#air blowing and sterilization

[wepackmachine]

Milk Powder Cans Filling Capping Machine – Worldepack-Packing Machine Supplier

[dollgxtz]

Shattered Birdcage

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Sylus loses control due to the Frenzy Enhancer and you don't find the activater in time...causing him to become sexually aggressive and desperate to claim you for himself :3

Tags: praedator!Sylus x fem!reader, predator x prey, noncon, intense choking, rough sex, forced orgasm, degradation, biting, blood, injury, cunnilingus, creampie, threats, mentions of breeding, nicknames like little bird, near death experience (no one actually dies don't worry!!), fluffy ending to soften the blow :33

Taglist: @magpie-the-goblin-girl @sxremmie @lem-hhn @silverbrain @sizzlingtigerkitten @msslytherin00 @letharue @yu-irene @poptrim @monster-effer @ditsynddotsy @size0forhollywood @its-regretti @queenofstresss @reiheis @valentinared

AN: Hiii guys!! Are we enjoying the new banner? I AM! This is literally a dream come true for me. So I decided to write a fic based on it with a little twist hehe. Please heed the warnings guys, this is a very intense fic and I tagged it accordingly. This is legitmately straight up noncon, not cnc. If you asked for a tag and weren't tagged its cause I couldn't find your age on your profile anywhere, sorry! Enjoy!

You exhale slowly, fingers brushing over the edges of the movie tickets still tucked in your pocket before letting them go. The paper crinkles softly, a fragile reminder of something almost normal. But it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Maybe it never did.

Then, the world shatters.

The fire alarm shrills, a piercing, agonizing wail that erupts through the hospital like a banshee’s scream. Panic spreads instantly, as sudden and violent as a tidal wave crashing over an unprepared shore.

The chaos begins.

Screams.

Heavy, frantic footsteps thunder down the halls. The sterile walls of the hospital, once cold and quiet, now tremble with the desperate energy of fear. The mechanical beep of heart monitors, the faint hum of fluorescent lights—all of it drowns beneath the raw, unfiltered sound of survival.

Somewhere outside your room, a woman’s voice splinters the air.

"Fire! Help!"

Her cry is swallowed by the deafening roar of the alarm, by the clatter of overturned medical carts, by the stampede of bodies flooding the halls. A shadow streaks past the glass window of your door, her silhouette vanishing into the growing plumes of smoke curling along the ceiling.

Then—movement behind you. You turn, locking eyes with Sylus. He doesn’t flinch.

He leans casually against the wall, utterly unbothered by the pandemonium unraveling around you. Smoke licks at the edges of his leather top, but he remains still, red eyes gleaming with something sharp, knowing, entertained. The ghost of a smirk plays at his lips.

"They’re right on schedule," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unaffected, like this is nothing more than a carefully executed performance.

He extends his hand toward you, as if inviting you into a dance.

Your pulse kicks up, but you don’t hesitate. You take his hand.

His fingers curl around yours—strong, steady, warm despite the growing heat. With a single pull, you propel yourself forward, slipping past the threshold of the hospital room and into the chaos beyond.

Smoke greets you first, thick and curling, its acrid tendrils slithering into your lungs like a living thing. The air is already changing—heat warping it, bending it, making it heavier. The moment you inhale, your throat burns. You clamp your sleeve over your mouth, but the effort is futile. The stench of burning plastic and antiseptic chemicals invades your senses, clawing at your eyes, your nose, your lungs.

Outside, the scene is worse.

Patients in hospital gowns stumble through the smoke, their movements disjointed, frantic. Some clutch at IV stands like lifelines, others trip over their own feet, disoriented by the blaring alarms and the thick, suffocating haze.

Doctors and nurses shout over the chaos, their voices lost in the hurricane of fear. Someone grabs your arm—a patient, her face streaked with sweat and panic, begging for help—but you pull away. You don’t have time.

You aren’t here to run.

You and Sylus move against the current, pushing past the flood of bodies surging toward the exits. The sheer force of them is overwhelming, a sea of desperation crashing around you, dragging you under. A body collides with yours their fingers tangling in your sleeve—but you break free, heart hammering as you surge toward the stairwell.

"We’ll lead them to the rooftop!" you yell, the words raw in your throat.

Sylus doesn’t answer, but he’s right beside you, his presence like a gravitational pull you can’t escape.

The stairwell looms ahead, doors thrown open as black smoke pours inside, bleeding into the emergency lights like a living shadow. The second you reach it, you don’t hesitate.

You take the stairs two, three at a time, Sylus still close behind you.

The heat is worse here. It rises from below, clawing at your legs, your back, the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, your lungs searing, aching, screaming for fresh air. Each step feels like an eternity, each turn of the stairwell winding tighter, suffocating.

But you don’t stop.

Then—light.

A final shove against the rooftop doors, and you break through.

The moment you stumble outside, the temperature drops violently.

The cold slaps you across the face, stealing the breath from your lungs, shocking your overheated body into momentary stillness. The wind howls, slicing through the thick sweat on your skin, tangling through your hair, but it does nothing to mute the screams below.

And these screams are different.

Not panicked. Not desperate.

Dying.

A sickening weight drops into your stomach. Sylus steps up beside you, his stance tense, rigid, watchful. He doesn’t need to say it. You already know.

Ever’s assassins are here.

Your skin prickles as you scan the rooftop, the smoke too thick, the night too quiet. You can feel it in your bones—something is waiting.

Then—a shadow moves.

Then another.

Then—

Gunfire.

The first shot splits the air like a knife through silk.

You react instinctively, twisting your body out of the way as the bullet slams into the concrete near your foot, sending a sharp spray of dust and shattered stone into the air.

Another shot.

Sylus shoves you sideways, his movements lightning-fast, the force of it throwing you just out of the bullet’s path. Another impact—a bullet embedding itself into the rooftop behind where you had been standing only seconds before.

A crack split the air, followed by another. Sparks erupted as bullets ricocheted off metal pipes and rooftop vents, spraying embers into the night. Instinct kicked in before thought—you dropped low, rolling to the side just as a round zipped past your ear, embedding itself in the wall behind you.

Sylus moved with effortless precision, dodging fire as if it were choreographed. His jacket billowed as he twisted, reaching for his blade. A flash of steel. A wet gurgle. One assassin crumpled before he even realized he was dead.

You pivoted on your heel, raising your own weapon. A pull of the trigger—a sharp crack through the air. The man before you barely had time to react before the bullet found its mark. His body jerked violently, blood misting into the wind before he collapsed.

Another shot. Another fall.

They kept coming.

More shadows emerged from the darkness, gunfire tearing through the night in an unrelenting onslaught. You both wove through them like ghosts, striking fast, striking first. Your heart pounded as you ducked beneath a swing, countering with a sharp jab to the ribs, twisting your opponent’s wrist until his own weapon turned against him. A single shot. A final breath.

Sylus barely broke a sweat, his movements fluid, brutal, decisive. He drove his blade into one assassin’s chest, twisting just enough to make it agonizing. The man gasped, a short, choked sound before Sylus wrenched the blade free and let him drop.

"Pathetic," he muttered, stepping over the body without a second glance.

More gunfire. More bodies dropping.

Silence.

The last assassin twitched once, then stilled, his fingers curling in the pool of blood spreading beneath him. The night was thick with the scent of gunpowder, metal, and death.

And then—sirens.

A chorus of wailing alarms grew louder in the distance, flashing red and blue bleeding into the night sky.

The battlefield of bodies lay still, the chaos settled into an eerie quiet. The stench of gunpowder and iron filled your lungs, coating your throat with the acrid tang of death. The last spent cartridges hit the concrete, rolling in slow, uneven circles before finally resting among the carnage. Smoke lingered in the cold night air, twisting in delicate tendrils around the lifeless figures strewn across the rooftop.

You pushed out a slow breath, feeling the adrenaline still burning in your veins. Your fingers flexed around the grip of your weapon before you finally holstered it. The police would be here soon, their sirens growing louder in the distance, but they weren’t your concern. These bodies—the nameless, faceless pawns of Ever—would be cleaned up. Their presence erased. Their deaths categorized as classified in some sealed document, buried beneath bureaucratic nonsense.

"Sylus, we're clear! Let's move!" your voice came out sharper than you intended, urgency overtaking you.

He didn’t respond right away.

He was standing unnervingly still, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with something unreadable. His expression was neutral, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a glint of something dark that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. His movements were slow as he wiped away the smear of blood on his cheek, his fingers leaving faint streaks of red against his skin. The way he stood—too relaxed, too quiet—set off alarm bells in your mind, though you couldn’t yet pinpoint why.

Something in his expression made your gut clench. His usual amused arrogance was absent, replaced with something darker. His pupils were slightly blown, the faintest edge of something feral lurking in his gaze. The air around him felt charged, electric. Wrong.

Then a sound.

A wet, strangled cough.

You both turned.

The last assassin—one you had assumed was already dead—was still moving. Barely. He lay twisted on the ground, one arm stretched toward you, his fingers twitching, curled like claws. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath rattling, wet, his lungs failing him.

But his lips—coated in blood—were curled into a grotesque smile.

"Even though..." he wheezed, a broken chuckle rattling out from somewhere deep in his ruined throat. "We can't kill you or him..." He spat a thick glob of blood onto the ground, his grin stretching wider, his yellowed teeth bared like a rabid dog. "Both of you...can rot in hell!"

His fingers twitched, curling weakly around something small, something you hadn’t noticed before. Then, in one sharp motion, his fist clenched, and a sudden crack rang out. Glass shattered, the sharp snap almost lost in the cool air, but the moment you heard it, your stomach dropped. A dark, viscous liquid seeped between his fingers, mingling with the blood pooling on the rooftop floor.

Then you caught the scent.

It was faint at first, nearly masked by the coppery stench of death, but the moment it hit the back of your throat, your entire body locked up in realization. The chemical tang was sharp, bitter, something that curled into your lungs like acid. It was distinct. Familiar.

Your body reacted before your brain fully processed the danger.

"No—!"

Your pulse thundered in your skull.

The Frenzy Enhancer.

A biochemical compound designed for one thing: triggering an uncontrollable transformation in Praedators. The LCBI had confiscated hundreds of these vials from underground labs, tearing them away from illegal deals before they could be sold to the highest bidder. But no matter how much of it was taken off the streets, more always surfaced. It was unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

It worked fast—too fast.

You turned, heart pounding in your chest. Sylus had gone rigid, his muscles locking as though every nerve in his body had seized up at once. His breathing was deep, too deep, pulling in the scent like his body was craving it against his will. His head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring, a shudder running through him from head to toe.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, barely human.

Your blood turned to ice.

His pupils dilated until the irises nearly vanished, red pools swallowing the color in his gaze. His lips parted slightly, sharp, elongated canines catching the dim rooftop lights. He was salivating. A slick sheen of moisture gathered along his lower lip, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself together.

But he was losing the battle.

The Frenzy Enhancer wasn’t just a stimulant—it was a detonator. It bypassed control, restraint, morality. It didn’t just enhance what he was—it unchained it.

And right now, it was unraveling him.

"Sylus," you said carefully, your voice firm but measured. He twitched at the sound of his name, his head snapping toward you with a sharp, unnatural movement. His muscles trembled as if barely keeping himself together, but his gaze was locked onto you now—not as a comrade.

As prey.

You had seen this before as an Enforcer, watched it unfold in others who had been exposed to the drug. The Frenzy Enhancer didn’t just bring out what they were—it unchained them. It severed the link between logic and instinct, driving them into a state of raw, uncontrolled bloodlust. But this wasn’t just any Praedator—it was Sylus. He was already dangerously close to the edge even on a normal day, always teetering between control and destruction. Now, with the drug coursing through his system, you weren't sure how much time you had before he lost himself completely.

You had to move.

Reaching forward, you grabbed his arm, fingers locking tight around his wrist. His skin was hot, too hot. His entire body was trembling with need, his breath shuddering against his clenched teeth. The growl rumbling in his chest vibrated beneath your palm, every muscle in his arm wound taut like a spring waiting to snap.

"Come on," you gritted out, pulling him forward with force. He resisted, his stance firm, as though something inside him was battling whether to follow or attack. Your pulse thrummed in your throat.

Then he staggered.

It was slight, barely a misstep, but you used it. Yanking him forward, you dragged him across the rooftop, forcing his unsteady body toward the stairwell. His breath hitched in a ragged snarl, his movements twitchy, erratic, but he followed.

For now.

Each step was a battle. He stumbled against you, his balance skewed, his instincts fighting him at every turn. By the time you both reached the underground corridors of NightStrix HQ, his breathing had become ragged, his body burning up from the inside out. His restraint was slipping fast.

You shoved open the heavy steel door, dragging him inside. Deep within the base, hidden away from the rest of the world, the reinforced cage ready to hold the beast that was about to be unleashed.

Sylus grunted against you, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts as you dragged you both into the containment cage. His body was burning up, his muscles twitching violently under your grip, every fiber of him trembling with the overwhelming need to break free. Each second that passed was a countdown to catastrophe. The Frenzy was about to take full hold, and if you didn’t restrain him now, you might not get another chance.

