension shift. “Wait—there’s a burn key active. Top-level. It’s logging telemetry edits live from inside the circuit’s main control shell. It’s—” His voice drops out.

“Say it,” Jeno grits, eyes still locked on the feed.

“It’s someone in the oversight box,” Jaemin finishes, quiet now. “Someone who’s not supposed to be coding during the race. Someone high up.”

Another pause. This time, it’s Renjun who cuts through the silence. “The signal’s tag is TYX-019.”

The breath catches in your throat as the signal source surfaces. It's not masked. Not anymore. The encryption falls away, layer by layer, until what’s left is an IP address that doesn’t belong to any racer. It’s rooted inside the circuit’s oversight tower. It isn’t just plugged into the system. It is the system. Your head snaps up. Across the track, above the noise, you see the glass flash once. Behind it, someone rises from their chair. They rip their headset off. Turn without urgency. Like they never needed to watch the race to control it.

Your blood runs cold. Jeno is staring, frozen, a thousand unsaid thoughts carved into the furrow of his brow. You recognise that posture. The shoulders, squared and sure. The tilt of the head, casual, confident, careless. You see the control in it, the certainty. The familiarity.

It had always been him. The man who spoke in strategies and punishments. The man who told you what this team could never be. The one who warned Jeno not to rely on anyone who wasn’t willing to bleed for the machine. You never needed to say his name. Jeno never needs to say it either. The fury in his silence says enough. So does the betrayal laced into your breath.

The trap didn’t fail. It led him right into the open. The second the terminal lit up, the signal twisted back on itself—mapped, mirrored, exposed. It spread like voltage across every comm channel, a live hemorrhage of data, every byte blinking red. He tried to jam it, tried to bury it in backup layers, but Jaemin had already rerouted the failsafe. Sunwoo stalled the system alert. Renjun mirrored the trace. Haechan flooded the admin server with junk code, forcing the saboteur’s controls into full manual override. One by one, every defense he built was stripped bare—until the only thing left was the truth, screaming out from every feed like fire through oil. You and Jeno blocked each strike before it could land, swerving hard when the traction sensors spiked, gripping through wind shear when the brakes tried to lock. There’s no hesitation anymore. No fear. Just two of you, wired into the machine like bone and blood, carving a path straight through his empire of ruin.

You don’t look back. Not when you know he’s watching. Not when the trap is already tightening around his neck. Your focus is blistered into the track now—the ridges of rubber burned into the corners, the flash of red lights in the haze of smoke, the way the heat shimmers off the asphalt like warpaint. The track curves like a scar beneath the stadium lights, hard and brutal, a dead-zone circuit spliced together by black-market engineers and forgotten league veterans. The barriers are unforgiving. The crowds press in like gods waiting for blood. This is where everything ends. Or begins.

Jeno groans beside you, fingers digging into your leg like he’s trying to anchor himself to something that won’t collapse. His voice comes in bursts, broken from strain but steady in command—“Downshift now. Pull left. Clip the turn, don’t fight it.” He’s half-folded against the passenger seat, chest rising like thunder, sweat gleaming against his temple. And you—you’ve never felt more alive. The wheel pulses under your palms. The engine snarls with every push. The car doesn’t obey you, it belongs to you. Like it knows the stakes. Like it remembers every loss.

The sky above is black, endless, starless, but the finish line glows ahead in raw electric white. It isn’t hope. It isn’t mercy. It’s the reckoning they tried to erase. You take the curve clean, back wheels skimming the outer line like the track’s been carved into your muscle memory since the beginning. The engine doesn’t stutter. It listens. Breathes. Obeys. The final straight opens like a corridor built from velocity itself, the crowd screaming in a blur on either side, and you don’t hesitate—you fucking floor it. Jeno’s breath is ragged beside you, one hand braced over your thigh, voice cracking through the comms as he guides the last line. Your pulse pounds louder than the engine, louder than the cheers, louder than the sound of history reconfiguring beneath your tires and somewhere in the back of your mind, it hits you—this is why you’re racing. Because the trap didn’t fail. It worked. It lured him into the open, and now that the signal’s exposed—now that the grid runs red with proof—there’s no rewriting it. No mercy. Not when the boys gave you their faith. Not when Jeno trusted you enough to give up control. Not when every crash, every failure, every fucking death was orchestrated beneath the hands of a man who never planned to let them win. And now? You take everything back. Wheel first. Fire second. The finish line ignites in your reflection—close, closer—and you don’t blink. You burn through it.

The roar that greets you as the car skims the final straight could’ve shattered glass. The crowd is a blur, a heaving wall of noise and motion and light, but you barely register any of it. The world narrows to the strip of tarmac ahead, the tremble of the wheel in your hands, the heat of Jeno’s palm pressed over your thigh as he braces beside you, half-bent over from strain, voice breaking with every breath as he tells you where to go. The interface lights surge around the dashboard, warning signals flickering and dying, but the engine purrs like it was born under your command. It doesn’t fight you. It flies.

The car dips into the final curve, tyres screaming against the track’s brutal incline, and Jeno’s voice rasps through the static: "Ride it out, baby. This is it." The finish line pulses ahead like a horizon set on fire. A wind tunnel of adrenaline and steel rushes past your skull, but your grip doesn’t falter. You remember every simulation. Every late-night drive with his hand wrapped around yours on the stick. Every time he made you take control when you were too scared to. You drop gear, shoot forward like a bullet, and the final lap opens for you like a mouth to devour.

The line blurs. The car screams. You pass it.

And then—silence. Not in the arena, not really, but inside the car. Inside your chest. A stunned, ringing, breathless pause. You let go of the wheel. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of what you did crash into you.

The Soul Line pit erupts. You see bodies flood forward from the sidelines, arms raised, mouths open in shock and triumph. Jaemin is the first out, sprinting before the gate’s even lifted, tablet still clutched in his hand, screaming into his comms. Haechan throws something in the air—his gloves maybe—yelling at no one and everyone. Renjun shoves him, shouts back, then runs for the barrier. Sunwoo stands frozen for a beat before he turns and punches the wall behind him with a sob you can’t hear. You did it. They did it. You won.

The car skids to a halt just past the barricade, engine whimpering as it cools. Jeno exhales like he hasn’t breathed in minutes. You lean forward, forehead pressed to the wheel, tears burning behind your eyes. It’s over. It’s done. The rule was clear—if the lead driver is compromised mid-race, the assigned onboard co-monitor is allowed to assume control. Legal. Binding. Iron-clad.

Jeno unstraps first, shoulders heaving as he yanks off his glove, arm trembling from the aftershocks still tearing through his system. He leans across you, lips parted, breathing hard, and the second he unclips your belt, his fingers brush your chest—slow, steady, deliberate. It’s not a rush. It’s reverence. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he needs to feel your heartbeat with his own hands before he can believe you’re still here. Then both hands cradle your face, thumbs pressing along your jaw, and his eyes lock to yours, wild and glazed and wrecked. “You fucking did it,” he says, voice raw like smoke. Then he kisses you—hard, filthy, all teeth and breath and tongue, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Your legs shake. Your mouth opens to him. Your hand curls into his shirt like you’re scared he’ll disappear. And when you whisper it back against his ear, hot and breathless—“I’d race the world for you”—he groans like it guts him, like you just said something sacred. “I’ll never let you drive alone again.”

It doesn’t end with the kiss. It spills over. He kisses your throat next, his hands gripping your waist, then pulls away only to press your forehead to his. You’re both panting, drenched in sweat, shaking from speed and adrenaline and survival. When the door opens and the air hits, it’s chaos—blinding lights, roaring screams, footsteps pounding toward you like thunder. But all you feel is his hand in yours as you climb out, legs barely holding steady. Jaemin gets to you first—pulls you into him like he’s been holding that breath the whole race. His hug is rough, arms locked around your shoulders, face buried in your neck. Haechan grabs your hand and kisses it, his grin so bright it hurts, then spins you like a trophy, shouting something incoherent. Renjun’s eyes are wet. Sunwoo won’t stop staring at Jeno like he’s still not sure if he’s alive. Everyone is touching you. Pulling you in. Wrapping you in something thicker than celebration. It’s family. It’s relief. It’s reverence.

And then it happens—someone screams your name. The crowd erupts behind it, all at once. Your name. His. Soul Line. Again. Again. Louder each time, until it drowns the rest of the world out. You don’t know where the sound begins or ends, only that it surges through your bones like a second heartbeat. You’re turning, eyes wide, and Jeno’s already there—grinning like a fucking maniac, face flushed, eyes lit up like he never stopped burning. He bends, grabs your thighs, and lifts you clear off the ground, spinning in a full circle like it’s muscle memory. You shriek, laugh, your arms flying around his shoulders, the whole world tilting with you. You’re still full of him. Still dizzy. Still slick between your legs. But none of it matters. You won. You lived. You burned through every trap and brought the entire empire down at your feet. The sky above is fire. The ground beneath you doesn’t exist. You’re in his arms, and the world is screaming your name.

Your voice breaks first—calm but serrated—as you speak into the open comms: “We caught him.” You don’t say his name. Not yet. The air inside the circuit seems to freeze, every signal cutting to static, every head turning, like the entire league leans forward at once, breath held. Behind the control booth’s tinted glass, a figure jolts. and in that instant—everyone sees it. Jaemin’s rerouted trace flashes across every display. A single admin key, red and blinking, logged into the override terminal. L.T. SEO / ADMIN OVERSIGHT / LEVEL 7 ACCESS.

The crowd erupts with gasps, shocklike a body blow. Someone screams from the back row. The feed cuts to a security camera view: the oversight box, backlit and exposed and there, in a suit that no longer fits the shadows, Taeyong stands. Still. Caught. Burned by every frame of proof lighting up the jumbotrons like a fucking execution.

Sirens split the air. Stadium security floods the stands, pouring into the VIP box. Jeno sees it first, on the in-car monitor. “He tried to kill us,” he mutters, voice low, deadly, shaking with rage he’s swallowed too long. “He tried to erase us.” You don’t flinch when the guards tackle Taeyong. You don’t blink as he’s dragged into the aisle. But you do feel Jeno’s hand slide over yours, tight, grounding, fierce. His other arm stretches out in front of you instinctively, shielding without a thought, the others closing in behind.

Taeyong thrashes once, face contorted, blood at the corner of his mouth from where he bit his cheek screaming. But when he catches your eyes through the chaos, he stops fighting. Just for a second. Something in him twists. He leans forward, teeth bared, throat raw. And then he spits the last thing he’ll ever get to say: “You think this ends with me?” His voice claws out, desperate, wild. “You haven’t won. You’ve only lit the match.”

Security hauls him back. The doors slam. The stadium shakes but you don’t look away. You can’t. Because this isn’t just victory. This is justice with blood under its fingernails. This is what it means to survive. This is Soul Line, standing where they were never supposed to. Jeno’s mouth brushes your temple. Jaemin’s hand curls at the nape of your neck. Sunwoo and Renjun step in tight, front and back, a wall around you, all of them watching, all of them ready for the next war.

The system is on fire and it’s your name they’ll remember.

You sink down onto him like it’s instinct. Like your body was made to take him. The backseat groans under your knees, the slick warmth of his cock stretching you inch by inch until your head falls forward and your lips part with a gasp. He’s already breathless beneath you, chest rising hard, hands splayed wide over your thighs like he’s scared to move. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Slow. Let me feel it.” You do. You go slow—not because you have to, but because you want to, because this isn’t about chasing a high or proving something. This is about him. About the way his eyes hold yours, the way his fingers curl tighter every time you rock your hips, the way his breath catches when you clench around him. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers. “So warm. So perfect.”