You fumbled with the heavy iron chains, fingers slick with sweat as you worked to loop one around his thrashing limbs. The muzzle. You needed to get the muzzle on first. Your heart pounded as you grabbed it from the steel hooks on the wall, forcing it over his mouth while he snarled, his body lurching violently against you.

"Sylus, stop—!"

He thrashed hard, nearly knocking you to the floor. His strength was unnatural, monstrous, and it was only getting worse. With a final shove, you managed to secure the muzzle around his face, locking the metal straps tightly at the back of his head. But before you could reach for the second chain, he bucked with terrifying force, sending you stumbling backward. You barely had time to clasp the restraint around one of his legs before you were forced to scramble out of the cage.

The second you slammed the heavy door shut, he lunged.

The impact rattled through the metal bars as his shoulder slammed into them, the force sending vibrations into the floor beneath you. You jumped, heart hammering in your ribs, your breath coming too fast. He slid down slightly, panting, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven gasps.

Then, without warning, he laughed.

A dark, guttural chuckle, low and mocking, twisted through the air like poison. His pupils were blown slightly wide now, black swallowing the color of his irises as he tilted his head toward you. Even through the muzzle, his teeth gleamed, sharp and lethal.

"Won’t you help me?" he rasped, his voice thick with something twisted—half-growl, half-seduction.

You froze.

He was still partially unrestrained. That single remaining chain wasn’t enough—if the Frenzy fully took hold, he could snap it in seconds. If you waited too long, he would be too far gone.

You had to finish restraining him now.

Swallowing the tight lump in your throat, you slowly stepped forward into the cage. Your pulse roared in your ears, your body screaming at you to run, but you forced your limbs to obey. You kept your eyes on him, watching every twitch of his muscles, every flicker of movement. You knelt, reaching for the second chain, moving with deliberate slowness so you wouldn’t startle him.

"I’m not going to watch you turn into a monster, but I—"

You never got to finish.

Sylus lunged.

A blur of motion—heat, strength, raw power.

You barely had time to react before white-hot pain exploded in your neck.

A strangled scream tore from your throat as his teeth sank into your flesh, piercing deep, his jaws locking down like a predator making its first kill. Agony shot through your nerves, the sharp burn of torn skin flooding your senses. Your vision whited out for a second, pain so intense it nearly stole your breath.

Then instinct took over.

You snarled, swinging your fist up hard, your knuckles cracking against his cheekbone with enough force to send his head snapping sideways. The impact jarred his teeth free, a sharp burst of pain ripping through you as he tore away from your skin. Blood dripped from the wound, warm and wet, seeping between your fingers as you clutched your neck in blind panic.

For a moment, all you could do was breathe through the pain.

The air was thick with the scent of your own blood, sharp and metallic, mixing with the sweat and heat that clung to you both. Your hands trembled as you pulled them away from the wound, your fingers smeared crimson. The realization sent a sickening chill through you.

He had bitten you.

Not just attacked. Bitten.

Your gaze shot back up to him.

Sylus was licking his lips.

He ran his tongue slowly over the blood staining his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as though savoring it. Then his pupils snapped back open, razor-sharp hunger gleaming in them.

"You taste delicious." His voice was thick, dripping with need, his words slurred with the edges of something inhuman. His breath came in heavy, fevered bursts, chest rising and falling as his restraint frayed further.

A shudder ran through his body, muscles twitching beneath his skin. His fingers flexed, nails digging into the concrete floor as his entire frame shook with the need to consume more.

"Come...just a little more..." he purred, voice dropping to something low and lethal.

Then he lunged again.

You dodge just in time, barely avoiding the brutal force of his lunge. The heat of his breath scorches the space between you as he snarls, his entire body moving like a coiled beast just barely restrained by human skin. The instant he gets too close, you strike—your fist colliding with his cheekbone in a sharp, jarring impact that sends a jolt of pain radiating up your arm. The force of the hit knocks his head to the side, his body twisting under the sudden blow, but even as he stumbles, something in your gut tells you it isn’t enough.

Your heart pounds wildly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. But Sylus doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even cry out. Instead, he slowly turns back to face you, a sluggish, almost lazy motion, as if he’s savoring the sting of your hit. And then—he smiles.

“Oh…I like when my prey puts up a fight,” he purrs, his voice slithering through the air like something alive. His eyes gleam with raw, unhinged hunger, pupils swallowing what little color remains. The way he tilts his head, the way his lips curl over the metal of his muzzle—it sends a sickening chill down your spine.

The Frenzy has him now. Completely.

You swallow hard, trying to suppress the shudder threatening to wrack your frame. Every inch of your body is screaming at you to run, but you plant your feet firm against the cold concrete, refusing to let fear consume you. If you let him see weakness, if you let him smell it, you’ll lose control of the situation entirely.

"Sylus! Stop it!" you shout, willing your voice to be strong. "Please, I know you're in there somewhere! I just need to—"

He lunges again.

The movement is blindingly fast. One second he's still and the next, he’s twisting, lunging toward you with a violent, predatory force. You barely manage to throw yourself to the side, feeling the rush of displaced air as he snaps at the space where your throat had just been. You seize the opening, grabbing hold of the second restraint with trembling hands and slamming it onto his other wrist. The sharp clank of metal follows as his chains yank him back, keeping him from reaching you—but only barely.

Your pulse slams against your ribs. If you don’t finish this now, he will get free.

His body writhes violently in front of you, hot with fever, drenched in sweat, trembling with animalistic hunger. He’s caught. Fully restrained now, arms suspended in place, unable to do anything but snarl and thrash.

Your arms shake as you stumble backward, breath ragged. You barely register your own hands drifting to your neck, fingers pressing against the torn skin where his teeth had sunk in only moments ago. The wound is deep, hot, raw, but you won’t die from it. Your body is immune to a Praedator’s venom—it’s one of the only reasons you’re even still alive right now. But that doesn’t stop the sick wave of nausea that rolls through you as your fingertips come away stained with more blood.

Sylus laughs.

The sound is low, rough, and dangerously amused.

"You scared?" he murmurs, voice still ragged with the aftershocks of his transformation, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts. His eyes flicker over you, roaming your body from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every tiny tremor in your stance.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t answer.

His gaze lingers at your neck, at the place where his teeth had torn you open. His lips part slightly behind the muzzle, and his tongue flicks out, running along the bloodied edge of his mouth as if tasting the remnants of you still clinging to his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, as if trying to restrain himself, but there’s something else lurking behind his eyes. You watch as his eyes roam up and down your body, seemingly lost in thought. He's thinking about something.

Something dark.

"Your idea of help is heartwarming," he muses as he staggers towards you a bit, his voice softer now, mocking, but no less dangerous.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breathing refuses to steady. Even as something deep in your gut tells you that Sylus isn’t as trapped as he looks.

Because despite the chains, despite the restraints keeping you apart, he’s still in control.

And he knows it.

"When you approach your prey, you must ensure your own safety first. You taught me this, Sylus."

Your voice is calm, controlled, but the pain radiating from your neck betrays the lie. Each breath you take feels like a blade dragging against raw flesh, a sharp pulse of heat throbbing beneath your skin. You try to ignore it, pushing past the discomfort, pushing past the rising tide of fear that threatens to anchor itself in your chest. There’s no time to waste. You need to find the activator—now. It’s buried somewhere in his body, a trigger designed to override the Frenzy and pull him back from the brink. If you don’t locate it soon, he’ll break free, and there will be no reining him in after that.

Sylus lets out a low scoff, but there’s no real amusement behind it. His breathing is heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts as though he’s barely holding himself together. Sweat beads at his temple, strands of hair clinging to his skin, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if there’s any part of him left fighting from within, if the Sylus you know is still buried somewhere beneath all that raw, seething hunger.

"Prey?" he murmurs, rolling the word slowly across his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of it. His voice is hoarse, thick with something not quite human, something that sends an instinctual shiver down your spine.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The way he said that definitely indicated that he is not the prey here.

Instead, you move carefully, methodically, circling behind him. His arms are still suspended above his head, iron restraints locking him in place, but you know better than to let yourself feel safe. Chains mean nothing to him. They’re a hindrance at best, a mere delay in what will happen if you fail. Even now, his muscles flex, the sharp ripple of movement beneath his skin a silent warning of what he’s capable of. The heat coming off him is unnatural, feverish, almost suffocating.

You steel yourself, steadying your breath as you press your fingers lightly against his back. Your touch is slow, deliberate, barely there as you search for the small, embedded activator. It should be beneath the skin, nestled somewhere between the shifting planes of muscle. But finding it means keeping your composure, means moving carefully enough that you don’t trigger a reaction.

Your fingers glide along the ridges of his spine, trailing lower, feeling for anything out of place. Every shift of your hand feels like balancing on a razor’s edge. Sylus flinches under your touch, his body tensing hard before he exhales, a low, guttural sound vibrating through his chest. You feel it under your fingertips, the tremor of restraint, of struggle.

A bead of sweat slips down your temple. Nothing. No scar tissue, no ridge of foreign anything beneath the surface that you can find.

“It’s not here…” you murmur under your breath, your stomach twisting as unease settles deep inside you.

Sylus lets out another breath, but this time, there’s something different about it. A chuckle—slow, deliberate, curling like smoke in the thick air between you.

"Do you think I’m putty in your hands?" he asks, his voice low, teasing, laced with something dangerous.

The sound sends a flicker of unease racing up your spine. He’s getting antsy. The patience he had been holding onto—if he had any at all—is unraveling quickly. His muscles are shifting beneath his skin again, his fingers twitching, testing the strength of his restraints. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling.

Your heart stutters. You need to hurry.

Just as you reach toward his ribs, he jerks violently.

A metallic snap rips through the air.

One of the restraints—one of the goddamn chains—breaks free.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping up just as Sylus rolls his newly freed wrist, fingers flexing as if he’s testing how much control he has left. Slowly, his head tilts toward you, his eyes burning like fire in the dim lighting.

The smile he gives you is chilling.

You don’t think. You react.

With a burst of adrenaline, you tackle him, shoving him hard enough that it sends you both tumbling to the ground. A low, reverberating growl rumbles through him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as his body tenses against yours.

The struggle between you and Sylus is a mess of tangled limbs and desperation, your bodies locked in a frantic battle against the cold, unforgiving floor. Every shift of his body beneath yours is like wrestling with something barely restrained, a predator on the verge of breaking free from its chains. Heat radiates off his skin, far too intense, far too unnatural, as if his entire body is burning from the inside out. The feverish warmth seeps into your own skin, making it harder to focus, harder to breathe.

Your hands move over his chest, urgent, searching, pressing against the hard muscle beneath you in a frantic attempt to find the activator. It has to be here somewhere—it has to be. Your fingers skim the ridges of his abdomen, feeling for anything out of place, a small foreign lump beneath his skin, a sign that the override switch is still there. But the longer you search, the more panic digs its claws into your ribs.

Your wound throbs, a dull and persistent ache pulsing from your neck, sending sharp spikes of pain through your senses with every movement. The smell of blood—your blood—is thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and something deeper, something primal that radiates from Sylus like a caged animal ready to tear through steel.

"Tell me—" You swallow hard, ignoring the dryness in your throat, trying to suppress the fear that’s creeping into your voice. "Is the activator here?"

Sylus doesn't answer immediately. His breath is coming heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled bursts beneath you. Then, slowly, he grins.

The sight of it sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

"Don’t…" he growls, his voice low and guttural, slipping between clenched teeth. His body tenses beneath you, coiled muscle flexing, veins prominent beneath the sweat-slicked skin of his arms. His hands twitch rhythmically, fingers curling like claws ready to rip you to shreds.

"Don’t press it."

You ignore him.

You have to.

You shift, dragging your hands lower, pressing over his ribs, smoothing your fingers down the hard planes of his stomach, searching for any change in texture, any break in the muscle that could indicate the activator. Your fingertips glide over his skin, past the deep ridges of his abdomen, dipping lower—

A sharp, ragged exhale.

Sylus’s entire body jerks beneath you, his spine arching suddenly, pressing into you before falling back against the ground. His breath stutters, his hands clenching into fists as a sound rumbles deep in his chest—low, guttural, something between a moan and a growl.

Your movements falter for the briefest second.

Did you find it? Did you hurt him?

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs. Your hands remain pressed against him, frozen mid-motion, fingers still splayed across the hard muscle of his lower abdomen. You can feel the way his body shudders, tense and coiled, every fiber of him locked in place, the warmth of his skin searing against your palms.

You don’t know if the reaction is pain or something else, and the uncertainty sends unease coiling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales another uneven breath, his chest vibrating beneath you. His head tilts slightly, red eyes flickering open, dilated again and dark, and he looks straight at you. Not through you, not past you—at you.

The grin he gives you is slow, deliberate.

"That-," he murmurs, voice edged with something dark, something lustful. His lips curl at the corners, his teeth flashing between parted lips as his gaze flickers lower, trailing over the places where your hands are still pressed against him. "That feels...good".

Your breath caught in your throat as the realization hit you like a freight train barreling down the tracks. Your eyes widened as you lowered your head and took in the unmistakable bulge of his erection, straining against the confines of his pants, a tangible proof of the pleasure you were unwittingly providing.

This isn’t pain.

The second he senses your moment of shock, Sylus strikes.

With terrifying ease, he yanks you upward, your feet leaving the ground for a brief, weightless second before he drives you downward. The world tilts violently, your stomach dropping as you’re thrown forward, your body twisting midair before—

Impact.

The breath is knocked from your lungs as you hit the cold, unforgiving floor, your stomach smacking against the hard surface with enough force to send a sharp shockwave through your ribs. Your arms instinctively splay out, palms slamming against the ground to steady yourself, but the weight that follows keeps you from moving.

Sylus presses down against you, his entire body covering yours, his hands locking around your wrists before pinning them flat against the floor beside your head. His hips press firmly into yours, locking you in place, trapping you beneath him.

Panic seizes your chest.

You try to twist away, to jerk free, but his weight is unmovable, pressing down hard enough that every shift only grinds you further against the floor. The heat of his body seeps into your back, feverish and all-consuming, the ridges of his toned chest molding against your spine.

You thrash, breath coming hard and fast, struggling against his grip, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even react—except for the slow, deep inhale that shudders through his chest.

Then, he breathes against your skin.

"You smell like fear," he murmurs, voice low and silken, curling around your ear like smoke.

Your entire body locks up.

His lips are too close.

The warmth of his breath ghosts along the side of your face, his nose grazing the edge of your jaw before dipping lower, hovering over the sensitive skin of your throat. Your pulse races, hammering so violently beneath your skin that you know he feels it.

His grip tightens.

"And something...sweet," he muses, dragging the words out slowly, tasting them like something decadent.

Your struggles escalate, knowing exactly where this is going.

"Sylus! Stop! No!"

Your fingers claw against the floor, legs kicking, desperate to throw him off, but Sylus doesn’t move an inch. If anything, his hold only grows firmer, heavier, more absolute. The pressure of his body against yours makes it impossible to move, to breathe properly, to think.

Then—he lowers his head.

The brush of his lips against your ear is featherlight, teasing. A sharp contrast to the overwhelming, inescapable strength of his grip.

And then—his teeth sink in.

A sharp, precise nip to the outer shell of your ear, quick and fleeting, followed immediately by the slow, deliberate glide of his tongue. He slides all the way down to your neck, lapping up the still dripping blood from your wound. He alternates between licking and nipping, as if feeding himself and claiming you all at once.

You flinch violently, a shudder ripping through your limbs as heat explodes beneath your skin. Your breath catches, fingers digging into the cold floor as a rush of pure, primal panic flares through your nerves.

Sylus hums. A deep, satisfied sound.

"Something very sweet," he repeats, his voice edged with amusement, hunger, something else entirely. His fingers flex against your wrists, nails pressing into your skin—not enough to break, but enough to remind you of the power imbalance.

"Makes me want to devour you whole."

A violent shiver wracks through you, your entire body locking up in terror.

Move. Move. MOVE.

Desperation surges through you like wildfire. You snap your leg back, aiming a blind, vicious kick toward his leg, his thigh—anything that will make him falter, make him let go—

But he’s faster.

Before you can even make contact, he moves. His weight shifts, his grip flexes, and suddenly—you’re being crushed, pressed even harder into the ground.

Your breath chokes in your throat as his body presses flush against yours, one of his hands releasing your wrist only to grip your hip, pinning you down even harder. His fingers dig in, securing his hold, ensuring you have nowhere to go.

"Nice try," he murmurs, voice dipping into something thick and sultry, rich with amusement. The warmth of his breath trails lower, sweeping along the side of your bloodied throat, down to the nape of your neck.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips, and you feel it—feel his smirk against your skin, feel the way he’s drinking in every panicked breath, every tremor, every racing heartbeat.

"You should know better," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing growl. "Prey that struggles only makes the hunt more exciting."

His fingers flex against your hip, nails pressing in just enough to send a sharp, prickling sting through your nerves.

"Why resist me now? You made your choice when you stepped inside," Sylus taunts, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. Tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill over as the harsh sound of ripping fabric echoes ominously in the confined space. Your skirt! You cry out, trying to lunge forward, to escape, but his grip is relentless, fingers suddenly tightening around your throat with a firm command.

"Stop. Moving." His growl is a sharp command in your ear, his weight pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground with an unyielding force. The air is forced from your lungs in a rush as he yanks the remnants of your skirt away, tossing it aside carelessly. The room's cool air brushes against the exposed skin of your legs, and you shiver, fear and vulnerability intertwining as you plead with him.

"Sylus...this isn't you. Please—" Your words are abruptly silenced as he tears your underwear away, his actions speaking louder than any words could. The chill against your bare skin draws a sob from your lips, a desperate sound swallowed by the room's oppressive silence.

He's going to take you right here on the cage floor. Claim you. And there's nothing you can do. This isn't Sylus you know anymore.

"My my...this was what you were hiding underneath that skirt?" he growls, a feral edge to his voice. He leans forward, trailing his tongue along your back, the sensation a disconcerting mix of heat and cold that leaves you trembling beneath him.

"Please...snap out of it! Don't do this...!" you scream, your voice raw and desperate as you squirm helplessly beneath him. Your pleas are met with a soft, almost soothing "Shhh..." as if he's trying to calm you, but the sharp sound of his zipper coming undone is a jarring counterpoint, a grim reminder that he's too far gone.

This is it, you think, swallowed by a tide of helplessness. It could be worse...right? A gasp escapes your lips as you feel something large, hot and throbbing press against the middle of your ass. Sylus moans, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through you, sending shockwaves of dread and involuntary ache coursing through your veins. He spits, the wet warmth landing on your skin, slicking the path as he rubs his cock between your cheeks, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

"You looked divine in that uniform when we met again," he murmurs, his voice a silken thread of temptation and threat. "Would it be awful of me to say that I've been wanting to tear you apart with my cock ever since I saw you again?" His words are accompanied by a deep chuckle, a sound that seems to vibrate through your bones.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting against the warm, wet sensation that overwhelms your senses. No...this isn't the real him, you remind yourself, clinging to the hope that somewhere beneath the Frenzy Enhancer's influence, the true Sylus still exists. He's still in there, right? The question echoes in your mind, a desperate mantra as you hold onto the sliver of hope that the man you know will resurface, that this nightmare will end.

The moment of hope you had was shattered in an instant as you felt a sharp, piercing pain between your folds as he grips the skin of your ass, a large intrusion attempting to force its way inside you. You screamed, your voice raw with agony, as you tried to pry his hands away, your nails digging into his skin. "It hurts! Stop, please!" you begged, your pleas desperate and frantic.

Sylus grunted and moaned, his body a contradiction of pleasure and annoyance as he struggled to push his cock deeper into your tight folds, his tip breaching your entrance only to retreat, the pain searing and hot. "Hmm..." he growled, his voice a mix of frustration and desire.

You shook, your body trembling from the pain, your lower half throbbing, the intrusion gone but the ache still spreading. Suddenly, your hips were gripped and your lower half was raised up, your ass raised in the air, your hands bracing against the floor, your body now positioned for his taking.

"You just need a little...preparation," Sylus whispered, his voice low and dark, belying the wicked intent behind his words. Before you could protest, his hot tongue was sliding down your cunt, his skilled mouth working to prepare you, his touch both electrifying and unwittingly arousing, a wicked precision that left you trembling, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

"Mghn! S-stop...please, Sylus!" you pleaded, your voice hoarse and desperate, your fingers clawing at the floor as you tried to escape the pleasure-pain he was inflicting. But his death grip on your hips was unyielding, holding you firmly in place, his tongue a relentless force, licking and slurping at your folds with primal hunger. Like a beast that hadn't eaten in weeks.

If he doesn't stop soon you'll definitely-

"Those cute noises you make drive me wild" Sylus growled, his voice a low, guttural sound. You can't see his face, but you can feel his eyes roaming up and down your now soaked cunt, no doubt wishing he was deep inside you right now. "Reminds me of the sound a rabbit makes just before its eaten."

You gasp and shiver at the depraved sentence that leaves his mouth before something wet and long enters your hole, making you cry out. Sylus's tongue, hot and insistent, buried itself deep within you, his mouth working in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through your core.

Sylus's grunts and moans escalated into a primal chorus as he delved deeper into your folds, his tongue a relentless force, his hands digging into your hips with increasing urgency. Your body was a tempest of sensations—pain, pleasure, and ecstasy—a melting pot of conflicting desires. You tried to hold on, to keep yourself from succumbing, but your body had a mind of its own, and you went limp, surrendering to the pleasure he was delivering.

"Mghn!" you cried out, your body shaking, your hands gripping the floor as you fought against the overwhelming pleasure. "Don't cum... don't cum..." you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your lips bitten to stifle the moans that threatened to escape.

But Sylus found that sweet spot, that spongy part inside you, and twisted his tongue, sending you over the edge. You bit down harder on your lip, trying to muffle the sounds of your climax, but it was no use. The pleasure was too much, and you came undone, your body shaking, your cries echoing in the cold cage as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Sylus lapped up your essence, his tongue working feverishly, his grunts and moans a testament to his own pleasure as he reveled in the taste of your orgasm, his primal satisfaction evident as he continued to lap up your juices like a thirsty dog.

"This taste..." Sylus groaned, his voice thick with greed, as he brushed his tongue against your inner thigh, catching the drippings of your pleasure, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. You gasped for breath, your body still trembling from the orgasm, your mind racing for a way out of this predicament.

"Your scent has filled the room now...its driving me mad. I can't wait any longer".

Your thoughts turned to the activator, the key to your freedom. You needed to get turned around, to find it somehow. "Sylus, w-we should—" you started, but your words were cut off by the sudden, sharp intrusion of his cock slamming into your cunt with a force that sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure through your body.

"Agh!"

The initial penetration was rough, but easier than before, his cock sliding into your wet hole, stretching you, before he pulled back slightly and sheathed himself completely inside you, his grip on your waist tightening as he began to thrust, his hips pistoning in a relentless rhythm.

"Ahh...it hurts..." you whimpered, your body writhing in his grip, trying to escape the pain of his thrusts. But Sylus chuckled, his voice dark and amused. "Keep squirming, little bird. It only makes it feel better."

His words were a taunt as he continued to plunge into you, his cock pistoning in and out, his body a cage of pain, his grip on your waist unyielding, his thrusts relentless, driving you to the brink of ecstasy and agony, your cries and moans filling the cold cage with a symphony of raw, primal sex.

You begin to try and dissociate from everything by focusing on the concrete floor, but Sylus primal grunts and growls as he slams into you, using your body for his own pleasure, makes it hard to escape reality. Think! Just think! You've been in worse situations before, what can you do to get turned around?

A lightbulb goes off inside your head. Its risky, but at this rate...

"F-for a Praedator...I honestly expected this to be much better. A little disappointing after waiting all these years Sylus" you spat, trying to sound more confident than you truly felt. Sylus momentarily slows his thrusting, not completely stopping but definitely enough to ponder your words. You shiver as you hear a deep chuckle.

"Is that so?"

Your entire world flips around as he grabs you, spins you around and pushes you roughly against the concrete floor. Before you can continue speaking, his hand slams into your throat, squeezing slightly. Not enough for serious harm, but its a clear warning.

Sylus's gaze is dark, beastly and terrifying as he leans down to your face, as if trying to look deep into the depths of your soul. Your heart aches as you recall your last encounter with him earlier that day, when he gave you the movie tickets. He had looked so soft...unlike the beast that was in front of you now.

"I can give you rougher, if that's what you crave," Sylus purred, his voice laced with dark humor, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "I quite like you in this position, that look of fear in your eyes turns me on" He began to laugh, a low, menacing sound, as he pushed his still-hard cock back into your aching hole, his hand never leaving your throat.

Sylus's other hand, strong and sure, reached out, tearing your top with effortless ease, the fabric ripping as he exposed your breasts to his hungry gaze. Your nipples hardened in response to the sudden exposure, the cool air on your sensitive skin a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

Your breasts bounced with each powerful movement of his hips, the motion causing a mix of pain and fear, your body a canvas of sensations, your mind struggling to process the whirlwind of physical reactions.

You whimpered as pain, pleasure, and fear mingled within you. His hand squeezed harder with each thrust, cutting off your air supply, and you clawed at his fingers, desperate for breath, your nails digging into his skin.

"C-can't...breathe..." you gasped, your voice hoarse, your heart hammering in your chest, sensations blurring together. Despite your struggles, your body began to respond to his relentless thrusts, your muscles squeezing around his cock, a reaction you couldn't control.

"Oh, you like this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Gonna cum while you can't breathe, little bird? I could've given you this pleasure sooner if I'd known. I'd have gladly delivered your demise, one way or another."

His words sent a shiver through you as your body betrayed your mind's resistance, succumbing to the pleasure he was inflicting, your climax building despite the pain and the fear, a testament to the twisted game he was playing with your body and mind.