He sits up and buries his mouth against your throat, lips parting over skin that still tastes like adrenaline and gasoline. “I don’t care what happens to this league,” he says, words hot against your jaw. “They can burn it to the fucking ground. I’ve got you now. That’s all I give a shit about.” His hand moves to your back, sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine, like he needs to memorise you. You roll your hips again and he groans, forehead pressed against yours, his cock throbbing deep inside you. “I knew you’d save us,” he says again, almost to himself. “Knew it the second I let you in that car.” You press your lips to his collarbone and whisper, “You’re mine.” His answer is immediate. “Always fucking mine.” He thrusts up into you, slow and deep, and your whole body shudders from the contact.

The car rocks gently with your rhythm. Your thighs ache from how wide you’re spread over him, knees jammed against worn leather, but it’s nothing compared to the ache between your legs, the way his cock fills you like it’s claiming every inch you’ve ever called your own. “Jeno,” you whisper, dizzy from the heat in your belly. “I’m—fuck—I’m not scared anymore.”

He nods, hands coming up to cradle your face, eyes locked on yours. “Me neither,” he says, voice breaking. “Not if I’ve got you.” And he means it. You feel it, in the way he touches you like you’re sacred. Like you’re not just the girl who took the wheel but the one who became the road, the one he trusts with his life, with his name, with every bruise he’s ever been too proud to show.

He fucks you gently but thoroughly. Like there’s no rush now. Like he’s waited his whole life to make you feel safe enough to fall apart on top of him. His hands trail under your shirt again, palms wide and firm against your ribs, and you shift your hips just right until you both groan, helpless, already too close again. “You’re everything,” he breathes. “You’re everything, baby.” Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as you kiss him again, tongues brushing, noses bumping.

“Say it again,” you murmur. “Tell me I’m yours.” He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Mine,” he whispers, again and again, like it’s the only word he remembers. “Mine, mine, mine.” His thrusts grow uneven and your body clenches, slick and hot, your orgasm curling like smoke in your belly.

You cry out softly when you come, back arching, cunt spasming tight around him, and he follows with a grunt, hips jerking up as he spills deep inside you, pulsing with it. His arms lock around your waist, holding you flush to him, breathing hard into the crook of your neck. You collapse together, his cock still buried inside you, both of you trembling. For a long moment, there’s no sound except the distant buzz of overhead lights and the ragged drag of breath. He doesn’t move, he just keeps you close. Keeps you his. His hands slide slowly up your spine, fingers tracing shapes you’ll never see but will feel for hours after. You rest your forehead against his and let your eyes close. The world doesn’t matter right now. Just this. Just him.

Because that’s the thing. He is beautiful, but not in the way people talk about. Not in the way magazines photograph or fans obsess over. He’s beautiful like a war-scarred city. Beautiful like danger dressed in silk—sharp where it shouldn’t be, and begging to be bitten. He’s beautiful like overdrive—too fast, too hot, made to ruin. Beautiful like the stretch of track you take without braking, knowing it’ll hurt, knowing you’ll do it anyway. His mouth tastes like sin with no exit plan, and he looks at you like he’s already bitten down, like you’re bleeding and he’s still hungry. He’s beautiful like a coffin carved for royalty, all cold elegance and finality, like something buried in silk but meant to haunt. Beautiful like the bruise you press again and again just to make sure it’s real. Like a hunger that’s learned your name, like the sound of metal scraping asphalt at 220, like the ache you begged for even when you swore you’d never need. He’s beautiful like the moment the engine blows out and the world still spins. Like blood on glass. Like the wreckage after the win.

His eyes dark and bottomless, mouth set in a line that knows disappointment intimately, jaw sharp like he’s always one second from grinding through it. You didn’t know his name when it started, but you knew his type. The kind built to break records and people in the same breath. The kind Taeyong sent you here to kill. He held your gaze too long that first night, saw you in a way that made your skin crawl, made your chest ache. Not curiosity. Not attraction. Recognition. Like he already knew the ending and was daring you to change it.

That was the night you learned what kind of danger he was. Not the explosive kind. Not even the cruel kind. The kind that watches. The kind that waits. The kind that strips you down without ever touching you. And back then, when he tilted his mouth and looked away, it felt like rejection. Now, it feels like memory. Now, it feels like fate. Because somehow, some way, the man you were sent to bury is the man who saved you. He’s the one who handed you the keys. The one who let you drive. Not just the car. Not just the race but everything. The whole fucking future. And now he sleeps under your fingertips, tangled with you in oil-stained leather, his heart beating like it belongs to your hands.

His cock is still inside you when you press your palms flat to his chest and shift, slow, dragging yourself up over his body while your thighs tremble and your skin clings to sweat-slick leather. Jeno’s still catching his breath, mouth parted, chest rising in ragged bursts beneath you—but the moment your cunt leaves him, soaked and pulsing, he groans like it hurts. His hands find your hips again, still possessive, still grounding you like you might disappear if he lets go. “Where you going, baby?” he breathes, eyes dark, voice hoarse. You don’t answer. You just keep crawling up, knees on either side of his ribs now, fingers threading through his hair, slow and deliberate. His tongue flicks out when you reach his collarbone, and you feel the change in him before he even opens his mouth. “Fuck. You gonna sit on my face?” It’s reverent. It’s ruined. It’s like he’s begging without saying please.

You tilt your head, smirk down at him, and whisper, “Thought you’d never ask.”

He adjusts under you, eager now, both hands sliding down to cup your thighs, spreading them, dragging you higher with a low growl that vibrates through your skin. You brace against the roof of the car, knees wide, your slick already dripping down the inside of his neck, and when you lower yourself onto his mouth, it’s like dropping into fire. His tongue is hot, fast, greedy from the first second. He licks into you like he’s been starving for it, like your cunt is the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. You moan—loud, unfiltered, so fucking gone—and grind down harder, your thighs squeezing around his head. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. He pulls you closer, buries his face deeper, tongue working in tight, relentless strokes, lips sealing over your clit with a groan that sounds more like mine than anything else. His eyes flutter closed, but he keeps his grip bruising, keeps his rhythm perfect. It’s not just hunger—it’s worship.

You rock against him, hands scrambling at the car roof for balance, body jerking every time he sucks harder. The heat is unbearable. Your skin’s flushed, hips twitching, moans turning breathless. “Jeno—fuck, baby—don’t stop,” you pant, your voice barely holding together. He hums under you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine, and that’s when it hits you—how good he is at this. How much he knows your body now. Every flick of his tongue is intentional. Every moan from your mouth makes him devour you deeper. He wants to ruin you like this. He wants to be the reason you fall apart again, even after everything. Especially after everything. You grip his hair tighter, thighs trembling. “You love this, don’t you?” you gasp. “You love me like this.” His eyes open, blown wide and black, and he nods against your cunt, never breaking rhythm, never once letting you up for air.

Your orgasm builds hard, brutal, all at once. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, body locked in place as his mouth works you to the edge and shoves you right over it. You scream when you come, a high, broken sound, hips jerking, hands flying back to your own chest like you can hold it in somehow—but it’s too much. You grind against his mouth, riding it out, soaking his face, and he just takes it. Moaning like he’s the one coming, like this is what he’s made for. When you finally lift off him, everything’s soaked—his lips, his jaw, his hair, your thighs. He’s panting, looking up at you like you’re divine, like you own him. You lean down and kiss him, taste yourself on his tongue, and he grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in tighter. “Let me keep you,” he whispers. “Let me keep doing this forever.”

You nod, body still trembling, cunt still dripping, and slide back into his lap—right over his hard cock, still soaked from before. “Then show me,” you murmur. “Show me what forever feels like.”

He doesn’t stop kissing you, even as you come down, even as you breathe out his name like it’s the only thing that’s ever fit right in your mouth. His lips trail along your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, reverent and soft like prayer, but the way he shifts his weight tells you he’s not close to done. His hands move with purpose, calloused palms sliding over your hips, guiding you back with him until the cool glass of the Soul Line car presses against your spine. He crowds in, chest against yours, heartbeat wild beneath all that black and gold, and when he kisses you again, it’s messier, needier, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that’s barely held back. “Turn around,” he murmurs, already spinning you by the waist, already gathering your hair in his fist. “Hands on the glass. Let them see what I get to keep.”

The breath punches out of you when he yanks your hips back, the curve of your ass meeting the sharp line of his pelvis. The engine’s long gone cold, but the metal burns against your chest as he presses you flat to the window, one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging your panties down and off with one clean pull. You gasp as his fingers return between your legs, two thick knuckles sinking deep into your soaked cunt, curling up until your forehead thuds against the glass. “Still so wet for me,” he growls, kissing the shell of your ear. “You never stop wanting it, do you?” Your thighs tremble as he scissors you open, as his voice goes darker. “Bet you were wet during the race too. Bet you loved knowing everyone was watching you take control with my cum still dripping down your thighs.”

He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock in one harsh thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs. You moan—raw, full-bodied—and the sound fogs the glass in front of you. His grip is punishing, one hand wrapped around your throat now, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. “Say it,” he pants into your ear. “Say you’re mine.” You gasp his name, whimper it, choke on it, and he fucks you harder. “Louder.” You scream it this time, legs shaking, nails dragging streaks into the paint of the car. “I’m yours, Jeno. I’m yours—I’ve always been.” He groans at that, lets go of your throat to grab both hips and slams into you with bruising rhythm, each thrust sending you forward against the glass.

You come hard, again, cunt squeezing him so tightly he has to pause, cursing, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. “Fuck—baby—fuck, you feel too good—” He thrusts again, again, until he’s spilling inside you, jaw slack, voice low and broken, hips grinding deep like he’s trying to leave a part of himself behind. He doesn’t pull out. He never does. He stays buried, arms wrapped around your waist, chest to your back, breath ghosting over your skin like he’s never going to let you go.

And you don’t want him to. You’d let him fuck you into every wall of this goddamn garage. You’d let him fill you up before every race just to remind you where you belong. With him. Always him.

"Overdrive: How Corruption Nearly Killed the Circuit and the Racer Who Survived It" — By Y/N.

They said speed was a measure of control. That the one who steered best survived longest. That the track didn’t care about legacy or blood, only how tightly you could hold a corner without breaking. They were wrong. The truth is, speed doesn’t save you when the system wants you dead.

For years, we’ve watched the League operate beneath the illusion of merit. Wins attributed to grit. Losses to lack of talent. The bodies left behind in the wreckage? Written off as unfortunate. A risk of the sport. But what if the danger wasn’t in the curve? What if it was in the hands behind the system?

I came to this team—Soul Line Racing—believing what I was told. That they were chaos in chrome. Unruly. Dangerous. A liability to the League’s reputation. I was sent to observe, to report, to deconstruct the myth of their underdog status. I came with suspicion in my chest and a deadline on my back.

And then I saw what happened when the lights went green.

Override signals triggered mid-race. Glove actuators seizing against their users’ neural maps. Visors blurring at the most dangerous moments of the track. Brake systems delayed by milliseconds—just long enough to kill. I watched a machine betray its driver, and I watched that driver—Lee Jeno—keep going.

I tracked the telemetry. Compared it. Cross-referenced accidents dating back three years. I found patterns. Rewrites. Dead code. I found an embedded signal hiding in the admin relay, quietly issuing commands that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with control. I followed the money. I followed the silence.

And I found Lee Taeyong.

Director of Oversight. Champion of “reform.” My boss. The one who stood at every podium claiming to love the sport while quietly orchestrating its downfall from within. His signature appears on system update logs that correlate to crashes. His admin credentials were used to access override commands during races that ended in injuries. His network of offshore sponsors kept drivers silent. When Soul Line gained traction, Taeyong clipped their wings. When other teams refused to play along, they crashed too.

Racing was never about the engine. It was about the illusion. That you could beat the odds with enough grip and guts. That if you were good enough—fast enough—you could outrun whatever was chasing you. But that’s the first lie the league teaches you: that merit gets you further than obedience. That surviving the track means you’re worthy. The truth is harder to swallow because what really determines who crosses that line isn’t reflex or training. It’s who the system decided would win long before the race began.