Were you truly going to die this way? After everything, after fighting for so long to see him again? This is how things end between the two of you? You look into his eyes. His rabid, feral eyes and feel tears begin to prick them. You look past him, your eyes resting at the revolver still strapped to your leg.

You still have one more option.

"I-it won't be me succumbing to my d-demise" you choke out, staring into his eyes. He doesn't stop thrusting into your body, but his eyebrow does raise. "Even if you make it out of here, what do you think they'll do with you when they realize the only immune person is also pregnant with a Praedator's baby?"

Your eyes widen at his words, your brain barely processing their meaning as your vision begins to blur. No! No! You begin to thrash as the sounds of his evil laughter fills your ears, and his thrusts pick up relentless speed.

"D-don't cum in me! Please!" you choke out, your voice hoarse and gravely as your forced to continue take the relentless pounding of Sylus's cock. He's ignoring you, he doesn't care. He only has one goal now. You feel your lower half begin to ache and pulse, evident that you just orgasmed beneath him. But you barely register it, as your top half begins to hurt.

Your lungs burn as if set ablaze, the oxygen in your body dwindling, your chest seizing with every desperate attempt to inhale. A thick, suffocating haze fills your head, making your thoughts sluggish, disjointed, slipping between the cracks of fading consciousness. Your body betrays you, limbs losing strength, muscles growing weak as an unbearable heaviness creeps into every inch of your skin. Your fingers, once clawing at the iron grip around your throat, are failing you now, slipping away, no longer able to fight against the pressure stealing your air.

A dull ringing overtakes your ears, growing louder, drowning out the world around you. Your vision narrows, dark spots creeping into the edges, threatening to swallow everything whole. A strange lightheadedness overtakes you, a weightless, dizzying sensation that makes it hard to remember where you are, what you’re doing. Your body is shutting down, giving up, preparing to surrender to the void clawing at the edges of your mind.

No. No, no, no. It can’t end like this.

A spike of panic jolts through your fading awareness, but your body refuses to listen, sinking deeper into helplessness. You strain, forcing your head up just enough to look at him, to plead, to beg, but the words won’t come. Your throat is locked, crushed beneath his grip, and no matter how much you try, no sound escapes past your lips. Sylus barely seems aware of you now, his expression dazed, half-lidded, his breath uneven as he lingers on the edge of his own orgasm. His fingers twitch slightly, tightening then loosening, but he isn’t paying attention, isn’t thinking, isn't entirely here. He’s too close to the edge, too lost in wanting to finish inside you.

That’s when you see it.

A flicker of red, faint but undeniable, flashes in one of his eyes. It’s barely noticeable, a fleeting pulse of color in the red of his irises, but it’s there. Your slowing mind struggles to process it, to make sense of what it means, until the realization slams into you like a shock of ice water.

The activator?!

Adrenaline floods your veins, shoving back the creeping darkness threatening to pull you under. The sheer, primal will to live surges through you like a lightning strike, reigniting every dying nerve, forcing your limbs to respond even as they scream in protest. With the last of your strength, you move.

Your fingers twitch, barely managing to form a fist. Gritting your teeth, you summon every ounce of energy left in your failing body, pull your arm back, and slam your thumb directly into his eye.

A guttural, animalistic roar rips from Sylus’s throat as his grip on your neck vanishes, his entire body jerking back in raw, instinctive pain. The instant pressure is released, air floods your lungs, rushing in so fast that your entire chest seizes from the force of it. A sharp, shrill gasp tears from your throat as you suck in a desperate, wheezing breath, the burning relief almost as unbearable as the suffocation had been.

Your vision, once clouded and swimming, sharpens in an instant, the murky haze lifting as the world snaps back into terrifying clarity. Every nerve is raw, every muscle trembling, but you’re alive. You can breathe.

Sylus's eyes widened for a moment, a brief flicker of surprise as all the Frenzy enhancer seemed to leave his body, and then, just as quickly, the feral intensity left his gaze, his face softening. But it was too late for his body to catch up, as his hips froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside you, releasing a hot flood of cum against your womb.

You gasped, your body trembling from the unexpected climax, the sensation of his release filling you, an intense mixture of warmth and fullness.

Sylus’s eyes met yours, the fire in them flickering unsteadily as the weight of what just happened crashed over him. The frenzied hunger that had gripped him moments ago had drained away, leaving behind something raw—horror, confusion, and something close to regret. His breath came fast and uneven, chest rising and falling as he struggled to process what he had just done to you.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. His red eyes, now normal, darted across your face, lingering on the deep red imprints, blood, and bruises his fingers and teeth had left on your throat. His grip, once unrelenting, had been torn away, but you still felt it there—the phantom sensation of his hands crushing the air from your lungs.

“Are you…” He swallowed hard, voice hoarse, like it physically pained him to speak. “Are you okay?”

You coughed, your throat burning, the rush of oxygen still too sharp, too overwhelming. But you managed to nod, your limbs still weak, your entire body trembling from the shock. You could feel the marks he had left, the lingering ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but you were alive.

Sylus was still staring at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes now—guilt, realization, something heavy and unspoken pressing down on him. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should.

“Why didn’t you press it sooner?” His voice was quieter now, filled with something vulnerable, almost desperate. “The activator… you could have stopped me before—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, frustration with himself evident in the tightness of his jaw. “Before I did this to you.”

The look on his face—haunted, shaken—was so unlike him, so different from the Sylus you knew, that something in your chest ached. He wasn’t just horrified by what had happened. He was horrified by himself.

You forced a small, reassuring smile, even though your throat still ached, even though your entire body was still reeling from the ordeal. “Because I couldn't find it. But I knew you were still in there,” you whispered, voice raspy but steady. “And I was right.”

Sylus let out a slow, uneven breath, his gaze locked on you like he was trying to convince himself you were telling the truth. Then, without another word, he moved.

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body pressing against yours in a way that was nothing like before. This wasn’t dominance or power. This was desperation. He was still inside you, but neither of you cared to address it at this moment.

His grip was strong, but careful this time. His hands, which had moments ago been your greatest threat, now held you like you were something fragile, something breakable. His fingers curled against the back of your head, as if grounding himself, as if he needed to feel that you were real, that you were still here.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough, low, and laced with something unspoken. “I wasn’t…I couldn’t—” He exhaled, tightening his hold. “I didn’t want our first time to be like this.”

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the embrace. Tears of relief slipped from the corners of your eyes and dripped to the concrete floor. Your hands gripped the leather of his top, grounding yourself in him, in the fact that he was back now. His heartbeat, still fast, thrummed against your own, and for a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty.

“It’s okay,” you whispered finally, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “You’re back now.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, hesitant, but the second your lips met his, Sylus shattered.

His grip on you tightened even more, arms pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back like he had been waiting for this, like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. There was nothing controlled about it—it was desperate, messy, full of every unspoken thing he couldn’t bring himself to say over the years. His fingers slid up your back, then tangled into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to claim more of you, to drown in you.

You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, still racing, still alive. You weren’t sure who was shaking more—you or him—but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you wanted to.

When you finally parted, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still pressed together. His lips hovered just over yours, his hands still holding you like he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet.

It was all going to be okay.

For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Sylus let himself believe it.

[usedpidemo]

Almost is never enough. (Ive Gaeul)

23.7k words

Content advisory: Act III is practically an F1 fanfic. Please enjoy the feature presentation!

——————

The fluorescent lights stab your eyes like ice picks. Every blink sends fresh waves of nausea rolling through your gut, thick and sour. There’s a low, insistent throb radiating from—everywhere. Your skull feels packed with wet sand, your chest aches with a deep, bruised soreness, and there’s a strange, heavy numbness anchored to your right leg. The air tastes sterile, sharp with antiseptic and something vaguely metallic. Plastic tubes snake from your arm, taped down with irritating precision. You have no idea where you are.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the fog, sharp as a scalpel.

"You fucking idiot."

The cry is strained, ragged, laced with a fury that vibrates in the aseptic air. It takes monumental effort to turn your head, your muscles screaming in protest against stiff sheets. The world swims, blurs, before coalescing into a figure hunched in a plastic chair beside the bed. 

Gaeul.

Her usually pristine dark hair is a chaotic halo around a face devoid of its usual softness. Mascara streaks like inky tears carve paths down pale cheeks, dreary against the furious flush high on her cheekbones. Her eyes, usually holding a calm, observant depth, are wide, bloodshot pools of raw, unvarnished anger and something far more terrifying: sheer, unadulterated panic. She’s clutching the edge of your thin hospital blanket, knuckles bone-white.

"What—?" 

A dry, painful croak comes out, barely recognizable. It scrapes your throat raw. Your tongue feels thick and clumsy.

"What?" Gaeul snaps, the word cracking like a whip. She leans forward, her gaze boring into yours, intense enough to make you flinch back against the fluffy pillow. "That's all you have? 'What?' After everything? After you nearly—" She hitches, the fury momentarily choked by a sob she viciously swallows down. "What the hell is wrong with you? Were you even thinking? Were you trying to leave me?"

The accusations land like physical blows, adding to the symphony of aches. Confusion wars with the pain. 

Leave her—what is she talking about? 

Your mind feels like a shattered mirror, reflecting only disjointed, meaningless fragments. The sterile smell, the ache, Gaeul’s devastated anger—nothing connects. You still have no clue as to how you got here. The last clear memory—it’s like trying to grasp smoke. A flash of speed. A deafening roar. Nothing solid forms. Only this crushing weight of now.

You try to push yourself up slightly, a reflexive move to meet her intensity, but a searing bolt of agony lances through your torso, stealing your breath. A gasp escapes you, sharp and involuntary. The movement shifts the thin hospital gown, pulling taut against your body, and your gaze finally drops downwards.

Reality crashes in with brutal clarity.

Your right foot, encased in stark white plaster, juts out at an awkward angle from the edge of the bed. It looks alien, heavy, and wrong. The cast climbs halfway up your calf. Taped wires snake across your chest beneath the gown, connecting to blinking monitors that chirp with infuriating cheerfulness. Your left arm is braced in a sling, resting heavily on your abdomen. Tentatively you flex the fingers of your right hand—stiff, sore, but mobile—and they brush against bandages wrapping your ribs. A dull, persistent throb emanates from your shoulder. 

You glance down at exposed skin on your forearm, a latticework of dark purple and yellow bruises, intersected by angry red abrasions, like you’d been dragged across concrete. The sheer scale of it hits you like dynamite, amplifying the disorientation. 

This wasn't a mere fall. This was—demolition.

"Gaeul—" you manage again, confusion now mixed with a dawning horror. "I—I don't—remember. What happened?"

Her furious expression flickers. For a moment, pure, unadulterated fear replaces anger, making her look terrifyingly young. "You don't—?" she whispers, the fight draining out of her throat, leaving only hollow disbelief. "You don't remember Spa? The rain? Eau Rouge?" 

The names mean nothing. Empty sounds in the echoing void of your memory. 

Her gaze sweeps over the cast, the wires, the bruises, the sling. The fierce, scolding idol vanishes. Tears she’d been holding back overflow, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks. She shakes with silent sobs, her carefully maintained composure dissolving into pure, intense grief. 

"You—you went into the barrier," she chokes out, the words thick with tears. "So fast—so much smoke—they couldn’t get you out—I thought—" 

A ragged sob cuts her off. She buries her face in her hands, her slender frame trembling. "I thought I had lost you. They said—they said it was touch and go for hours."

The image—vague, nightmarish—flickers at the edge of your consciousness: blinding spray, a sickening sense of weightlessness, an impact that shakes through your very bones. Afterwards, nothing. Just this sterile purgatory and Gaeul’s shattered presence. 

A cold dread seeps into your veins, colder than the IV drip. You had almost left her. The evidence was strapped, wired, and plastered all over you. The anger hadn't been scorn; it had been the desperate, terrified backlash of someone who’d stared into the abyss of losing everything.

Driven by a need that transcends the screaming protests of your body, you move your unslung right arm. Every muscle groans. Wires tug; monitors protest with a flurry of beeps. Ignoring it all, you reach out, your bandaged hand trembling slightly. Your fingers brush against the tear-damp skin of her forearm where she’s clutching her own arms.

She flinches slightly at the touch, then stills. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifts her head from her hands. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, meet yours. The anger is gone, replaced by a vulnerability so profound it steals your breath more effectively than the pain in your ribs. 

You have no words. The confusion, the fear, the sheer immensity of the pain—it’s too much. All you can offer is the warmth of your touch, the feeble attempt at connection through the layers of bandages and her own trembling skin. Your thumb strokes a clumsy, soothing pattern on her arm, a silent plea, an anchor.

"I'm here," you rasp, the words suffocating you. "I'm—sorry." 

Sorry for the fear. Sorry for the pain you caused. Sorry for the terrifying blank space where the explanation should be.

Gaeul stares at your hand on her arm, then back at your face. A fresh wave spills over, but this time, they’re quieter, mixed with a shaky, almost disbelieving relief. She doesn't pull away. Instead, her own hand lifts, trembling, and covers yours, resting on her arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong, desperate, like she’s clinging to driftwood in a stormy sea. Cool fingers press against your bandaged knuckles, a grounding counterpoint to the tumult inside you both.