They told us Soul Line was reckless. Disobedient. Unfit for the spotlight. But I’ve never seen a team more precise in chaos. More united in disaster. They didn’t crack under pressure. They cracked through it because they had to. Because they were the only ones racing with a target on their backs and knives in their hands, trying to drive through a warzone masked as a sport. The league called them volatile. What they meant was: uncontrollable. What they feared was: unbought.

Jeno was never meant to live through that final race. That’s what haunts me. Not just that they tried to end him, but that they expected the world to clap for it. That they disguised the sabotage with press releases and data anomalies and thought we’d be too dazzled by the speed to notice the blood. He didn’t win because they let him. He won because we caught them first because his hands never stopped gripping the wheel, even when it was wired to betray him.

Taeyong didn’t build a racing empire. He built a weapon. One he used to silence, distort, erase. He turned racers into pawns. Data into death sentences and every time someone came close to exposing the pattern, he made sure their season ended early. What he underestimated was what happens when one of those pawns writes it down. Records the glitches. Maps the override spikes. Names him.

This isn’t just corruption. It’s psychological warfare. It’s grooming a generation of drivers to believe that failure is their fault, that crash means weakness, that burnout is proof they weren’t strong enough. It’s hiding the kill-switch inside the glove and calling it a feature. It’s rewriting telemetry mid-lap and blaming the body for not adapting. It’s trauma dressed in sponsorship.

We don’t need reform. We need demolition. Burn the tracks. Rewrite the oversight architecture. Install external forensic audits after every circuit. We need new language—terms that account for technological interference, for override injury, for sabotage trauma. Because this was never just about Soul Line. They were just the loudest ones screaming. Now the rest of the world needs to start listening.

THREE MONTHS LATER

The pit smells like torque and heat and victory now. Not desperation. Not danger. There’s a difference in the air that only those who lived through the fall can feel. It’s in the way the tools are stacked sharper, the way the boys walk like nothing can knock them down anymore. It’s quieter, somehow, even with the press screaming outside the gates. Seoul hasn’t seen peace since the article dropped. Since the expose tore through the league’s skin like shrapnel and bled everything open. Reporters started camping in the alleys around the pitt. Drones buzz low over the garages. Black vans idle outside at all hours. One news anchor called it “the Great Recalibration.” Another said you’d sparked “a new militant journalism.” You didn’t ask for any of that. All you did was write the truth but now the truth has teeth, and the world can’t look away.

Inside Soul Line’s garage, it’s not silence. It’s something stronger. Unspoken rhythm. Renjun wiping oil from his cheek with the back of his hand. Sunwoo muttering to himself as he calibrates a new telemetry mod that he swears can’t be hacked. Jaemin bent over the console, fingers flickering like they’re tracing god. None of them talk about the fallout. They don’t need to. They’re too busy building something no one can touch. And you’re in it. Fully. Woven into every thread. They don’t talk about Taeyong either. Not out loud. His name is sealed in court files and blacklisted from every league hall but they still flinch when telemetry glitches. Still watch the monitors like ghosts might crawl out of the data feed. You see it in Jeno’s shoulders, in the way he holds the wheel tighter now but he’s healing. They all are. Slowly, collectively, like bones re-setting.

They handed you the jacket this morning without warning. Matte black, sleeves heavy with gold circuitry. It looked like it belonged to you before it even touched your shoulders. The emblem glinted in the light like it knew. Like it always knew. Soul Line. Underneath it, stitched in clean, neat thread: your initials. Renjun didn’t say a word when he gave it to you. Just nodded, once. Jaemin met your eyes across the garage and didn’t look away. Sunwoo smacked your back and laughed, too hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotion in his chest. “Told you you were crew,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Passenger-seat ace. Journalism prodigy. Resident saboteur hunter. You’re one of us now.”

You wore the jacket all day. You still haven’t taken it off.

Jeno watched it all from the far side of the room, leaned against the frame of the garage door like he was guarding it. Or maybe just you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just tracked every movement, arms crossed, mouth unreadable. But later, when the boys cleared out and the light from the pit dimmed to a golden haze, he pulled you into the shadow of the garage and kissed you like it was a promise. Like it had always been you. “My girlfriend looks hot,” he said, voice hoarse. You touched the emblem on his chest and felt your own beat beneath his. Matching. Aligned.

You grinned, fingers toying with the edge of his jacket, voice light but laced with heat. “Leader now, huh?” you teased, tracing the gold threading with slow, deliberate circles. “Guess I’ll have to start calling you sir. Or would you prefer ‘daddy?’”

Jeno’s eyes darkened instantly, hands sliding down your ass to squeeze, rough and possessive. “Don’t play with me,” he muttered, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “You’ve been calling me that since the day we met.”

You tilted your head, smiled like sin. “Yeah, but now you run this place,” you whispered, lips barely ghosting his jaw. “Which means if I ride you right here, the whole league has to listen when you moan.” His breath hitched. His grip tightened. And just before he kissed you again, he growled low, “Get in the fucking car.”

The leadership changed with the speed of a whipcrack. Doyoung retired the same week the system crashed. Not in shame, but in solidarity. He stepped down from the circuit, stripped his badge, and walked straight into the fire. He joined the oversight board as its loudest reformer, made it his mission to burn every corrupted clause down from the inside. They tried to muzzle him with politics—he cut through them with statements and statistics, with field testimonies and footage only someone who’d been trackside for a decade could name by timecode. And Jeno? Jeno was never just the team’s driver. He was its spine. Its compass. Its command. The moment Doyoung stepped off the track, Jeno stepped up to the tower. Not as a poster boy. As a leader. As the one they now called captain. The racers followed him. The crew listened to him. The new rulebooks printed with his footnotes still scribbled in the margins. It wasn’t official but everyone knew. The face of the league wasn’t a boardroom name anymore. It was a racer with oil on his collarbone and your name whispered against his ribs.

The article detonated globally. Seoul moved first—broke their entire telemetry contract and formed a cleanboard task force within twenty-four hours. You sat in front of their oversight committee and explained how gloves could be re-rigged to force overdrive. How visors could scramble neural input without alert. You described how Jeno’s pupils blew wide and his hands twitched out of sync with his own mind. You showed them the data. You made them listen.

Then Japan paused its regional league entirely. “Under investigation,” they said. California followed—drivers unionizing, walking out mid-season until neural protections were guaranteed. Sweden leaked its own review. Four seasons compromised. Four years erased. Protest signs started appearing in circuits across Europe. “This track kills racers.” “No more ghosts behind the wheel.” “Override is not a malfunction.” It wasn’t just exposé anymore. It was revolution. It was all your words and Jeno’s voice and Jaemin’s code turned into a weapon.

They called your article the fuse. They called you the match.

And still, every time you come back to the pit, it feels like home. Like rebirth. Like the kind of place you weren’t born into but fought to earn. Jeno still tunes the cars like they’re alive. Renjun still calls you trouble. Jaemin still tracks your heart rate without asking. Sunwoo still tells you the only way to win is to never stop moving. You believe him now. More than ever. Inside the garage, the world is burning but it smells like fuel. Like the future. Like something no one can take from you now. Lastly, sitting just outside the frame—head tilted back, grease smudged across his jaw, eyes half-lidded from laughter—is the boy you didn’t mean to love, the one who handed you the keys anyway. Jeno. All yours.

The door shuts behind you with a muted click, and suddenly it’s like the world forgets how to be loud. The lights of the pit still cast a golden haze across the car’s shell, but inside it’s dim, thick with the kind of silence that feels earned, like the end of a war you both survived. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You just look at him—at the boy who taught you how to survive fire by becoming it—and reach for his wrist as he drops into the passenger seat. He doesn’t stop you when you climb across the console and straddle him, your thighs spread, your breath caught somewhere between grief and victory. His fingers find your hips and squeeze like he’s checking if you’re still real. You are. Every inch of you aches with it.

Your mouth grazes his first—barely, softly, like a warning—and then he’s kissing you like he needs to know how you taste after all this. How you feel now that everything’s different. Your lips part and you take him deeper, tongue brushing his, pace unhurried and sensual, like you’ve got all night to relearn each other. He moans softly into your mouth when you grind down into his lap, his hands sliding under your shirt with a reverence that makes your pulse spike. You undo his belt one loop at a time, slow and teasing, until the leather falls open and he’s twitching against you, already hard, already waiting. There’s something frantic under his breath when he speaks, something that doesn’t match the calm in his touch. “I love you,” he says, hoarse, his mouth trailing kisses across your jaw. “Reporter girl.”

You huff out a laugh, half breathless, half scandalized, and jab your fingers into his ribs, just enough to make him flinch. “Did you really just call me reporter girl while I’m literally on top of your dick?” you murmur, squinting down at him like you might disqualify him on the spot.

He grins, shameless and crooked, even as his cheeks flush. “Sorry, sorry—baby,” he amends quickly, voice dropping as his hands roam lower, possessive now. “Sweet girl. The love of my life. The only person I’d let hijack my racecar and my heart in the same month.”

You pretend to consider it for a second, then lean down again, kiss him long and deep and slow until he’s groaning into your mouth, fingers bruising around your hips. “That’s better,” you whisper against his lips, and when you roll your body down again, just to feel him jerk under you, you smile. “Now say it again but beg this time.”

His breath stutters, head tilting back against the seat as his hands tighten around your waist, dragging you down harder. “Fuck—please,” he groans, voice wrecked, all cock and desperation now. “I love you. I fucking love you. Say it back. Say it while you’re riding me, baby, come on—” His mouth finds your neck, biting down, kissing over it like it’s sacred, like you’re something holy and forbidden all at once. “Need to hear it,” he mutters, words caught somewhere between a moan and a command. “Say you love me.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding it in for years, spine arching into his hands, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whisper, and then louder, filthier, “I love you so fucking much, Jeno— with my entire heart.” He groans like it undoes him, like that’s what he’s been racing toward this whole time.

You sink deeper into him with a sharp inhale, your head tilting back as your body takes all of him in one deep pull. He curses under his breath, hands scrambling to hold your waist steady as your walls flutter around him. You start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until he’s buried so deep you feel the tremor in his thighs. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there like he wants to mark it, but he doesn’t. He presses a kiss to the spot instead. Gentle. Lingering. “This,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against your skin. “This is everything I didn’t know how to ask for.”

You rock against him with slow, aching purpose, your fingers tangled in his hair, your chest pressed to his like you’re trying to fuse together. Each thrust feels like a vow unspoken—like you’re rewriting the way your bodies understand each other. The seat creaks beneath you, windows fogging with heat, your moans low and broken as you chase the edge. He holds your gaze through it, eyes dark, lashes wet. “Don’t stop,” he breathes. “Please, don’t stop.” You don’t. You ride him until he’s shaking, until your thighs burn, until the only thing left in the universe is the way he fucks up into you, whispering things that sound like prayers but hit like promises.

When you come, it’s with his mouth on your chest, your name falling apart on his tongue. His orgasm follows seconds later, hips jerking up as he spills inside you, breath caught on a groan that curls straight into your spine. Afterwards, he doesn’t speak. He just keeps holding you, face buried in your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your waist like you’re the anchor and he’s been lost at sea. You press a kiss to his temple, then another to his collarbone, and feel the thud of his heart matching yours.

The windows are fogged. The world outside hums with what comes next—media, interviews, the shift of an industry—but none of that matters right now. Not when you’re still straddling him, still pressed chest to chest, still filled with everything you both needed to say and didn’t. You stroke his hair until he falls asleep against your skin, your palm steady over the back of his neck. Outside, the car glows beneath the pit lights like a secret. Inside, you close your eyes and breathe him in. This is where the story ends. Not with headlines. Not with a trophy. With a breath. A body. A boy. A promise.

And as you leaned your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut, you whispered the last line of the story neither of you thought would be yours—

“We won.”

tag list — @clownnationrey @ohmysion @euphormiia @jaemjeno

asks, likes, reblogs and comments always welcome <3

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anisespice · 1 year ago

Text

“ accidents happen ” || tokyo rev.

cont. two

synopsis: in which they discover you had their child and kept it from them all these years later.

pairing: bonten x fem!reader [ mikey, ran, sanzu ]

warnings: mature content ahead. MDI. mature language, crude humor, angst (if you squint really hard), deadbeat!bonten (unintentionally), not proof-read so there may be errors lol and i think that’s it :))

notes: i just want the drama >:) may make more parts, and even extend said headcannons into longer fics in the future, but wanted to post something quick for mother’s day. hope you enjoy!

When you disappeared off the face of the earth, MIKEY had never been the same. One fight. One argument that spiraled out of control, and you were just gone...

He had people looking for you for about a couple years, the trail ran cold after a while and he had half a mind to think you were dead. Up until he got intel of your whereabouts one morning during a meeting.

That man got up and left immediately.

He wasn’t accompanied with any of his men, only because he didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention in the broad daylight. Sure, him wearing a black hood, ball cap, and mask in a park didn’t really help him look inconspicuous but it at least concealed his identity enough for him to blend in. Mikey sat on a bench for a good forty minutes, anxious, making anyone who passed him shiver from his intense aura alone; even birds walked around him. After almost an hour of waiting, he began to feel frustrated. Perhaps, the intel was false. Just as he went to stand, already conjuring up ways to have Sanzu execute the idiot who wasted his time, he heard it.

Your voice. Seizing him, like a siren’s call.

His eyes were alert, darting around until they landed on your figure, spotlighted by the sun, like an angel descending from the heavens. You looked good, healthy. That was good. An array of emotions fought for their turn in Mikey’s heart—Relief, distress, anger, nostalgia. He couldn’t just pick one, especially when it came to you. As he watched from his spot, doing his best to not seem suspicious, he clocked the people you were approaching with excitement, your peppy stride as you waved at, what he presumed, to be mother and daughter.

However, his entire world turned upside down when the little girl extended out her arms towards you, and said “Mama!”

“Hello, my darling.~” You cooed, taking her into your awaiting arms from the woman, embracing the toddler tightly. “Mama missed you so much.”

“Missed you, mama!” was the child’s reply, followed by her giggles.

A bucket of cold water would’ve been better than this. Watching you converse with who he now assumes to be the babysitter, Mikey felt faint. Vision blurring, head pounding, heart clenching. You…you…no. There’s no way. You wouldn’t have moved on…you couldn’t have, not like this, not from him. You loved him, didn’t you? You still love him, didn’t you?

How could you…how could you?

Before he knew it, he started to follow you around. From the park, to the store, all the way back to your apartment. He already phoned some of the executives to start working in on the babysitter, and anyone else in your new found circle for information. He wanted answers. He needed them.

By the time you began fixing dinner, with your daughter laid down for a nap, you receive a knock at your door. Who could that be at this hour?

RAN was chilling outside the rendezvous spot for something the boss and a few other execs were participating in, having a smoke, minding his business, up until he sees a little girl with pigtails wearing a school uniform approaching, standing before him and just…staring. She barely came up to his thighs, could've been no older than seven. She was practically staring into his soul with bright lavender eyes that scarily reminded him of Rin’s when he was that age.

He stared back, head tilted as he blew out the smoke from the corner of his mouth. The hell was a kid doing on this side of town?

Then, after an uncomfortable staring contest, the little girl points at his cigarette. “My ma says those things are bad for you.”

Ran raised a brow, “Does she now?”

“Mmhm! She says it makes people unhappy.”

He offered a thoughtful nod, an amused grin spreading across his face. “Mm. Do I look unhappy?”

The girl looked at Ran for a minute, eyes squinted. Eventually, she shook her head. “No. But, ma also says people who are always unhappy get better at hiding it.”

Ran’s grin faltered. Her unwavering stare started to unnerve him, especially after hearing such a heavy statement come from such a small package.

After a brief moment of silence, he chuckled softly, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it away. He exhaled. “Smart woman.”

The little girl beamed, “Mmhm! My ma knows a lot of stuff.”

“Tsk. But not ‘Stranger Danger’, apparently.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Huh?”

“You shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself, let alone approaching someone you don’t know. ‘s not safe. Especially for nosy little girls who stick their noses in other people’s business. Your ma never taught you that?”

The little girl rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. “Duh. Of course she did. Everyone knows that rule,” she exasperated. Ran snorted, but yielded when she squinted at him, pointing as she sassed. “And I do so know you, so you’re not a stranger.”

This time, Ran couldn’t help the incredulous laugh. “Oh, you know me, huh? That’s not good. ‘m supposed to keep a low profile. Say, you ain’t a cop are you?” He teased, earning another eye roll.

“No. Too small to be a cop, dummy.”

“Oh, pardon me, I didn’t notice. Where do you know me from, then?”

The little girl pointed over to the building..where the executives were having their meeting. She beamed, “Ma’s works in there. On important people days she can’t get me from school, so she tells me to come straight here, and to not talk to the purple man that stands near the building. She says you’re mean.”

Ran smirked, then gave a half-hearted shrug.

“She also says you’re my pa. But, I never believed her. You’re too old.”

Ran’s smirk dropped.

Whether more from the first comment or the last, you decide. But, one thing was for certain: he needed another cigarette.

SANZU cackled watching some guy struggle to round up a couple of rowdy twins at the convenience store. One was knocking shit off the shelves while the other ran circles around the guy. It was what he needed for his bitch of a hangover, a good laugh to distract from the ache in his skull.

However, he wasn’t laughing for long when you came around the corner of the isle, holding a few items with a smile on your face that soon faded once you saw the scene unfolding before you; the pinkette thought he was still tripping balls. Blinking a few times to allow any after effects of the drugs to clear up, when you didn’t disappear he used his long legs to swiftly yeet behind one of the shelves, peering around it like some paranoid stalker. The last time you had spoken, you had threatened to castrate him with your teeth if you ever saw him again.

And he’d be damned if he tried your bluff.

He watched in awe as you straightened those twins up quick. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought they were trained to obey you, and only you. Any other authority be damned. While the guy was putting all the stuff back on the shelves, sweaty and out of breath, you gently reprimanded them for causing trouble. You still made that cute pouty face you always did whenever you were mad at him…

“What did we talk about earlier? Hm? Mr. Satoru was very kind to help mama today, you know. You two promised me you’d be on your best behavior for him.”

Sanzu gagged. This was the rebound you let nut in you? This huffy moron who can’t handle a couple of ankle biters, this was your king? He had half a mind to just gut the guy to put him out of his misery from that pathetic display from earlier, alone. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be back home. He remembers when he was that age—Rowdy, reckless, the Antichrist. Adorable, but deadly. God bless that poor bastard’s soul.

Wait…Mister? Not…dad?

The first twin whined, stomping their feet. “He’s too boringggg!”

Come to think of it…if Sanzu squinted…the longer he looked at the little family…he swore the more he saw the resemblance of himself in the tiny gremlins. From the hair, to the eyes, all the way down to the mannerisms…Hang on. When had been the last time you two fucked? Three…no, was it four years ago?

The second twin huffed, pointing at the man. “Yeah! And he’s jus’ being nice so that he can sleep in your bed, mama!”

You flushed, nervously chuckling as you looked around to make sure no one heard. Sanzu ducked behind a bag of chips, now nothing but eyes peeking through the gaps of food on the shelf.

So…that loser’s not the father? Then…could that mean..?

“He’s mama’s boyfriend, remember? He’s allowed to do that. And he’ll be around for a while, so I want you two to be nice, okay?”

“…okay, mama.” They grumbled.

Sanzu almost popped a blood vessel, fist clenched around a bag of Lays and nearly busting it. He chuckled darkly, “Oh. We’ll see about that.”

likes, comments & reblogs much appreciated!

#🍁wasabi #happy mom day :] !!#tokyorev #tokyo revengers #tokyorev x reader #tokyo rev angst #tokyo rev fluff #tokyorev fluff #tokyo rev headcanons #tokyorev headcanons #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev #tokyo rev imagine #tokyo rev x reader #bonten x reader #bonten #mikey x reader #ran x reader #sanzu x reader

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ddlydevotion · 15 days ago

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THE MAN NEXT DOOR

Being the object of Remmick’s desires…

currently listening to: Man Next Door by Massive Attack

a/n: I deleted the last fic I wrote for him since I wasn’t too happy with it but I decided to give it another shot. Also, I’m not a Sinners blog so I won’t write for Remmick all of the time 💌. Also, these are headcanons!!

When it came time for Remmick to finally turn you, make you his for eternity, he cradled you as if you were a fragile lamb. He didn't hide the fact that the process would hurt, but he wanted to diminish the pain as much as he could. He swayed you back & forth in his arms, cooing at you and whispering words of reassurance, rubbing your back with a large hand. y'a did good, sweetheart. real good. It's over now his buttery voice whispered to your aching form.

It didn't take all that long for you to find out what Remmick truly was. He was your neighbor, he lived further down the dirt road but close enough that you'd still be considered neighbors of some kind. It was the coldest night of September when he first knocked on your door under the guise of just wanted to introduce myself! It'd be rude for me to live so close and for us to be strangers. It was a sweet sentiment, yet you couldn't help but notice the fact that your all-too-nice neighbor only ever came around when the moon decided to take over for the night.

now, why do you only ever come around when it's night out? Does work have you out all day? your smoky voice questioned him. Let's just say you got your answer by the end of the night.

Remmick put in the work to get to know you before he revealed his true intentions, I mean, you knew he was interested in you because of how obvious he made it, but you surely didn't know that his skin burned when he walked underneath the sunlight. He listened to every little thing that you told him and hung onto it, storing it for future reference. Anytime that you opened up to him about past trauma, familial issues, work stress, or life in general, he'd react as if he was the one being negatively affected.

Y'know those videos where people are poking fun at attentive listeners for their facial expressions? They're talking about Remmick.

At times you'd feel as if he was the only person who truly understood you. Who you were, who you wanted to be, what you wanted, why you wanted certain things. Something deep inside of his rotten soul wanted it to be that way. He not only wanted to convince you that he was the only one who understood you, but he wanted you to believe it.

The amount of eye contact this man makes is insane. He'll give you the most heartfelt compliment and keep direct eye contact with you the entire time. He wants to make sure that you heard him and are registering his words.

Well, aren't you pretty? You are, why are ya lookin' at me like ya don't believe me? Oh, c'mon, look at me. You can't get all shy now, it's too late for that.

you're a whole lotta woman, ain't ya, darlin'?

(nsfw) Remmick drools like a damn hound when he finally gets his hands on you. His crimson red eyes focus on the sight of your flushed pussy making a creamy mess on his fingers, the noises of your sensitive center sucking his fingers back in makes him groan and let out a guttural fuck look at you, baby. His strong, unforgiving hands grip your thighs, wrapping your quivering legs around his waist. The feeling of his bulbous tip teasing your aching clit makes you keen, a strong hand grabs your cheek, look at me, sweetheart, he orders. yeah, just like that, want'chu to look at me when you cum.

we already know this man was stalking you like it was his damn job before he stepped foot on your porch. Thanks to his invasive habit, he knew incredibly intimate details about you before he even uttered a word to you. He knew what you wore to bed, how you touched yourself to fall asleep easier (just me? okay so y'all hate me.), he's become familiar with the friends you have come around, the music you put on before cooking dinner/cleaning, he picks up on which dresses of yours are your favorite.