Before either of you can navigate the fragile, tear-slicked silence further, the door swings open with a soft whoosh. A nurse bustles in, her scrubs crisp, her demeanor a practiced blend of efficiency and calm that feels jarring against the emotional wreckage in the room. Her eyes sweep over the monitors, then land on the two of you: Gaeul’s tear-streaked face, your bandaged hand clutching hers.

"Ah, good, you're awake," she says brightly, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like sunbeam through storm clouds. Moving to check the IV drip, her motions are quick and precise. "We were starting to get a bit concerned, but vitals are stabilizing nicely now." 

She taps the screen of a monitor displaying a steady, rhythmic green line. "Pain manageable?"

You try to nod, but it sends a fresh spike through your neck. "Manageable," you grit out, the word tasting like rocks. Manageable meaning a constant, grinding symphony of aches punctuated by sharp stabs if you dared to breathe too deeply or move the wrong limb.

The nurse nods, making a note on a chart. "Excellent. Doctor will be doing rounds soon, but I can give you the preliminary good news." She offers a warm, professional smile. "You are incredibly lucky. The injuries are significant, yes," her gaze flicks meaningfully to the cast, the sling, "but nothing life-threatening now. No internal bleeding we’re worried about, no spinal damage. The concussion was severe. Explains the memory gap, but the scans look promising. You’ll make a full recovery."

Gaeul lets out a shuddering breath beside you, her grip on your hand tightening almost painfully. "Full recovery?" she echoes, her voice thick with hope and residual terror.

"Absolutely," the nurse affirms, her tone reassuring. "It’s going to take time, though. Months of physio, especially for that ankle. Complex fracture, ligaments took a beating. And the shoulder needs careful rehab." 

She pauses, her expression turning slightly more serious, almost sympathetic. "They said it was a miracle you walked away, really. Jesus was certainly riding shotgun with you that day at Spa. That corner—" 

Before she trails off, she shakes her head, a flicker of something resembling professional awe or grim understanding in her eyes. "Anyway," she continues, her rehearsed brightness returning, "the main thing is you’re through the worst. Focus on healing now. Rest is paramount." 

A wire taped to your chest is adjusted. "Oh, and try not to worry too much about the season. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, just concentrate on getting yourself right."

Season. That word snags in your foggy brain. Spa. Jesus riding shotgun. The nurse’s casual comment hangs in the air, heavy with unanswered implications you can’t grasp. 

Season. Football. Basketball. Autumn. Duck. Rabbit. 

It felt absurdly trivial against the canvas of pain you were stretched across and Gaeul’s distress. The confusion must show on your face, a furrow deepening between your brows as you try to parse the meaning.

But Gaeul isn’t listening to the implication. The nurse’s words—you’re through the worst, full recovery—seem to be the only things penetrating the haze of her fear. Tense lines around her eyes soften infinitesimally. Her desperate grip on your hand relaxes slightly, shifting from a lifeline to a connection. She leans forward, resting her forehead gently against your unbandaged shoulder, her dark hair spilling over the thin hospital gown. You feel her tears through the fabric, a slight tremor still running through her.

"Months," she murmurs against your shoulder, muffled but the relief palpable. "But you’re here. You’re alive." She lifts her head just enough to look at you, her eyes searching yours, the earlier fury replaced by a weary, profound gratitude that makes your own throat tighten. "That’s all that matters right now. Just—be here. With me."

The nurse gives a final, satisfied nod at the monitors and quietly slips out, leaving you cocooned in the beeping stillness of the room with Gaeul. 

Countless questions weigh on your slowly reforming mind. The mystery of the season, the terrifying void where your memory should be, the grueling road to recovery hinted at by the nurse—it all looms like storm clouds on the horizon. But for this suspended moment, anchored by the warm, real weight of Gaeul’s head on your shoulder and her hand still clasped in yours, the only truth that matters is the one she whispered: You’re alive. 

The rest—the terrifying, confusing rest—could wait. 

Pain is a constant drumbeat. The cast an immovable anchor, the wires a tether to this fragile existence. But underneath Gaeul’s tears and the lingering echo of her furious, frightened voice, there’s a fragile, desperate kind of peace. 

You’re here. She’s here. 

The nightmare of ‘almost’ is over. Now comes the long, painful awakening.

—————

Late summer air hangs thick and sweet as the car door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the world of antiseptic corridors and beeping monitors. The familiar scent of your neighborhood—cut grass, distant barbecue smoke, the faint tang of exhaust—floods your senses, almost overwhelming after weeks of hospital sterility. 

Gaeul maneuvers the wheelchair with surprising grace over the uneven pavement, her movements precise, almost rehearsed. Every bump, every minute jolt, sends a fresh reminder of your battered body up your spine. The cast on your right leg is a leaden weight, the sling cradling your healing left shoulder a constant, restrictive presence. Beneath it all, the lingering ache in your ribs is a dull percussion.

"You good?" Gaeul murmurs, pausing at the footpath leading to your front door. Her voice is soft, carefully controlled, a complete 180 to the raw fury and terror that had emanated from her in the hospital. Now, there’s a focused tenderness, a watchfulness that never wavers. She adjusts the blanket draped over your lap, her fingers brushing lightly against your good arm. The touch is warm, grounding.

"Yeah," you rasp, trying for a smile that feels stiff on your face. "Just—surreal. Being back. Back in the real world." 

The confusion hasn’t completely lifted. Fragments swirl: the blinding lights of the hospital, Gaeul’s tear-streaked face, the nurse’s cryptic words about a season and a vague comment about God riding shotgun with you at a corner. But the why, the how—it’s a frustrating blank. 

"Gaeul—" you start, the question bubbling up again, the one you’ve tentatively asked a dozen times. "What happened? Really. Before the hospital. I need to—"

She cuts you off, not harshly, but with a firmness that brooks no argument. Her hand rests gently on your uninjured shoulder. "Later. Please. Doctor Lee was very clear. Stress impedes healing. Your focus," she replies, her gaze locking onto yours, deep and pleading, "needs to be here. On resting. On getting stronger. On—" Her voice catches slightly. "On being here." 

The unspoken ‘with me’ hangs heavy in the air, echoing her fear in that hospital. She pushes the wheelchair forward, navigating the small ramp installed during your absence. "Let's just get you settled first, okay? One thing at a time."

The front door swings open, revealing not just your familiar hallway, but an explosion of color and care. Your breath hitches, not from pain this time, but sheer surprise. The entryway and living room beyond are filled—overflowing—with gifts. Bouquets of vibrant flowers (lilies, sunflowers, delicate orchids) jostle for space with extravagant fruit baskets bursting with exotic berries and perfectly ripe mangoes. Giant, plush teddy bears wearing Get Well Soon sashes stand sentinel beside sleek, high-tech recovery devices still unopened in their boxes. Cards are piled high on every available surface. Elegant embossed ones, funny cartoon ones, simple heartfelt notes.

"Whoa," escapes your lips, the sheer volume momentarily eclipsing your aches.

Gaeul smiles, a genuine, warm curve of her lips that lights up her face. "Told you everyone missed you." She wheels you further in, navigating the sea of well-wishes. "The girls—they practically raided every high-end department store in Seoul." 

She points at a large, foreboding presence. "That ridiculous giant panda? Rei. Said it was ‘for optimal hugging comfort during recovery.’ The basket with the imported Swiss chocolates and the very expensive silk pajamas? Liz and Leeseo. Yujin sent that state-of-the-art massage pillow. Said your neck would need it. Wonyoung—" Gaeul chuckles softly, pointing to a towering arrangement of white roses and lilies so pristine it looks sculpted, alongside a sleek, limited-edition noise-canceling headset. "—went for elegance and practicality. Said you’d need quiet."

Touched doesn't begin to cover what you feel. The thoughtfulness of her bandmates, their distinct personalities shining through their choices, wraps around you like a warm blanket. But the display extends far beyond IVE.

Gaeul then guides you towards the low coffee table, dominated by a different kind of tribute. Nestled amongst the flowers are model cars—intricately detailed 1:18 scale replicas. A gleaming red Ferrari SF-25 sits beside a papaya-orange McLaren MCL39. A sleek silver Mercedes W16. And, unmistakably, a dark green and black Kick Sauber C45. Propped against them are signed caps, race gloves mounted in shadow boxes, and even more cards, these bearing familiar crests and signatures.

"Charles sent the Ferrari," Gaeul says softly, picking up a card with the Prancing Horse logo. 

Inside, in neat handwriting: "Mon ami, get well soon. The grid is not the same without your crazy moves. Come back stronger. – Charles."

Gaeul then picks up the McLaren model. "Lando and Oscar sent this together." She flips open the attached card, revealing two distinct scrawls. 

"Mate! Gutted for you. Spa bites. That move was almost legendary! Heal up fast, we need you back causing chaos (preferably behind us!). – Lando" 

Beneath it, neater and subdued: "Wishing you a speedy recovery. Focus on healing. The podium will wait. – Oscar"

A pair of worn but clean racing gloves sit in a box marked with the Ferrari logo. Lewis Hamilton’s signature streaks across the cuff. The note is succinct, powerful: 

"Strength isn't just speed. It's the comeback. Heal well. We’re all praying for you. – Lewis."

Then, Gaeul picks up the Sauber model, her expression softening further. "The team—they sent this. And this." She holds up a thicker envelope bearing the Kick Sauber logo. Inside, a formal letter wishing you a full recovery, signed by the Team Principal and every department head, expressing their support and confirming your contract details for the following season. Paperclipped to it is a handwritten note on team notepaper, signed by dozens of names: from engineers, mechanics, down to catering staff.

"Get well soon, mate! The garage is too quiet! Hurry back! – The Sauber Crew"

And then, almost hidden beside the Sauber model, a simple, unsigned card. No team logo. Just stark black letters on white: 

"Next time, brake 5 meters later. Or don't. Made it exciting. Get well. – MV." 

You stare at the initials. Max. A reluctant grin tugs at your lips despite the pang of—something—the card evokes.

Gaeul watches your face, seeing the dawning realization, the struggle to reconcile the evidence with the void in your mind. She kneels beside your wheelchair, her hand finding yours again, her thumb stroking your knuckles. The tenderness in her eyes is almost unbearable. "See?" she whispers, "You matter. To so many people."

The sight of the Sauber car, Max’s blunt note, the sheer physicality and outpouring of support—it chips away at the mental barrier. A pressure builds behind your eyes, a mix of gratitude and profound frustration. "Gaeul," you ask, the plea undeniable this time. "Please. I need to know. What happened at Spa? What did I do?"

She hesitates, her gaze flickering to the cast, the sling, then back to your desperate eyes. The carefully maintained wall of protection cracks. A sigh, heavy with the weight of traumatic memory, escapes her. Sitting back on her heels, still holding your hand, her other hand rises up to brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead with infinite gentleness.

"Okay," she concedes, losing her practiced calm in place of brewing concern. "Okay. But remember: you’re here. That’s the important part." 

Gaeul takes a steadying breath. "It was Spa. Rain. So much rain. It was—brutal. Visibility was a joke. The car was a handful, even more so in the wet. But you—you were driving like a man possessed." A flicker of old, fierce pride shines through the worry in her eyes. "You were climbing. P5 with—less than five laps left."

The words trigger nothing. Just abstract concepts. Positions. Laps. Vague sounds of engines roaring. The relentless patter of downpour.

"You were stuck behind Max. He was defending hard. The McLarens were ahead, fighting for a 1-2 finish." Her grip tightens slightly on your hand. "Coming out of Eau Rouge—up Raidillon—" She names the legendary, terrifying sweep with a reverence merged with dread. "You saw a gap. A tiny, miniscule gap between Max and the inside curb. On the exit of Raidillon, in the pouring rain." 

Her voice tightens. "You went for it. A divebomb. Everyone watching—we all held our breath. It was—audacious. Reckless. Brilliant. Almost."

The word hangs thick. Almost.

"If you’d made it stick—" Gaeul continues, a faint whisper now, visibly haunted. "You’d have been P3. Right behind the McLarens. Your first podium. Right there." She closes her eyes for a second, as if reliving the horrific flip-side, rewinding to that horrible scene. "But you—you overshot the apex. Just—just a fraction. The car snapped. You hit the outside barrier—" 

It suddenly breaks. "Hard. Then it spun—back across the track—into the other barrier. Metal screaming. Carbon fiber shattering—" Tears well in her eyes again, mirroring the terror you can’t remember. "There was fire—so much smoke. They couldn’t get to you. It felt like forever.”

She buries her face against your good arm for a moment, her shoulders trembling silently. When she looks up, her eyes are swimming. "They pulled you out. Barely. You were—broken. Unconscious. They airlifted you straight to Liège. And then—coma. Days. Tests. Surgeries. Waiting." 

She swallows hard, her gaze locking onto yours with keen intensity. "Gabriel Bortoleto—he’s in your seat now. For the rest of the season. The team—they had to. But you—you almost didn’t have a rest of your life. Do you understand now? Why I just—why I just need you to be here? To heal? The car, the seat—none of that matters if you’re not here."