He knows far more about you than the so called "friends" he sees you bring around & hears you speak to over the phone.

When the two of you were just getting to know each other, he decided to do his usual nightly visit to your house. Unbeknownst to him, you'd just started your period that exact night. You were left curious and a bit upset when he scrambled out of the front door while hurriedly saying oh I just gotta go, sweetheart. I forgot to do somethin' back home. It didn't take long before you finally found out why he left in such a hurry that night.

#x female reader #x fem!reader #x female y/n #remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick fanfic #remmick fanfiction #sinners x reader #sinners x fem reader #jack oconnell #Jack o'connell x reader #sinners 2025 x reader

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endlessdreamworld · 5 months ago

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My Sinful Little Angel

a short AU fic featuring secret priest! Sunday of a small village x baker! gn reader

"Thank you again, Mr. Oak," you said as Sunday, the town's resident tailor finished repairing the frayed hem of your apron. "Here," you offer him a half dozen of today's special treat, powdered sugar shortbread cookies filled with raspberry jam.

"Thank you," he gave you a soft smile that made your heart melt. "Here," he offered you up some coins, more than he should but still a paltry amount the judgmental villagers would consider good and proper.

It was part of your little arrangement. You showed up one day out of nowhere, and the town's bakery took you in. You had a roof over your head and a belly full of food, but they paid you next to nothing.

"Tomorrow we're going to be maki--" a knock interrupted your sweet little announcement. It was the baker's son. Sunday didn't miss how your gaze fell to your hands clutching your newly repaired apron, how you seemed so very bashful in the presence of your peer. Oh God in heaven, please smite this wicked fool who dare intrude upon your shared sacred peace and tempt you so.

You gave him a small wave as you headed for the door, "I have to go Mr. Oak, duty calls." You were always so polite and sweet to him, so diligent, always doing more than you should. Sunday noticed the powdered sugar you had graced him with when he paid you for your work and brought it to his unworthy tongue. An ambrosia he didn't earn, one he didn't deserve. You were an angel made flesh, and far too good for a backwater place like this. One day, he swore, he'd do something about it.

As the sun set, he flipped the sign in the window from open to closed before heading off to his second job. Every flock needed a shepherd, and who better to play the role as he? And so the town's church offered a confessional booth service where he served as the confessor.

He settled in behind the screen and prepared his heart for the service. People always had such ridiculous things plaguing them so, but who was he to deny them salvation?

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

It was the sound of your voice. He held his breath. He couldn't help but hear how nervous and deflated you sounded. What heresy could you have committed to feel so low? "Speak freely, child," he spoke in an unrecognizable drawl. Sunday preferred anonymity. It was better when people didn't know who they were speaking to.

You sigh inwardly and steel your resolve, "I've been having sinful thoughts about another. One of my fellow peers."

Sunday has heard those very words before, and he didn't like where this was going. He was quite fortunate to be able to steer you away from such an unholy sin. "What sorts of thoughts?"

He listened to the sound of fabric brushing against the confessional screen, the sound of you squirming from discomfort. "Carnal ones I'm afraid. Whenever I'm with him, I pray his hands linger more than they should. Every night, I dream of clandestine meetings -- of the perverted sort."

Sunday hears how very affected you are, and he isn't going to allow some degenerate sully your pure soul and infect your mind. He was almost certain it was that baker boy with the way you could scarcely look at him, but if he were to do anything about it, he would need to be sure. "Those are quite heavy sins, my dear, but the lord forgives all who wish to repent."

"Thank you Father." He can hear the smile in your voice and he has you right where he needs you.

"To repent, it would be best to disclose the name of this wolf in sheep's clothing that assaults your thoughts and faithful heart."

Yes, give me a name. This whisper campaign to your excommunication will be as delicious as it'll be unsurprising. It'll be my revenge for whoever dares touch you so frivolously, my sweet angel.

You got quiet, the sound of conflict. Sunday's chest tightened, anguished by your misplaced sense of guilt. You were trying to shield whoever this dastard was by the kindness of your soul. He knew you needed one final push. "The lord forgives all who sin, even the serpent who tempts you so."

"Well," you swallowed thickly. Agony permeated your words as you work up the courage to oust the blasphemer, "it's Sunday Oak."

#sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday hsr #honkai star rail #yandere honkai star rail #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yancore

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atlabeth · 1 year ago

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pretty boy

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer walks in one day with a new look. you handle it pretty well.

a/n: im in the opposite of a writing slump right now (will prob fall into a writing slump right after i say this) probably because im procrastinating on essays for school and i can only write when im meant to be doing work. but tiny little fluffy spencer one shots are very good for the soul right now. i think it's my way of healing from my hotch fic

wc: 1.8k

warning(s): one slightly sexual joke from emily. all fluff

You usually don’t get to the office this early, but you don’t exactly have a choice. The BAU’s last couple cases have all run one after another, barely leaving you any time in the office, and now you’re paying for it.

You’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through and not nearly enough time to do it all—if you’re lucky, you’ll be writing reports for a few days straight. If you’re not, you’ll be putting in some overtime.

“This is the most focused I’ve ever seen you this early,” Derek comments.

You shake your head with a sigh. “These reports are government mandated torture.”

He chuckles, and he nods at Emily as she walks over to her desk. “Are you this busy?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve still got a report to get through, but nothing that bad.”

“I get it,” you say wryly. “You’re all more organized than me. Just don’t come to me asking to go out tonight—you know I can’t say no.”

“But don’t shots taste better when you’re supposed to be doing work?” Derek asks, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

“Not when I’ve got this much work I’m supposed to be doing.”

You hear the elevator ding and glance up—Spencer’s walking through and fixing his tie. You look back down at your report as you greet him.

“Hey, Spence,” you call. “Why’re you late?”

“I’m not late,” he says, and you can see him checking his watch out of your peripherals. “I’m two minutes and thirty-three seconds early.”

“Really?” you muse. “I guess I’m just so used to you being here before me.”

“You can’t judge my timeliness on yours when you’ve been here for an hour already,” Spencer says.

You frown, tapping your pen against the paper. “How do you know?”

“You’re settled in already. Your coat’s on your chair, your stack of unfinished files is smaller than it was last time we were in the office, your coffee isn’t steaming, and your mug has a chipped handle—when they were put away last night, that one was set in the front, so you’d have to be here early to get it.”

“Touche,” you murmur. You’re not sure why you ever ask your team of profilers how they know something.

“You also look like you don’t want to be here,” he comments. “That’s pretty typical of agents who have to be here before their regular hours.”

You chuckle and tilt your head in admission. You don’t really want to be here, especially running on so few hours of sleep.

“Why aren’t you as early as usual?” Emily asks.

“My neighbor knocked on my door this morning to ask me for something,” Spencer says. “It threw off my whole routine. I picked the wrong tie, I couldn’t pack my bag properly, and I had to toast my bagel for two minutes instead of three and a half to make it out in time.”

“How terrible,” Derek says with mock austerity.

“It is terrible!” he exclaims. “It’s scientifically proven that a morning routine makes you happier, more energized, and ready to seize the day—carpe diem.” Spencer sets his bag on the floor next to his desk and looks at everyone else with a smile. “Did you know that phrase was actually coined by the Roman poet Horace in his Odes? It comes from the first book out of four in the eleventh poem—the full phrase in Latin is carpe diem, quam mini—”

“How was your bagel?” Emily asks to interrupt him, and he pauses.

“It was good,” he says. “Could’ve been toastier.”

You look up, a teasing remark on the edge of your tongue, but the words die in your throat when you actually see him.

Spencer’s started combing a hand through his hair to fix it—must have been another part of his affected morning routine—his lips set in a pout as he tries to see his reflection in his dark monitor. He always looks good, even without trying, but now—

“You’re wearing glasses,” you say dumbly.

“My contacts dried out,” he grumbles, still focused on his hair. “We got home so late last night I forgot to put them in their solution, and I had no time to fix them because my neighbor messed up my whole morning.”

You nod, still unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Are you gonna keep wearing them?”

“I don’t know. Contacts are better for cases because I’m not worried about them falling off or fogging up, but I usually sleep on the jet on the way back, and sleeping with contacts in isn’t good.” He smiles a bit as he fully turns to you, seemingly satisfied with his hair. “It reduces the amount of oxygen that gets to your cornea, which damages the cornea’s surface and makes it harder to regenerate new cells. Sleeping with contacts actually makes you six to eight times more likely to get an eye infection.”

You nod again, your brain still not quite working at full power. You always love listening to Spencer’s fact dumps—it gives you a lot of material to impress your non-BAU friends with on the side, and you’re eternally thankful for that—but right now, you seriously cannot focus.

You’d never really thought about him in glasses, but that’s probably a good thing if this is how it makes you feel.

You were valedictorian as an undergrad, and you received stellar feedback from your professors during your masters program. You’re an excellent profiler, a valued member of the BAU, and you’re a goddamn FBI agent.

And yet you can’t find a single thought in your head because your coworker showed up to work wearing glasses.

He’s still rambling about other common causes of eye infection and how nobody seems to take them as seriously as they should, when Derek, not even trying to hide his grin at your turmoil, speaks up.

“Reid. Wanna cool it a bit?”

Spencer’s eyes dart over to him for a moment before he stops. “Uh— sorry.” He frowns as he looks back at you. “Why do you ask? Do you not like them?”

“No,” you blurt out, and you shake your head a multitude of times. “No. They look great. You look great. They’re—” You dig your nails hard into your palm as you try your hardest to smile like normal, and this time you nod. “They’re good, Spence.”

“Thanks.” Spencer does that little smile-nod combo of his, and he pushes his glasses back into place with his thumb by the bottom of the frames. “That’s nice to know I’ve got another option.”

You thank whatever god may be out there that Hotch and Penelope are busy in their offices and JJ is busy with some other case, because you think you would die if anyone else saw you like this.

“Hey, Reid,” Emily says, also not doing a very good job of hiding her amusement. You hate your team sometimes. “They’re almost out of sugar in the breakroom. If you want coffee the way you like it this morning, you should probably get in there.”

“What?” Spencer shoots up, his brows already furrowing into a frown. “That— that’s ridiculous. I can’t mess up my morning any more.”

“You’d better get in there, then,” she remarks.

“We’re an entire office of agents running on coffee,” Spencer complains as he starts walking. “How are we almost out of sugar?”

“Because half of ‘em drink it black,” Derek says, and Spencer shakes his head with a sigh as he leaves.

“That’s ridiculous.”

You bury your head in your hands the moment he’s gone and Derek laughs. “I wish I could’ve gotten that on video.”

“Don’t talk to me,” you groan. “It is not fair of him to walk in like that.”

“And that is why I call him pretty boy.”

“He needs them to see,” Emily says with amusement as she leans against the side of your desk. “You just can’t control yourself.”

“I need to transfer offices,” you say, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”

“You should ask him out!” Derek encourages. “He’d probably say yes.”

“Absolutely not,” you insist. “I doubt he likes me like that. A— and even if he does, that’s the last thing either of us need right now.”

“I don’t know,” Emily muses. “It looks like you clearly need something.”

You let out a frustrated noise as you screw your eyes shut. “I’m doomed.”

You hear Spencer say your name, and when you look over at him, one hand still pressed against your head, you see he’s got two cups of coffee in his hands. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you say weakly. “I’m great. Why?”

“I got you one too,” he says, holding one of the mugs out to you. “The one you have is probably cold by now, and it looks like you need an extra kick to get through all those reports.”

“Thanks, Spence. That’s sweet.” He nods as you take the proffered mug, and you swear your cheeks are as warm as the coffee. He is really testing your strength today.

“You— you have a lot,” he says, and you huff a dry laugh and nod. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic. I could take half of them if you want?”

Your grip tightens on the mug and you can feel Derek’s eyes on you. “I couldn’t make you do that, Spence.”

“You’re not!” Spencer exclaims. “I can get through mine really quickly—we worked together for almost the whole last case so I can do all of that anyways.”

“...You’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

“I’m sure,” he nods. “Besides, I offered. I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to.”

And god damn him, because he nudges his glasses back into place again, pushes a strand of loose hair back into place. You’re dying over here.

You set the mug of coffee on your desk and pick up the top half of your pile. “All yours, Spence.”

He takes the bottom half and smiles at you, and you smile back before he walks back to his desk. You are dying over here.

“Let me know how I can pay you back,” you say, and he shakes his head.

“You don’t need to pay me back.”

“Really?”

Spencer nods. “I mean, Morgan invited us all out on the jet last night, and I don’t think I can do it alone. If you can get out of the office in time, I don’t have to. I think that's enough of a payback.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll be there.”

He smiles again and nods, then he picks up a pen and focuses in. You turn back to your desk, your face burning.

“What was that about him not liking you like that?” Derek says.

“Quiet!” you whisper-yell, swatting him with the pile of files in your hand. “He might hear you!”

“He’s not hearing anything while he’s focused on that,” he says. “That just means you can ogle him more.”

You groan again, letting your forehead fall into your palm. “I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re right.” Emily chuckles as she stands up. “You are doomed.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #x reader #sadie writes

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throttleheart · 2 months ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Tumblr Dot Com

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff. Crack treated seriously

Warnings: 18+, fluff, secondhand embarrassment, teasing, implied smut if you squint, lando being a menace & insufferable, unresolved tension, suggestive comments, mutual pining, Y/N fighting for her life, suggestive content, makeout session, mutual pining, nsfw, they like each other so much get a room

Word Count: ~7.7k

Summary: the one where y/n runs a Tumblr account about Lando and posts fics about him, cue to chaos

tried my hand at writing something that's not in third person

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You should’ve closed your laptop.

It was a simple action. One you always did when Lando came over. Because no one—not a single soul—could ever find out about your Tumblr account.

But apparently, the universe had other plans.

Lando was in your kitchen, rummaging through your fridge like he owned the place, while you were curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone. It was supposed to be a chill night—just movies, snacks, and him being annoying as usual.

And then you heard it.

“Wait.”

You looked up, confused. Lando was frozen, standing behind your desk, your very open laptop in front of him.

Your very open Tumblr dashboard in front of him.

With a very specific post displayed at the top.

A post about him.

Your stomach dropped. “Lando.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the screen, his eyebrows raising higher by the second.

Then, slowly—so painfully slowly—he turned to face you, a shit-eating grin already forming.

“What. Is. This?”

Your soul left your body.

“Nothing,” you blurted out, scrambling off the couch. “Close it. Right now.”

But he didn’t close it. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he scrolled.

“Oh my God—Lando, STOP.” You lunged for your laptop, but he dodged, laughing as he held it out of reach.

“‘His hands gripped my waist, possessive, desperate—’” He snorted, eyes flicking over the words. “Jesus, is this about me?”

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Instant cardiac arrest.

“Shut up, shut up, shut UP.” You tried to grab it again, but he was too quick, spinning away, now fully invested in your blog.

“‘Lando Norris was dangerous in the kind of way that ruined you for anyone else—’” He whistled, eyes wide. “Wow. You really think I’m that good, huh?”

You groaned, face burning. “I swear to GOD, if you don’t stop—”

But he just grinned, scrolling further.

“Oh, look! A fic! Let’s see what I’ve been up to.”

You panicked. “LAN—”

And then he started reading out loud.

“‘His breath was hot against my neck, sending shivers down my spine as he whispered—’”

“I’M DELETING THE BLOG.”

“‘Tell me who you belong to, baby.’”

“I’M BLOCKING MY OWN ACCOUNT.”

Lando lost it, doubling over in laughter, your laptop now clutched to his chest like it was his most prized possession.

“Oh, this is amazing. This is the best day of my life.”

You buried your face in your hands, wishing the earth would just swallow you whole. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You peeked through your fingers, glowering. “Yes, I do.”

He just smirked, finally setting your laptop down—but not before saving your blog link to his phone.

“Oh, you are NEVER living this down.”

You groaned again, flopping onto the couch, officially defeated.

Lando chuckled, moving to sit beside you, his arm draping over your shoulders. “So… do I actually whisper filthy things in your ear, or was that just for the fic?”

You whacked him with a pillow.

“I’m never speaking to you again.”

Lando snorted, leaning back against the couch, completely unfazed. “Oh, come on. You’re being dramatic.”

You glared at him, crossing your arms. “Dramatic? You just found out I run a Tumblr fan account dedicated to you. Do you understand how mortifying that is?”

“Oh, trust me, I do.” He grinned, stretching his legs out. “Because I’ve read your work. And I gotta say, I’m impressed.”

Your entire body burned with embarrassment. “I hate you.”

He clicked his tongue, smirking. “You already said that. But according to your fics, you also ‘crave me in ways words could never fully describe.’”

“I’M DEACTIVATING.”

Lando laughed, full and genuine, his stupid dimples making an appearance.

“Seriously, though. How long have you had it?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. There was no getting out of this. “A couple of years. Since before we even met.”

His eyebrows shot up. “So, you were obsessed with me before I even knew you existed? Damn, that’s kinda hot.”

“I’m begging you to shut up.”

Lando ignored you, his mind already working overtime. “Wait—does that mean you’ve written fics about me and other girls?”

You froze.

His eyes widened. “OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE.”

“IT WAS BEFORE I KNEW YOU.”

“SO YOU SHIPPED ME WITH OTHER PEOPLE?!”

You grabbed a pillow and threw it at his face. “STOP MAKING THIS WORSE.”

He caught it easily, grinning like an absolute menace. “Wow. Betrayal. And here I thought I was your favorite.”

You groaned, covering your face again. “This is literally the worst night of my life.”

Lando chuckled, shifting closer until his leg was pressed against yours. “Nah, this is great. Best night, actually.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”

You huffed, looking away. He was too close now, his familiar scent—cologne, a little sweat, a hint of something sweet—messing with your head.

Lando must’ve noticed, because his voice dropped, lower, smoother. “So… which one’s your favorite?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

He smirked, fingertips tracing random patterns on your thigh. “Which fic? Out of all the ones you wrote about me. Which one do you like the most?”

Your mouth went dry.

Because you knew exactly which one it was.

And it was not PG-13.

“Oh my God. You’re thinking of one right now.”

Lando’s voice was pure amusement, but there was something else underneath it too—something teasing, something dark, something undeniably smug.

You swallowed hard, trying to play it cool. “No, I’m not.”

“You so are.” His fingers brushed over your knee, barely there, but enough to make you shiver.

“Lando.”

He hummed, tilting his head. “You wrote about it.” His fingers slid a little higher. “Wanna recreate it?”

Your breath hitched.

His smirk widened.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I hate you.”

Lando grinned, cocky and completely unaffected. “You keep saying that, but I’m starting to think you mean something else.”

Your jaw clenched, doing your best to ignore the way his fingers were still casually resting against your leg, warm and so distracting. You weren’t going to let him win this.

Not after he found your Tumblr. Not after he read your fics.

Not after he figured out exactly how much you wanted him.

“You are never letting this go, are you?” You muttered, refusing to look at him.

Lando leaned in, voice low and infuriatingly smug. “Oh, absolutely not.”

Your entire face burned. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah?” His fingers traced small circles against your thigh, barely there but enough to make your breath hitch. “Then why are you still letting me touch you?”

You snapped your legs shut, shoving his hand away like you weren’t seconds away from losing your mind. “Because I haven’t kicked you out yet. But don’t test me.”

Lando laughed, throwing his head back. “God, you’re cute when you’re defensive.”

“I am not defensive!”

“Mhm. Sure.” He stretched, acting like this was the most casual conversation ever, like he wasn’t slowly destroying you from the inside out. “So… about that fic.”

You groaned, dropping your head back against the couch. “Lando.”

“What? I’m just curious.” He nudged you with his elbow. “Come on. Which one’s your favorite? The one where I take you in the backseat of a McLaren? Or the one where you call me ‘Sir’ and—”

“I’M BLOCKING YOU.”

Lando cackled, absolutely thriving off your suffering. “Oh, babe, it’s too late for that. You should’ve blocked me before I found your blog. Now I know everything.”

You whined, grabbing a pillow and burying your face in it. Maybe if you ignored him long enough, he’d magically disappear.

But, of course, Lando never made things that easy.

His voice dropped, teasing but also… something else. Something thicker, heavier. “You know… we could make it real.”

Your breath caught.

Slowly, you peeked out from behind the pillow, heart hammering. “What?”

He tilted his head, watching you like he was memorizing every little reaction. “If you want. If you think your writing is accurate, we could… test it out. See if I really do all the things you imagined.”

Oh.

Your brain short-circuited.

“You’re messing with me.”

Lando shrugged, eyes still locked on yours. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanna know what’s got you writing about me late at night.”

Your throat went dry. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you love it.” His smirk deepened. “And, apparently, you love me.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated that your entire body was betraying you, your pulse racing, your breath uneven.

Most of all, you hated that you were actually considering it.

Because the way he was looking at you now—dark eyes, lazy smirk, confidence dripping from every inch of him—made it really, really hard to say no.

“So, what’s it gonna be, babe?” Lando murmured, fingers grazing your wrist, slow and deliberate.

Your heart pounded.

You knew exactly where this was going.

And you didn’t want to stop it.

Not even a little bit.

“Fuck it,” you whispered, grabbing him by the collar.

And then you closed the gap.

Lando barely had a second to react before your lips crashed into his, the force of it knocking the smirk right off his face.

But he recovered fast—his hands instantly sliding around your waist, pulling you in like this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

And maybe he had.

The kiss was hot, messy, desperate, all the teasing from earlier boiling over into something neither of you could control anymore. You could feel him smiling against your lips, like he was so damn pleased with himself for pushing you this far.

So you bit his lip.

Lando groaned, hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck, okay. That’s how we’re playing?”

“Shut up.” You kissed him again, hands threading through his stupidly soft curls, tugging just hard enough to make him swear under his breath.

He exhaled a sharp laugh, pulling you fully into his lap like he had zero patience left. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You just smirked, nails dragging lightly against the back of his neck. “And you talk too much.”

Lando opened his mouth to say something—probably another cocky remark—but you cut him off with another kiss, grinding down just enough to make his breath hitch.

His fingers dug into your thighs, grip tightening. “Jesus, babe. You tryna kill me?”

“Just proving a point.”

Lando licked his lips, watching you like you were his next win on the track. “Yeah? And what point is that?”

You leaned in, lips brushing against his ear. “That I could write something even better after this.”

His reaction was instant—a low curse, a sharp breath, his hands gripping you harder like he was fighting the urge to just flip you over and take control.

And that’s when you realized.

Lando loved the chase. Loved being the one teasing, the one making you squirm. But now? Now he was the one losing his mind, the one stuck between wanting to keep up the game and completely unraveling beneath you.

And it was delicious.

You smirked, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his jaw. “Speechless, Norris? That’s a first.”

Lando exhaled sharply, his hands skimming under your shirt, warm and all-consuming. “Oh, babe. You have no idea what you just started.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

His grip tightened, his smile turning dangerous.

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Lando’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he looked at you like you were his next race, his next win—something he had to conquer, own, ruin in the best way possible.

And maybe you would’ve let him.

If you weren’t having so much fun watching him lose his mind.

You smirked, running your fingers down his chest slowly, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. “What’s wrong, Norris? Cat got your tongue?”

His jaw ticked, hands flexing on your hips. “Careful, babe. You keep talking like that, and I’m gonna have to shut you up myself.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, fingers dipping under the hem of his shirt. “That supposed to scare me?”