The pieces crash together. The season. The nurse’s strange comment about Jesus riding shotgun. The model cars. Max’s card. Spa. Eau Rouge. Raidillon. Divebomb. Podium. Fire. The abstract horror crystallizes. You weren’t simply injured. You were an F1 driver. Gambled everything on one insane move for glory. And you lost. Catastrophically. Shattered your body and your season in a heartbeat of rain-lashed ambition. 

A cold wave washes over you, followed by a surge of something hot and vital. Shame at the recklessness? Terror at the near-miss? Yes. But beneath it, deeper, fiercer—a spark. The memory might be gone, but the feeling—the adrenaline echo of pushing the limit, the tantalizing glimpse of immortal glory, the bitter taste of almost—it ignites something primal. Determination.

The commentator in your mind isn’t describing a crash anymore; he’s describing the move that should have worked. "An outrageous lunge! Is he going for it? Yes! Oh, that is millimeters! If he holds this—P3! Unbelievable! Wait—no! Too much! over the curb! Loss of control! He’s into the barrier! Heavy impact! Red flag! Red flag!"

Gaeul sees the shift. Sees the confusion recede, replaced by a dawning intensity in your eyes that frightens her almost as much as the sight of you in that hospital bed did. 

"Hey," she says sharply, squeezing your hand. "Stop. Whatever you're thinking—stop. You need rest. Doctor's orders. Let's get you to the sofa."

Her command is firm, laced with that protective fear again.

She helps you transfer from the wheelchair to the plush sofa, arranging pillows with meticulous care behind your back and under your casted leg. Fetching water, checking your medication schedule, adjusting the blanket. Her tenderness is a balm, a constant in a storm of realization. She fusses, trying to anchor you in the present, in the slow, safe rhythm of recovery.

Later, after a light meal she prepared with focused precision, Gaeul announces she needs to run a quick errand. "Medicine refill," she says, grabbing her keys. "Twenty minutes. Tops. Rest. Promise me?" 

Her eyes search yours, seeking reassurance.

"Promise," you murmur, offering a weak smile.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the silence of the house presses in, filled only by the ticking clock and the phantom roar of engines in your mind. The giant panda Rei sent grins at you vacuously. The Sauber model on the coffee table glints under the lamplight. 

Almost. The word burns through your skull.

Driven by a force stronger than the ache in your bones, you reach for the remote. It takes some maneuvering with your good arm, fumbling awkwardly. You find the highlights video on YouTube, your fingers trembling slightly. 

Searching: Belgian Grand Prix. Lap 39. Spa fills the large screen. Torrential rain sheets down. Visibility is appalling. Cars ghost slowly through the spray.

There you are. Car #77. Kick Sauber. Lurking behind the bright Red Bull of Verstappen. The camera focuses on the climb out of Eau Rouge, up the steep incline of Raidillon. Crofty’s voice rises, tense with anticipation: "—and here comes the Sauber! Look at this! He’s glued to the gearbox of Verstappen! Is he thinking about it? Raidillon in these conditions—incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish—"

You watch your car. It darts left, a flash of dark blue cutting inside the Red Bull on the exit, riding the treacherous curb. The move is breathtakingly aggressive, a knife-edge gamble. "He goes for it! An incredible dive up the inside! Verstappen gives him just enough room! If he can hold it—!"

The ‘if’ hangs. Your car—your past self—pushes a fraction too hard. The rear snaps out violently on the slick curb. A sickening pirouette. Impact with the first barrier is brutal, spinning the car like a toy. The secondary impact with the opposite wall is equally catastrophic. Debris flies. A sickening plume of smoke and steam erupts, instantly swallowed by the rain. Max’s Red Bull streaks past, completely unscathed. The camera cuts away quickly, but not before showing the crumpled, motionless wreck of the Sauber.

"—devastating crash for the Sauber! Heavy impact! That looks very, very bad! Red flag! Red flag! Medical Team deploying immediately!" Crofty’s voice goes grim, shocked. "A move that was this close to being legendary—ends in catastrophe. Let's hope the driver is okay."

You stare, numb, at the frozen replay image: your car, a broken sculpture against the tire barrier. The almost. The what-if. It’s no longer abstract. It’s visceral. It’s you. 

The podium champagne that wasn’t sprayed. The cheers that died in throats. Your season handed to Bortoleto. Months of pain mapped out on your broken body.

But the numbness doesn't last. It’s incinerated by a sudden, white-hot resurgence. Not shame. Not despair. Defiance. 

A fire you thought the crash, the pain, the amnesia might have extinguished roars back to life, hotter and brighter than before. It floods your veins, momentarily eclipsing the physical agony. 

Crofty’s words echo: "This close to being legendary." 

He was wrong. It wasn't legendary. It was a failure. A spectacular, near-fatal failure.

But the move—the sheer, audacious belief required to attempt it in those conditions—it never died. It’s still in you. Buried underneath heaps of plaster and bandages and trauma, but there. The podium wasn’t reached. The story wasn’t finished. It was brutally interrupted.

Gaeul’s terrified face flashes in your mind. Her tears, her protectiveness, her desperate need for you to just be safe. The love in her touch as she adjusted your pillows. It’s a weight, a responsibility, a reason to be cautious.

But the fire burning in your chest, ignited by the sight of your own near-triumph and catastrophic failure, is an equally powerful force. It speaks of unfinished business. Of limits tested and boundaries demanding to be pushed again. Of a story that cannot end crumpled against a barrier in Belgium.

You hear Gaeul’s key in the lock. Quickly, you switch off the TV, the image of the infamous wreck fading to black. Leaning back against the pillows, you close your eyes, feigning sleep. The physical pain rushes back in: a constant, grinding reality. But beneath it, deeper, more potent, is a newly forged resolve. A silent vow, etched in the phantom scent of burning fuel and the roar of an engine only you can hear.

I’m coming back.

I’m finishing that story.

The door opens. Gaeul’s soft footsteps approach. You feel her gentle hand brush your forehead, her sigh of relief when she thinks you’re resting. The tenderness is profound, a sanctuary. But within the oasis, the fire burns, waiting for the cast to come off, the bones to knit, the strength to return. Ready to fulfill unfinished business.

—————

Months bleed into each other, marked not by seasons, but by the incremental, almost obstinate, reclamation of your body. 

The sterile scent of the hospital fades, replaced by the musk of your home gym: sweat, rubber mats, faint metallic tang of weights. The leaden weight of the cast is gone, replaced by a persistent, grinding ache of bone knitting itself back together beneath scarred skin. 

First, a slow, agonizing shuffle, clinging to Gaeul’s arm like driftwood in a churning sea. Then, with crutches that dig into your ribs, each step a percussive thud of effort. Until, finally, completely unaided. The gait is stiff, a little uneven, a constant, low-level protest radiating from the rebuilt ankle and the shoulder that still twinges with certain movements. 

But you walk. You stand tall. You move under your own power, a victory wrested from the wreckage of Spa.

Gaeul is your constant, your anchor, your fiercely protective shadow. Her tenderness is a physical thing. She massages the tightness from your scarred ankle with warm oil, her fingers tracing the map of damage with heartbreaking gentleness. Sets timers for your medication with unwavering precision, her brow furrowed in concentration. Cooks meals rich in protein and calcium, plating them with a care that borders on reverence. 

When the phantom pains strike, sudden and sharp, deep in the marrow where metal pins hold you together, she’s there, a cool hand on your forehead, whispering calming reassurances until the wave passes. Her eyes, though, those calm, observant pools, hold a watchfulness that never fully relaxes. They track your every wince, every suppressed grimace, every moment you push a little too hard.

And you push. Oh, how you push. 

It’s a quiet, relentless fire burning beneath the surface of your recovery. While Gaeul is attending IVE schedules—practices that stretch long into the night, countless photoshoots, the whirlwind of promotions—the garage becomes your sanctuary. Physio exercises evolve into something more. Gentle stretches become deep, demanding lunges that make the tendons in your ankle scream. Light resistance bands are swapped for weights that strain your healing shoulder, sweat stinging your eyes as you grit your teeth against the pain, chasing strength you once possessed. 

You set up a simulator in the corner, a makeshift shrine to the world you crave. The first time you strap in, the familiar grip of the wheel in your hands, the pedals beneath your feet—even the stiff, unyielding motion of the brake—sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through you, momentarily eclipsing the ache. Front there, you run the scene back at Spa. Over and over. Not the crash. The move. The divebomb at Raidillon. Testing the virtual limits, feeling the car’s edge, chasing that impossible fraction of control you lost in the rain. 

It’s reckless, bordering on stupid. You know it. But almost is a song you can’t mute.

The rest of the F1 season unfolds on the large screen in the living room, a parallel universe you observe with gnawing intensity. McLaren’s dominance is absolute; a papaya-orange juggernaut. Oscar and Lando are locked in a breathtaking duel, trading wins and podiums, their points tally a neck-and-neck dance that captivates audiences. Commentary buzzes with their rivalry, the sheer brilliance of their driving, the inevitability of one of them lifting the World Driver’s Championship. You watch Lando execute a daring overtake on Charles in Baku, cool and precise, and feel a pang that’s equal parts admiration and fierce, burning envy. Then you see Oscar hold off a charging Max in Austin, ice flowing in his veins, and the phantom feel of champagne spray prickles your skin.

And then there’s the Sauber. Your car. Now Gabriel Bortoleto’s. It’s a carousel of disaster. Race after race, the highlights reel is a grim montage of green-and-black misfortune. He spun out in Monza, clipping the barrier at Variante Ascari on lap three. Tangled with George’s Mercedes in Singapore, retiring with a broken suspension. In São Paulo, an engine fire engulfs the car on the formation lap, a plume of oily smoke marking another DNF. When he does finish, it’s invariably at the back: P18, P19, sometimes the lonely P20, lapped and struggling. 

Commentary’s tone shifts from hopeful analysis to weary, defeated resignation. 

"Another tough outing for Bortoleto and Sauber—" 

"The C45 just doesn’t seem to suit the rookie—" 

"Sauber now mathematically certain to finish last in the Constructors'— a bitter pill for the soon to be Audi."

Each failure, each DNF, each bottom-place finish is another spark thrown onto the kindling of your resolve. The fire burns hotter, brighter. It’s not just the podium you almost had; it’s the sheer indignity of seeing your seat, your car, become a laughingstock. Bortoleto’s struggles scream opportunity. Qatar. Abu Dhabi. The final two races. 

The car may be utter shit, and the team’s morale at rock bottom, but you could wring something more from it. You know you could. Just two races. To finish the story Spa brutally interrupted. To prove, if only to yourself, that the fire hadn’t been extinguished, merely banked. It’s a blazing ambition best kept hidden. A secret smothered beneath Gaeul’s loving care. You smile through shared meals, listen to her talk about IVE’s preparations for MAMA, her voice animated about choreography and stage concepts. You even watch their rehearsal footage on her laptop, the girls—Yujin’s commanding presence, Rei’s quirky energy, Leeseo’s youthful spark, Liz’s vocal power, Wonyoung’s ethereal grace—moving in perfect, dazzling synchronicity. You murmur showers of praise, but your mind is elsewhere. Calculating recovery timelines. Mentally mapping the Lusail International Circuit. Imagining the feel of Abu Dhabi’s twilight track under fresh tires.

The dissonance grows unbearable. Her tenderness feels like a prison. Those watchful eyes, once a comfort, now feel like searchlights probing for the rebellion she surely suspects.

—————

The breaking point comes after a particularly grueling physio session. You’d pushed too hard on the shoulder rehab, a sharp, electric pain lancing down your arm as you attempted a weight overhead. You’d hidden the worst of the wince, but Gaeul sees everything. Later, as she kneels before you on the living room rug, gently kneading the tight muscles around your rebuilt ankle, the silence becomes thick, charged.

"You were grimacing earlier," she states, her fingers pausing their work. She doesn’t look up. "During the shoulder presses. You pushed past the limit again."

"It’s fine," you mutter, shifting slightly. "Just stiff."

"It’s not fine." Her head snaps up, her eyes locking onto yours. The calm observer is gone, replaced by a storm of worry and burgeoning frustration. "It’s never just stiff with you anymore. You’re pushing too hard. For what? The doctor said gradual. Not—not whatever superhuman feat you’re trying to pull off." 

Her gaze flicks meaningfully towards the garage door. "You spend hours in there. On that simulator. Like you’re—rehearsing."

The accusation hangs in the air. The secret is out: not in words, but in the fear radiating from her. 

"Qatar," you say, the word dropping into the tense silence like a stone. There’s no point in hiding it any longer. "And Abu Dhabi."

Gaeul freezes. Her hands freeze on your ankle. The color drains from her face, leaving her pale as parchment. 

"What?" The word is a breathless whisper.

"I want to race. The final two," you state, steady and resolute, fueled by months of pent-up determination. "Bortoleto’s a disaster. The car’s there. I’m—I’m ready. Or I will be."