Lando let out a low laugh, but it sounded strained, like he was fighting every single instinct telling him to take control.

“Not scared, huh?” He leaned in, breath hot against your lips. “Even if I do… this?”

Before you could respond, his hands squeezed your thighs, dragging you closer until there was nothing between you.

You let out a shaky breath, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you completely fall apart. Not yet.

Instead, you smiled sweetly, tracing your fingers down his arm. “That all you got, Norris? Thought you were supposed to be a world-class driver.”

Lando’s eyes flashed, and you knew you’d just made a huge mistake.

Because now? He was done playing.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that.” His voice was low, dangerous, like the calm before a storm.

And you?

You were so fucked.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

Lando’s voice was low, the kind that sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers flexed on your hips, holding you therelike he wasn’t planning on letting you go anytime soon.

And the look in his eyes?

Yeah, you were so done for.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your cool. “Big words, Norris. But I’m still waiting.”

Lando huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You just love pushing your luck, don’t you?”

You smirked, tilting your head slightly. “Maybe.”

His grip on you tightened, and for a second, you thought he was actually going to give in—going to kiss you, ruin you, wipe that smug look off your face with his lips.

But then?

He did something much worse.

Lando leaned in, lips barely brushing your ear, voice low and smug as hell when he whispered,

“I read the smut, you know.”

Your entire body locked up.

“…You what?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Oh yeah. I read all of it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Every single detail.” His fingers traced small circles on your waist. “All those filthy little thoughts in that pretty head of yours. Want me to list some of my favorites?”

Oh. Oh no. Oh fuck.

Your face burned, heart racing way too fast. “Lando—”

“What was it you wrote the other day?” He pretended to think, tapping his fingers against your hip. “Oh, right. ‘Lando looks like he’d be the type to ruin you against the nearest surface and then act all innocent about it.’”

Your soul left your body.

“That was a joke, obviously,” you blurted out, your voice way too high-pitched to be convincing.

Lando just grinned, eyes gleaming. “Mmm, was it? Because it sounded like you spent a lot of time thinking about it.”

You wanted to die.

You shoved at his chest, face on fire. “Oh my god, shut up.”

Lando laughed, the sound bright and teasing, like he was having the time of his life watching you absolutely crumble in front of him.

“What else did you say? Oh—‘I bet he’d love taking his time, dragging it out until I’m begging’—”

“LANDO.”

He was cackling now, gripping your wrist when you tried to flee. “Aw, babe, don’t be shy. I think it’s cute.”

You glared at him, trying (and failing) to regain even a shred of dignity. “You’re the worst.”

Lando just smirked, leaning in again. “If I’m the worst, why’d you write an entire fantasy about me?”

You hated how your breath hitched, how your pulse raced, how he was way too close and way too cocky about it.

“That was fiction,” you muttered, even though your body was betraying you with every second that passed.

Lando tilted his head, lips barely inches from yours. “So if I kissed you right now, it wouldn’t be like what you wrote?”

Your breath caught.

His fingers brushed against your jaw, thumb grazing your lips, teasing.

“Wouldn’t feel that good?” His voice was softer now, but the intensity in his eyes? Burning.

You hated him.

You wanted him.

And he knew it.

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping his hoodie. “Why don’t you find out?”

Lando’s smirk dropped.

For the first time since this whole thing started, you had him right where you wanted him.

And you weren’t backing down.

Not this time.

Lando’s smirk faltered.

For the first time all night, you had him exactly where you wanted him.

And the way his fingers tensed against your skin? How his lips parted, breath just a little uneven?

Yeah. He knew it too.

His gaze flickered to your lips. Once. Twice.

You almost dared him to do it.

Almost.

But Lando Norris was nothing if not stubborn, and you should’ve known he wouldn’t make this easy.

Instead, he did what he always did.

He made you wait.

“You want me to find out?” His voice was low, teasing. Deadly.

Your pulse spiked, fingers tightening on his hoodie. “Are you always this annoying?”

Lando grinned, tilting his head. “Only for you.”

Before you could snap back, he moved.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His hand slid from your waist, up your side, over your ribs, until his thumb brushed the edge of your jaw. His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up, holding you there like he had all the time in the world.

You swallowed.

Hard.

Because this was different.

This wasn’t him teasing you for fun. This wasn’t him trying to get under your skin just to see you flustered.

This was something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

You could feel it in the way his thumb traced soft circles against your cheek, in the way his chest rose and fell just a little too quickly.

And when he spoke again?

It was barely above a whisper.

“Tell me if you don’t want this.”

Your breath hitched.

Lando’s forehead pressed against yours, his nose grazing yours, and fuck— this was so much worse than just kissing you outright.

Because now you could feel everything. The way his fingers tightened slightly, like he was holding back. The way his lips were just barely there, almost taunting you.

“I—” Your voice caught, because, holy shit, he wasn’t playing anymore.

His thumb traced your bottom lip, slow. Precise.

“Last chance, love,” he murmured.

You exhaled shakily, the tension thick enough to drown in.

And then?

Then you did the only thing you could.

You closed the gap.

Finally.

Lando swore softly against your lips, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually go through with it.

Like he had just lost some kind of game.

But the second he recovered?

He took control.

His hands moved to your waist, gripping tight as he pulled you flush against him. His lips moved against yours with that stupid mix of confidence and recklessness, like he had been waiting for this moment forever.

And honestly?

Maybe you had too.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into the kiss. And fuck, you wanted to memorize that sound, wanted to hear it again and again and—

Lando suddenly flipped you, pressing you into the couch, half on top of you now, grinning against your mouth.

“So, I was right.”

You blinked up at him, still breathless, still so lost in him that it took a second for his words to register.

“…What?”

Lando smirked, but his voice was soft, almost too soft when he whispered,

“I really can ruin you against the nearest surface.”

Your stomach flipped.

And that was when you knew—

You were so completely screwed.

Lando was still hovering over you, smirk barely there, but his eyes?

His eyes told a different story.

Because he was wrecked.

Just as much as you were.

Maybe more.

But he was still being Lando. Still being the cocky little shit who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

So when he spoke next?

It was deadly.

“You’re staring.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. “No, I’m not.”

Lando laughed, but it came out rough, like he was feeling every bit of this too.

“You’re literally looking at my mouth right now.”

Your gaze snapped up immediately. “Am not.”

“Liar.”

“Asshole.”

Lando grinned, but then his expression shifted, the teasing slipping into something quieter.

Something dangerous.

His fingers brushed along your jaw, so gentle it made you ache. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he was memorizing you.

You swallowed hard. “Lando…”

He hummed, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t stop looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And fuck— It was too much.

“Say it.” His voice was low, rough, like he was barely holding on.

Your breath caught.

“Say what?”

Lando’s lips hovered over yours, so fucking close that you felt his breath, but he didn’t close the gap.

Didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

“Say you want me.”

Your heart stuttered, because— Fuck.

This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t teasing.

This was real.

And it was so much worse because he didn’t say it like a challenge. He didn’t say it like he was certain you already did.

He said it like he needed to hear it.

Like he needed you to say it first.

Your throat felt tight, chest aching, because it was always supposed to be a game with Lando.

Always a push and pull.

But suddenly— It wasn’t.

Suddenly, it felt like this moment was everything.

And maybe that scared you more than anything.

But you still said it.

Still let it slip past your lips, quiet and shaky but unmistakably true.

“I want you.”

Lando’s breath hitched.

And then?

Then he kissed you.

Really kissed you.

Not the way he had before— Not playful or teasing or just for the sake of winning.

This was different.

This was slow, needy, like he was pouring every unspoken thing between you into the way his lips moved against yours.

Like he had been waiting for this moment forever.

And maybe he had.

Maybe you had too.

His fingers tangled in your hair, deepening the kiss, pulling you closer, closer, closer like he couldn’t get enough.

And fuck, neither could you.

Because you had kissed him before, but it had never felt like this.

Like he meant it.

Like you did.

Like neither of you were running anymore.

Lando’s lips were still on yours, but now?

Now, it wasn’t desperate.

Now, it was soft.

Like he was savoring it.

Like he was memorizing every second.

And maybe you were too.

Your fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his hoodie, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Lando exhaled, a quiet sound against your lips before he pulled back, just enough to look at you.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath still uneven, eyes still dark.

And then he smiled.

Not cocky. Not teasing.

Just soft.

Just Lando.

“I should’ve done that a long time ago.”

Your heart skipped, but you still managed to breathe out, “Yeah, no shit.”

Lando laughed, and fuck— The sound made your chest feel lighter than it had in days.

“I mean it.” His voice was gentle now, his fingers brushing down your arm. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

You bit your lip. “Know what?”

His thumb traced lazy circles along your wrist, gaze flickering over your face like he was deciding whether to say it.

Then, finally—

“That I’m fucking crazy about you.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because— What the fuck?

Your lips parted, but the words got stuck in your throat, and Lando?

Lando just smirked.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

But then his expression softened again, and suddenly, it wasn’t just teasing anymore.

Suddenly, it was real.

And it terrified you.

Because he meant it. Because Lando Norris meant it.

And you?

You were so gone for him it wasn’t even funny.

So you swallowed the fear down and just let yourself have this.

For once.

You leaned in, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, voice barely above a whisper—

“Yeah, well… I’m kinda crazy about you too.”

Lando’s eyes lit up, and before you could blink, he was kissing you again.

Slower this time.

Sweeter.

Like he wanted to make sure you believed him.

And maybe— Maybe for the first time—

You did.

Lando kissed you deeper this time.

Not teasing. Not hesitant.

Just wanting.

And fuck, you felt it everywhere.

His hands slid down your waist, fingers gripping like he was scared to let go. Like if he did, you’d slip away again.

Your back hit the couch, the weight of him pressing into you, his hoodie bunched up where your hands had fisted into it.

“Is this okay?” His voice was low, lips brushing against yours.

You nodded, but that wasn’t enough for him.

“Need to hear you say it, love.”

God.

Your stomach flipped, the way his voice dropped, the way his hands stayed gentle even when everything else about him was wrecking you.

“Yes, Lando.”

That was all he needed.

He groaned, pressing his lips back to yours, his fingers slipping beneath your hoodie, tracing hot lines over your bare skin.

Your breath hitched when his lips moved, traveling down your jaw, kissing, nipping, teasing until he reached that sweet spot at the base of your neck.

You whimpered, and he smirked against your skin.

“That’s new, huh?”

Your face burned, but you still rolled your eyes, pushing at his chest.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And so you did.

You pulled him back down, fingers threading through his curls, tugging just hard enough to hear that little groan that made your thighs squeeze together.

Lando noticed.

Oh, he definitely noticed.

“You like that?” he murmured, voice all gravel and honey.

You refused to answer, refused to give him that satisfaction, but then his fingers trailed lower, his knee nudging between your thighs and—

“Lando—”

Yeah. You were gone.

And he knew it.

His lips found yours again, hotter this time, hungrier, like he was making up for every second he hadn’t done this before.

Like he was making up for all the time wasted.

And fuck, you let him.

You let him take his time, let his hands explore, let his lips ruin you.

Because he was yours now.

And you?

You were his.

Lando’s lips were everywhere—soft, urgent, like he was memorizing you, like he was making up for all the times he hadn’t done this before.

Like he wanted to make sure he’d never forget how you felt beneath him.

His fingers slipped beneath your hoodie, the tips grazing up your sides, teasing, not quite touching where you needed him.

You gasped against his lips, your nails digging into his shoulders, needing something to hold on to because he was ruining you, and you weren’t sure if you’d ever recover.

Lando chuckled, his voice deep and husky, completely wrecked.

“You’re squirming, love.”

“Shut up.”