"Ready?" The word explodes from her, laced with incredulous horror. She scrambles to her feet, towering over you where you sit, her usual composure utterly shattered. "Ready for what? To get back in that metal coffin? To tempt fate again? After what it did to you?" 

Her voice trembles with a terrifying blend of fury and terror. "Look at you! Look at what’s left! You think months of playing hero in the garage erases that?" She gestures at your tattered body: the subtle stiffness, the hidden scars. "You almost died, you fucking idiot! You left me staring at machines keeping you alive! And for what? A pointless lunge for glory that ended in fire and broken bones!"

"It wasn’t pointless!" You surge to your feet, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your ankle, but you ignore it, meeting her head-on. "It was this close, Gaeul! Podium! My first! And Gaby—he’s young, but he’s making a mockery of the seat! The team’s dead last! I can’t just sit here watching it rot!"

"So what?" she screams, tears springing to her eyes, her fists clenched at her sides. "So what if they’re last? So what if Bortoleto crashes every week? Is that worth your life? Is a stupid trophy worth leaving me alone?" Her plea grows raw and desperate. "There’s a reason you’re still here! A reason you survived that—that wreck! And it’s not racing! It’s this!" She motions between you, encompassing the home, the care, the fragile life she’s helped meticulously rebuilt. "It’s us! Or have you forgotten that part already? Forgotten the nights I sat by your bed, praying? Forgotten the pain? Forgotten me?"

"I haven’t forgotten!" you retort, the frustration boiling over. "But this is who I am! It’s not just a job, it’s—it’s in my blood! That fire, that need to push, to finish what I started—you can’t just ask me to bury that!"

"Bury it?" She lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, tears streaming freely now. "I’m asking you to live! To choose life! With me! Not death wrapped in carbon fiber! Is that really so impossible to understand? Or is the roar of an engine really more important than—than this?" Her cadence falls to a broken whisper, the anger momentarily swallowed by profound hurt. "Than me?"

Her raw vulnerability hits you like a sharp blow, cutting through the blinding recklessness. The image flashes: Gaeul, pale and trembling in the hospital chair, the sheer terror in her eyes when you woke. The months of unwavering care. The love in every gentle touch, every carefully prepared meal. The guilt is sudden, cold, and suffocating. But beneath it, the stubborn ember of a maverick racer still glows.

"I have to try," you say, purposefully low, strained. "I have to know if I can still do it. Just two races. To finish the story."

"Finish the story?" she echoes, hollow, all fight draining away, replaced by a profound, chilling disappointment. Staring at you, her eyes search yours, finding only a stubborn, unyielding resolve. The tenderness is gone, replaced by a bleak emptiness. "Fine. But remember—you’re not Cody Rhodes." 

The concession is flat, degrading, final. 

"Go on. Finish your story. Drive your heart out. Chase your precious podium. But don’t expect me to watch." She takes a step back, then another, her movements jerky. "I can’t—I won’t stand by and watch you throw away the second chance you were given. Not for glory. Not for anything."

"Gaeul, wait—" You reach out, but she flinches away as if burned.

"No." She’s quiet, terrifyingly calm now. "I need—I need space. From this. From you.”

She turns, walks towards the door with stiff, deliberate steps. 

She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t slam the door. It closes with a soft, definitive click that echoes in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room.

You stand alone amidst the dying remnants of the argument, furious energy evaporating, leaving only the familiar ache in your bones and a far deeper, colder ache in your chest. The fire of your resolve still burns, but now it’s ringed by the ashes of her words. 

Selfish idiot. Worth your life? Throw away your second chance. 

Blurs of Spa replay once more: the near-podium, the devastating crash. The picture of Gaeul’s devastated face as she walked out. The reckless drive to race feels suddenly hollow, tinged with a sullen, heavy guilt. 

You sink back onto the sofa, the silence of the house a crushing weight, the roar of imagined engines replaced by the deafening echo of that closing door. The path forward, once fueled with defiant purpose, now feels shrouded in doubt.

—————

The roar of the vast Hong Kong crowd vibrates through the very bones of Kai Tak Stadium. A physical pressure wave that hits you the moment you slip through the secure backstage entrance. It’s a stark, almost utter contrast to the sterile, homely silence you’ve inhabited for months. Neon strobes slash through the dim backstage corridors, catching on sequined costumes and anxious staff. The air crackles with adrenaline, sweat, and hairspray. Moving through the controlled chaos, you’re a ghost in plain clothes, navigating by memory and booming bass shaking the floor.

You find a sliver of space near the wings, hidden by a towering lighting rig. On stage, IVE is pure, incandescent fire. The complex choreography for their latest hit unfolds with razor-sharp precision, a kaleidoscope of color and synchronized power. Yujin commands the center with fierce charisma, Liz and Leeseo flanking her dance break with explosive energy. Rei’s quirky charm translates into dynamic moves, while Wonyoung moves with an ethereal grace that seems to defy gravity. 

And then there’s Gaeul. Your breath catches. She’s radiant. 

Every movement is sharp, confident, utterly focused. The Gaeul who massaged your scars and watched you with terrified eyes is absent, replaced by the consummate idol, owning her space under the blinding lights. There’s no trace of the devastation you caused—only sheer, polished brilliance. The performance crescendos in a final, breathtaking formation, met by a deafening wall of screams that shakes the stadium.

Time becomes a blur of waiting in the pulsating dark. Announcements boom. Awards are given. The tension backstage is a living thing, thick with anticipation and exhaustion. Then it happens. 

The actor’s voice echoes, amplified: “—and the Song of the Year Daesang goes to—IVE!” 

The shriek that erupts from the star-studded artist area is pure, unadulterated joy. You watch from the shadows as they surge forward, a whirlwind of shimmering fabric and tear-streaked smiles, clutching each other’s hands as they ascend the stage to accept the highest honor.

Their acceptance speeches are a flurry of gratitude, breathless and effervescent. Gaeul, holding the heavy trophy alongside Yujin, smiles—a genuine, effervescent beam that lights up her face—but her eyes, scanning the adoring crowd, hold a depth that wasn’t there during the performance. A flicker of something else. Something quieter beneath the triumph.

Back in the relative sanctuary of their dedicated dressing room, the atmosphere is electric chaos. Champagne corks pop. Staff buzz around, offering congratulations and managing logistics. The members are buzzing, laughing, replaying core moments, their Daesang trophy gleaming on a central table. Leeseo is twirling. Liz is mock-scolding Rei for almost spilling her drink. Yujin is radiating proud calm. Wonyoung is meticulously adjusting a strand of hair in a mirror, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. 

Gaeul stands slightly apart near a refreshment table, holding a flute of untouched champagne, watching her members with a soft, affectionate smile that doesn’t quite reach the slight tension in her shoulders. The performer’s mask is down, revealing the woman beneath: proud, happy, but carrying an invisible weight.

You step out of the deeper shadows near the door. The shift is instantaneous. 

Rei, mid-laugh while hugging her giant panda plushie (a relic from your home, brought for good luck), spots you first. Her eyes widen comically. “Oppa?!” 

The single word cuts through the celebratory noise. Heads snap in your direction. Conversations die. Jiwon’s hand flies to her mouth. Hyunseo stops twirling. Yujin’s eyes narrow slightly, assessing. Wonyoung turns from the mirror, her expression unreadable but intensely observant.

Gaeul freezes. The champagne flute dips precariously in her hand. Softness vanishes from her face, replaced by sheer, unvarnished shock that quickly hardens into wariness. Her knuckles whiten around the stem of the glass. The warmth in the room chills by several degrees, the unspoken history—the hospital, the fight, the closed door—hanging thick and heavy.

“Surprise,” you say, feeling utterly exposed under the collective gaze, especially hers. You take a hesitant step further into the light. “Congratulations. That—that was incredible. The Daesang—so well deserved.”

Silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. It’s Jiwon who breaks it, ever the warm heart. She steps forward, a tentative smile replacing her shock. “Oppa! You’re here! How—?” 

She glances nervously at Gaeul, then back at you.

“Caught a flight,” you shrug, the movement sending a familiar twinge through your shoulder. Your eyes never leave Gaeul. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. Her gaze is a physical pressure. “Had to be here. For this.”

Yujin steps forward, her leadership instincts kicking in, sensing the brewing undercurrents. She’s calm, diplomatic. “It’s good to see you. Are you—recovering well?” 

Her eyes flick meaningfully over you, taking in the residual stiffness you can’t hide.

Before you can answer, Gaeul finally speaks. Low, controlled, but vibrating with an intensity that silences the room again. “Why are you here?” 

No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just the raw, direct question you knew was coming.

You take a deep breath, the scent of champagne and hairspray suddenly cloying. The carefully rehearsed script in your head dissolves. All that remains is the messy, uncomfortable truth. 

“Because I was wrong,” you say, the admission scraping your throat raw. “Because I’m a selfish idiot. Because I took it too far—way too fucking far—trying to push myself back into that seat before I was ready, before—” You falter, your gaze dropping for a second before forcing it back up to meet hers. The anger, the fear you saw in the hospital, the profound disappointment when she walked out—it’s all still there, swirling in her dark eyes. “Before considering what it would do to you. Again.”

A muscle ticks in Gaeul’s jaw. “Too far?” she echoes, gaining an edge. “Trying to push? Is that what you call it? You were ready to throw away everything—everything we rebuilt—for two races. After everything.” She takes a step towards you, the untouched champagne forgotten. “You took recklessness to a whole new level. Again.”

The dressing room is utterly still. Rei clutches her panda tighter. Hyunseo splits wide-eyed glances between you and Gaeul. Jiwon bites her lip. Wonyoung’s expression remains carefully neutral, yet her gaze sharp. Yujin watches, her posture protective near her member, ready to step in when necessary.

“I know,” you whisper, the guilt a cold stone in your gut. “I know, Gaeul. And I didn’t go.” 

The reply hangs in the air. Gaeul’s fierce expression flickers, replaced by pure, stunned confusion. “What?”

“Qatar,” you clarify, gaining a sliver of strength. “I never got on the plane. I packed. I went to the airport. Sat at the gate. Watched the cars—on the screen.” The memory is vivid: the roar of engines from the TV in the departure lounge, the pull so strong it felt like a physical ache. “All I could see was your face. That night—when you walked out. The look in your eyes. I knew I couldn’t do it. So I turned around. Came back. Spent the weekend—here. Planning how to crash your party, I guess.” 

You attempt a weak smile that doesn’t quite land.

Gaeul stares at you, the confusion warring with the residual anger and a dawning, hesitant flicker of something else—relief. Understanding. Her posture softens infinitesimally, the rigid defensiveness easing. “You—didn’t go?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Couldn’t. Not like that. Not without—” 

You take another step closer, closing the distance. The members are silent witnesses, the celebration momentarily suspended. “Abu Dhabi is next week. The season finale. I still want to race it. I need to—to close that chapter. For me. But I won’t. I swear to you, Gaeul, I won’t set foot in that paddock unless you tell me I can.” 

Holding her gaze, you lay yourself bare. “You were right. It’s not worth losing this. Losing you. Not for any podium in the world. I don’t care anymore. As long as I have you. It’s your call.”

Silence stretches. Loud music thumping from the stage feels worlds away. Gaeul searches your face, her eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion, the lingering shadows of pain, the earnest desperation in your expression. The fierce protector, the terrified lover, the proud partner—they all quarrel within her gaze. Finally, a sigh escapes her, long and shuddering, releasing some of the tension coiled inside her. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, weary but genuine.

“Stupid,” she murmurs, lacking its former bite, softened by an undeniable warmth. “Reckless. Selfish. All of those things.” She takes the final step, closing the gap completely. Her hand lifts, not to strike, but to gently cup your cheek. Her touch is cool against your flushed skin, a grounding counterpoint to the storm inside you. “But you’re mine. And I know that fire. I saw it when you woke up in that hospital, even when you couldn’t remember your own name. I can’t—I can’t hold you back from what’s in your blood. Not truly.” 

Gaeul’s thumb strokes your cheekbone. “So yes. Go race Abu Dhabi. Finish your story.” Her gaze intensifies, holding yours with zealous love and a lingering trace of dread. “But you come back to me. In one piece. Not just alive—whole. Promise me.”

The wave of relief and gratitude that crashes over you is so profound it nearly buckles your knees. You cover her hand on your cheek with yours, leaning into her touch. “I promise,” you rasp, thick with emotion. “I will come back to you. Whole.”

A collective, subtle release of breath seems to go through the other members. Rei beams, giving her panda a happy squeeze. Jiwon lets out a quiet, relieved sigh, smiling brightly. Hyunseo bounces on her toes, the tension broken. Wonyoung offers a small, knowing nod. Yujin clears her throat, subtly breathing a sigh of relief, a soft smile finally touching her lips.

“Well,” Yujin says, warm but carrying a hint of gentle command. She picks up the Daesang. “This calls for proper celebration. We should find the managers, see about that after-party reservation—” She glances meaningfully at Gaeul, then at you, her smile turning slightly mischievous. “Leeseo, Rei, Liz—help me track down the coordinators. Wonyoung?”