He hummed, his fingers tracing circles on your hips. “But you love it, don’t you?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but then he shifted, his knee pressing just right, and whatever you were going to say died on your tongue.

Lando grinned, completely and utterly smug. “That’s what I thought.”

You huffed, trying to glare at him, but your body betrayed you, your hands slipping into his curls, tugging just enoughto earn that deep, guttural groan that made your stomach flip.

God.

You could listen to that sound forever.

His lips found your neck again, suckling lightly, sending shivers down your spine. “Gonna write about this on your blog, sweetheart?”

You froze.

And then promptly smacked his arm.

“Lando!”

He laughed, the vibrations tickling against your skin, but when you tried to move away, he didn’t let you go.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, lips brushing your temple as his fingers slid beneath your hoodie to rest on bare, warm skin.

The shift in mood was sudden, but not unwelcome.

You felt him exhale, felt the softening in his touch.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice quieter now.

You nodded, breath still shaky, and he tilted your chin up, making you look at him.

“You sure?”

Your heart clenched.

Because for all his teasing, for all the smugness and the cocky grins, this was Lando too.

Gentle. Attentive. Yours.

You smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He hummed, tucking you into his arms, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your back.

Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, warm, safe.

After a few minutes, he chuckled. “Still gonna keep that blog up, or should I expect a rebrand?”

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “Oh my god, stop.”

Lando laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and you melted, because, yeah—maybe you had written about him ruining you.

But you never expected him to put you back together too.

Lando’s hands tightened on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you shiver.

“You hit me, love. That’s not very nice.”

You rolled your eyes, fully aware of the way he was still pinning you down, his body heat seeping into every inch of you.

“Maybe if you stopped talking—”

Your breath hitched as Lando dipped his head, his lips trailing lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

God.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, trying to ground yourself, but he was everywhere—hot and solid and deliberate.

“I like when you get all flustered, you know that?” he murmured against your skin.

Your only response was a sharp inhale, your fingers tugging at the fabric of his hoodie, wanting it gone.

Lando chuckled, low and wrecked, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin below your ear.

“Impatient.”

You huffed, trying to push him off, but he just grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the couch, his weight pressing firmly against you.

“Lando.”

His name came out breathless, more like a plea than a warning, and his eyes darkened instantly.

“Say it again.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat in his gaze, the way his pupils had blown wide, his usual bright blue eyes now stormy and intense.

“Lando.”

This time, you barely got the word out before he kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, like he was claiming you.

Like he didn’t just want you in this moment— he wanted every single part of you.

Your hoodie was pushed up, his hands finally roaming freely, his palms warm against your bare skin, mapping out every inch of you like he never wanted to forget.

Your head tilted back, your legs tightening around his waist, and Lando just smirked, dragging his lips lower, lower, lower—

And then—

A loud ping echoed through the room.

Lando froze.

You froze.

His head dropped against your chest with a groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Your phone.

A notification.

And, judging by the guilty look on your face, Lando already knew.

He lifted his head, narrowing his eyes, lips glistening and smug as he looked at you.

“Is that another Tumblr update?”

Your entire body burned.

You grabbed a pillow, smacking him in the face before scrambling off the couch.

“I hate you.”

Lando just laughed, completely unbothered, his arms snaking around your waist before you could escape.

“No, you don’t.”

And, to your absolute horror, he reached for your phone, grinning devilishly as he scrolled through your notifications.

“Oh, love—look at that. Another comment asking for a spicy update. Should I help you with some inspiration?”

You shrieked, grabbing your phone back, shoving him playfully away as he just grinned at you like a menace.

And even as you glared at him, breath still uneven, body still buzzing, you knew one thing for certain—

You’d never, ever run out of things to write about.

Lando was still grinning, still so smug, still looking at you like he had all the time in the world to ruin you completely.

And, god, you wanted to let him.

You shoved your phone under a pillow, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re the worst.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes dragging over you, from your flushed cheeks to your hoodie, which was still bunched upfrom where his hands had been.

And then—he smirked. The smirk. The one that made you weak every single time.

“Am I?” He took one slow step forward.

Your breath hitched.

“You sure about that?” Another step.

You should back up.

You should run.

But you didn’t.

Lando just watched you, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “Because I think, sweetheart, you actually like it.”

Your entire body felt like it was on fire.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already there, closing the space between you, his hands gripping your hips, tugging you against him.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You couldn’t.

Because he wasn’t.

You were absolutely, completely, utterly gone for him.

Lando chuckled, pressing a slow, teasing kiss just below your ear, his fingers tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

“Take this off.”

You froze, your heart slamming into your ribs.

He must’ve felt your hesitation because he pulled back slightly, eyes softer now, searching yours.

“Only if you want to, baby.”

Baby.

You nearly melted right there.

You swallowed, gripping his hoodie instead, tugging him closer. “I want to.”

Lando exhaled slowly, like he was holding himself back, his hands sliding up beneath the fabric, his fingers tracing fire along your skin.

“Then let me.”

He tugged it over your head in one smooth motion, and then—

His eyes.

Dark. Hungry. Completely locked onto you.

“Fuck.”

Your stomach tightened, heat rushing through you because he wasn’t just looking—he was memorizing you.

Like you were something he never wanted to forget.

And then, he was on you again, his hands gripping your waist, his lips crashing against yours, deeper, more desperate.

Like he was making up for lost time.

You barely registered being backed up against the couch before Lando’s hands were everywhere, sliding down your thighs, your hips, his fingers pressing, teasing, taking his time.

Your breath hitched as his lips trailed lower, down your jaw, your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.

“Lando.”

He groaned against your skin. “Say it again.”

You did. Over and over again.

And when he finally pulled back, his lips swollen, his curls a mess, his hands still gripping your thighs like he couldn’t bear to let go—

He grinned, panting, eyes still blown wide with heat.

“Gonna write about that, too?”

You laughed, smacking his chest before pulling him back in.

Because, yeah—maybe you would.

But for now?

You had way better things to do.

Lando was everywhere.

His hands, his lips, his body pressed against yours, like he was claiming you, like he was making sure you’d never think about anyone else the way you thought about him.

Like he was making up for every single fic you’d ever written about him— and proving he could be so much better.

His breath was hot against your skin, his hands slipping under the waistband of your shorts, fingers trailing lower, lower—

“Lando—”

He groaned, the sound gravelly, desperate, like he was just as wrecked as you were.

“Say my name like that again, and I swear—” His voice was low, dark, full of something that made your knees weak.

You trembled, clutching at his hoodie. “Lando.”

He growled. Actually growled.

And then—

Your back hit the couch, your legs parted, and he was above you, between you, everywhere.

His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding them higher around his waist.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” His breath was ragged, his hands tight on you, like he was barely holding it together.

You felt feverish, your skin burning, your pulse racing, your entire body aching for more.

His lips brushed your ear, voice wrecked.

“Tell me what you want.”

You whimpered, arching into him. “You.”

Lando exhaled sharply, his forehead dropping to yours. “Yeah? You want me to ruin you, baby?”

“Yes.”

His lips curved into a smirk.

And then—

He did.

Lando's eyes darkened, his grip tightening on your hips as he pressed firmly against you, letting you feel just how much he wanted this—wanted you.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, down your throat,leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan against your skin. God, that sound.

His hands slid lower, gripping your thighs, spreading you open beneath him. His touch was teasing, torturous, deliberate.

"Lando—"

He smirked, because he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Patience, love.”

Patience? Fuck patience.

You arched up into him, pressing your body flush against his, and his breath hitched, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Needy little thing, aren't you?" he teased, but his voice was hoarse, like he was barely holding himself together.

"Shut up and touch me."

He chuckled, low and dangerous. "You want me to touch you, sweetheart?"

"Yes."

"Where?" His fingers skimmed the edge of your shorts, barely there, taunting.

"Everywhere."

Lando swore under his breath, his control snapping like a frayed wire.

And then he was kissing you again—deep, desperate, all-consuming.

His hands slid under your hoodie, tugging it over your head, his lips barely leaving yours for a second before they were back, claiming, devouring.

He pressed his hips into yours, and the friction made your head spin.

"Feel that?" he breathed against your lips. "That’s what you do to me."

You whimpered, your nails raking down his back, pulling him closer, needing more.

"Lando, please—"

He groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. "Jesus, you're gonna be the death of me."

And then—

His hands. His mouth. His body against yours.

And nothing else in the world mattered.

Lando’s lips were still pressed to your neck, the heat of his breath making your skin burn. You could feel the weight of him above you, his chest rising and falling with every labored breath, his body just inches from yours, and the way his hands moved gently, almost hesitantly, as if asking for permission to get closer.

You didn’t stop him.

His fingertips grazed along your skin, light and teasing, before finally, slowly, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. You shivered, gasping as his touch lingered, so close but not quite touching what you needed.

His lips moved back to your ear, voice low and dangerous. "Tell me you want this," he whispered, the words laced with so much desire that it sent a wave of heat through your body. "Tell me you want me as much as I want you."

You swallowed, fighting the urge to pull him closer, but you couldn’t find the words at first. The tension was thick, hanging between you like a promise waiting to be broken.

Finally, you could barely breathe as you whispered back, voice barely audible. "I want you."

And that was all it took.

Lando’s lips crashed down on yours, desperate now, like he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hands pulled at your pants, quickly, almost too quickly, and in a rush of movement, you were completely exposed to him, the cool air of the room hitting your skin as his body pressed you into the sheets.

He hovered over you for a moment, pausing, his eyes locking with yours. "Are you sure?" His voice was rough, like he was barely holding onto his control.

You could barely speak, but you nodded, reaching for him, pulling him in, desperate to close the distance between you two.

"Then let’s not waste any more time."

And then, there was no stopping him.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Lando’s chest vibrated with laughter, and you could feel it everywhere—his warmth pressed against you, the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek.

You huffed dramatically. “I’m deleting my blog.”

Lando gasped, mock-offended. “You’d do that to all your fans? To all the people who live for your thirst posts about me? That’s cruel, love.”

You groaned, trying to shove his grinning face away, but he only held you tighter, rolling you onto your back so he could hover over you again.

His curls were a mess, his lips kiss-swollen, and the way he was looking at you—like you were his favorite thing in the world—made your breath hitch.

“You really read all of them?” you murmured, your fingers tracing absentminded circles on his bicep.

Lando smirked, but this time, it was softer. “Course I did. Had to know what I was up against.”

You frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

He let out a small breath, his fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You write about me like I’m some kind of dream, you know? Like I’m untouchable. But I’ve been right here, loving you the whole time.”

Your heart stopped.

Lando had always been flirty, always been the one to push your buttons, but this? This was different.

This was real.

Your fingers tightened around his arm, your voice barely above a whisper. “Lando…”

He smiled, leaning down, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I mean it, love. You’re not just some girl writing about me on the internet. You’re my girl.”

Something in your chest cracked open, something tender and terrifying all at once.

You reached up, pulling him down, your lips meeting his with more emotion than you could put into words.

Lando sighed into you, his hands sliding down your waist, his body pressing closer, deeper, warmer.

And suddenly, your blog posts didn’t seem so far-fetched anymore.

Because Lando Norris was the kind of man to ruin you in the best possible way— and put you back together all over again.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You were wrapped up in his hoodie, sitting on the couch, laptop balanced on your legs, as you stared at your dashboard.

Lando walked in, fresh out of the shower, a towel slung over his shoulders, hair still damp.

“Oh no.” His voice was teasing, amused. “Are you writing about me again?”

You glared playfully, closing the screen. “Absolutely not.”

He grinned, plopping down next to you, pulling you into his arms.

“What if I wanna read the next chapter?” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.

You shivered, tilting your head slightly. “What if I just live it instead?”

Lando hummed, satisfied, his fingers curling into your hoodie, pulling you closer.

“Best story I’ve ever been a part of, love.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

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