Wonyoung, ever perceptive, simply inclines her head, her regal posture unwavering. “Of course, baby.”

Rei giggles, nudging Leeseo. “Come on, let’s go find the fancy champagne. The really fancy stuff!” 

Liz loops her arm through Leeseo’s, steering her towards the door with a final, encouraging smile in your and Gaeul’s direction.

Within moments, the dressing room vacates, the buzz of celebration moving elsewhere, leaving you and Gaeul in a sudden, intimate quiet. The only sounds are your breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the distant stage. Tension of the confrontation melts, replaced by a different kind of electricity. Gaeul’s hand is still on your cheek. Your hand covers hers. The space between you hums.

Gaeul’s eyes, no longer wary or angry, search yours. Seeing the exhaustion, the lingering pain, the raw vulnerability, and the fierce determination beneath. Her gaze drops to your lips, then back up, a slow, warm blush spreading across her cheeks. Faint scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive—mixes with the lingering champagne and the adrenaline of the performance. The low neckline of her stage costume glitters under the dressing room lights, drawing your eye to the smooth line of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse you can see just beneath her jaw.

“They think we need the room,” she murmurs, husky now, a world away from its earlier sharpness. Her other hand comes up, fingers lightly tracing the tense line of your jaw, then drifting down to rest against the pulse hammering in your neck. Her touch is deliberate, exploratory, reigniting embers that had been banked by pain and conflict.

“They might be onto something,” you manage, your own cadence rough. 

The months of enforced distance—the fear, the anger, the relief of this fragile reconciliation—it all coalesces into a sudden, overwhelming need. 

Your free hand finds her waist, the sequined fabric cool and slick under your fingertips. Pulling her gently, irresistibly closer, until your bodies are almost touching. The heat radiating from her is intoxicating. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest against yours. The roar of the crowd is replaced by the roaring of your own blood. Her lips part slightly, an unspoken invitation, her eyes darkening with an answering hunger that mirrors your own. 

The chaos of MAMA fades away, leaving only the quiet room, the shared warmth, and the promise of a much different kind of reunion, long overdue and desperately needed. 

The hotel key card in your pocket suddenly feels heavy with possibility.

—————

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the distant thrum of MAMA, the muffled bass from distant parties, and the lingering scent of hairspray and adrenaline. Silence descends, thick and charged, broken only by the frantic hammering of your own heart against your ribs and the soft, quick breaths escaping Gaeul’s parted lips. The luxurious space feels suddenly small, intimate, charged with the electric current of months of repressed longing, fear, anger, and now, this fragile, desperate reconciliation.

For a heartbeat, you simply stare at each other across the plush carpet. The shimmering residue of her stage makeup catches the soft light from the bedside lamp, highlighting the high curve of her cheekbones, the slight tremble in her bottom lip. Her eyes, reflecting the city lights bleeding through the sheer curtains, hold yours with an intensity that steals your breath. There’s no wariness left, no residual anger. Only a raw, naked hunger that mirrors the fire scorching through your own veins. 

It’s not a gentle merging; it’s a collision. 

You meet in the center of the room, a tangle of desperate limbs and seeking mouths. Your lips crash against hers with a force born from months of separation and stifled need. 

Hers yield instantly, opening with a soft gasp that vibrates against your tongue. The kiss is deep, bruising. A frantic reclamation. Her hands fly to your face, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, impossibly closer. Your own arms lock around her waist, hauling her flush against you, the sequined fabric of her stage outfit cool and slick beneath your palms, the heat of her body beneath it radiating like a healthy furnace.

The taste of her is intoxicating: champagne, a hint of her signature floral perfume, and something uniquely, addictively Gaeul. Your hands slide down her back, tracing the delicate ridge of her spine through the thin material, feeling her powerful dancer muscles coil and release. Hers are equally restless, roaming over your shoulders, down your chest, nails scraping lightly through the fabric of your shirt, sending shivers down your spine. 

The months of physio, the careful rebuilding—it all evaporates under the sheer, overwhelming need to feel her. All of her.

Clothing becomes an enemy. Fingers fumble with stubborn clasps and zippers. Breathless curses mingle with hungry moans against each other’s skin. You push the glittering straps of her outfit off her shoulders, the delicate fabric tearing slightly in your haste, a small casualty lost to urgency. It pools around her waist before you shove it lower, revealing the smooth, pale expanse of her back, the graceful curve leading down to the swell of her hips. 

Gaeul arches into your touch as your lips leave her mouth to blaze a trail down her jaw, her neck, finding the frantic pulse point hammering beneath her skin. You gnaw on her flesh, gently at first, then harder, marking her, claiming her anew. A low whine escapes her throat, her head tipping back to grant you better access.

Her own hands are frantic at your buttons, pushing your shirt open, her cool palms sliding over your chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the faint ridges of scars left by Spa—a reminder of the chasm you’d crossed to get back here. Her touch is both worship and possession. Pushing the shirt off your shoulders, it falls forgotten. Your belt buckle clatters to the floor, followed by the rustle of trousers being shoved down your legs. Her stage outfit follows. A shimmering cascade of discarded glamour, kicked away impatiently. 

Underneath, simple lace. Dark against her moon-pale skin. A final barrier quickly breached.

Then, it’s skin on skin. The shock of it is electric, grounding and dizzying all at once. 

The cool air of the room meets the blazing heat radiating from your bodies. You pull Gaeul against you, every curve and plane fitting together with a familiarity that aches, the months apart dissolving in sheer perfection of contact. Her breasts press against your chest, hardened peaks scraping your skin. Her thighs bracket yours, the softness yielding against the hard muscle of your legs. She feels like heaven, like home rediscovered after a long, perilous journey. A groan tears from your throat, deep and guttural, echoed by a sigh from her that’s half relief, half desperate want.

Driven by a need too primal to articulate, you guide her backwards, slightly stumbling in your haste, until her back meets the cool expanse of the bedroom wall. The impact draws a gasp from her lips, instantly swallowed by your renewed kiss: deeper, more demanding. Your hands roam freely now, mapping the familiar territory of her bare body with possessive intensity. One hand cups the perfect swell of her ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle, lifting her slightly, grinding the hard length of your cock against the soft heat at the apex of her thighs. She cries out against your mouth, her hips rocking instinctively, seeking friction.

Your other hand finds her breast, filling your palm, thumb sweeping roughly over the taut peak. She gasps, arching her back, pushing herself more firmly into your touch. 

“Yes,” she hisses, the sound vibrating against your lips. Her nails rake down your back, not gently, leaving fiery trails that speak of possession, of marking you as hers just as you’ve marked her neck. The slight sting blends perfectly with the overwhelming pleasure, a counterpoint that only elevates the intensity.

The wall provides leverage. You kiss her with a devouring hunger, your tongue tangling with hers, tasting her desperation. Your hand leaves her breast, sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, tracing the indent of her navel, slipping lower, through the soft curls, finding the slick, molten heat waiting beneath. Gaeul jerks against the wall as your fingers brush her clit. 

A high, keening sound escapes her lips. She’s drenched, swollen, impossibly ready. 

You slide a finger inside her, then another, curling them expertly, finding the spot that makes her thighs clamp around your hand, her head thudding back against the wall with a soft moan.

“Fuck—you’re so—” she pants, her eyes squeezed shut, caught in the sensations. “Don’t stop— please—”

But you do stop. Gently withdrawing your fingers, you relish the frustrated whimper it draws from her. You need more. You need all of her. 

Breaking the kiss, you trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, over the burgeoning bruises you’ve left, across the delicate ridge of her collarbone. Sinking lower, your hands replace your mouth on her breasts, squeezing, kneading. Thumbs circle her nipples with firm pressure that makes her gasp and writhe against the wall. You lavish attention on each tit, sucking one hardened bud deep into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, then grazing it lightly with your teeth before moving to the other. She’s a panting, whimpering mess above you, her fingers clenched in your hair, guiding, urging, her hips grinding helplessly against air.

Leaving her breasts glistening, you continue your descent. Your lips blaze a trail down the center of her stomach, tracing the subtle muscles, dipping into her navel, tasting the salt of her skin. Her abdomen tenses beneath your mouth, a tremor running through her. Hooking your hands under her thighs, you lift her slightly higher against the wall. Her breath hitches, anticipation coiling tight in the silence.

Then, you bury your face between her legs.

The scent of her arousal is intoxicating, musky and sweet, uniquely her. Groaning against her heat, the vibration draws a sharp cry from her lips. Your tongue finds her slick folds, lapping slowly, deliberately, from the sensitive entrance upwards to the swollen bud of her clit. 

She jerks violently, a choked sob escaping her. “Oh God—”

This is worship. Penance. Desperate adoration. 

You flatten your tongue against her, delivering broad strokes that make her thighs quiver around your head. Circling her clit with the tip of your tongue, teasingly light at first, then firmer, faster. You suck gently on the engorged nub, swirling pressure that has her crying out, her hands fisting in your hair almost painfully. Delving lower, tasting her deeply, thrusting your tongue inside her heat, savoring her nectar, the way her inner muscles flutter and clench around the intrusion.

Muffled sounds escape you, lost against her skin: groans of pleasure, low hums of approval. “So sweet,” you mumble, the words vibrating against her slick flesh, making her gasp. “Taste perfect—missed this— missed you—so much—” 

Your praise is fragmented, raw, punctuated by the wet sounds of your hungry tongue.

Her responses are a symphony of pleasure and mounting tension. Guttural moans rip from her throat, punctuated by sharp gasps and breathless curses. “Fuck—right there—don’t stop—please—” 

Her hips buck against your mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. She grinds down onto your tongue, her movements becoming frantic and uncontrolled. Tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter within her, a palpable force radiating from her core. Her thighs clamp around your head, her back arches impossibly off the wall, held only by your grip and the pressure of your mouth.

You feel it coming: the tremors starting deep inside, the flutter against your tongue becoming frantic, the sharp, ragged edge to her breathing. Redoubling your efforts, focusing relentless pressure on her clit, sucking firmly, your fingers dig into the supple flesh of her ass, holding her open, holding her there. Like’s high art on the bedroom wall.

With a cry that’s half sob, half scream, she shatters.

Convulsing against the wall, her body is held together by your strength. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her, violent and all-consuming. Her inner walls clench rhythmically around your tongue, her slickness flooding over your chin. Her thighs tremble violently, her cries dissolving into wordless, gasping moans as the tremors wrack her. You hold her through it all, gentling your touch but not stopping, drawing out every last shuddering pulse of her climax until she sags, boneless and gasping, held up solely by your arms.

Slowly, carefully, you lower her trembling legs. Rising from your knees, your own body thrums with arousal, your face glistening full with her juices. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused. Her lips swollen, her chest heaving. 

She looks utterly ravished, beautifully wrecked. A slow, dazed smile touches her lips as her eyes focus on yours. 

Wordlessly, she reaches for you, pulling your mouth to hers in a deep, languid kiss. Tasting herself on your lips, she moans softly into your mouth. “Damn. I taste good.”

“Right,” you mumble, suppressing a faint chuckle.

Gently disentangling, you scoop Gaeul up into your arms. A renewed surge of strength fueled by adrenaline and desire. She feels light, pliant, wrapping her arms around your neck, nuzzling into your shoulder. You carry her the few steps to the vast bed, lowering her onto the cool, crisp sheets. The city lights paint shifting patterns across her skin as she sinks into the mattress, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, dark with renewed passion.

You shed the last of your own clothes quickly, your gaze never departing hers. The sight of her sprawled naked across the bed, marked by your mouth, flushed with bodily pleasure, her eyes reflecting the hunger still burning within her, is almost more than you can bear. You join her, sliding onto the bed beside her, your body covering hers, skin sliding against heated skin.

The kisses start again: slower now, deeper, more exploratory. A rediscovery. 

Your hands roam over her body, relearning every curve, every dip, every scar and freckle. You kiss the bruises blooming on her neck, her collarbones, whispering apologies and promises against her skin. Her hands are equally as busy, mapping the planes of your back, your chest, drifting lower to wrap around the hard length of your cock, stroking you with firm, knowing pressure that makes your hips jerk involuntarily.

“Need you baby,” she breathes against your lips, her voice husky, totalled. “Need you inside. Now.”

The raw need in her voice is your undoing. You reach between your bodies, guiding yourself to her slick entrance. The first press is electric, a shock of heat and tightness that steals your breath. Pushing slowly, inch by torturous inch, watching her face, the way her eyes flutter shut, her lips part on a silent gasp. She’s incredibly tight, still pulsing faintly from her earlier climax, her inner muscles gripping you like a velvet fist. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect, agonizing friction.

“Fuck, Gaeul,” you groan, burying your face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse beneath your lips. “So tight—so perfect—”

She wraps her toned legs around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back, urging you deeper. “All of you,” she demands, her voice thick. “Give me all of you.”

You sink the final inch, hilting yourself completely within her, a groan tearing from both your throats in unison. The feeling of being sheathed inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, after so long apart, is transcendent. You stay buried for a moment, simply taking in the connection, the frantic beating of her heart against your chest, the slight tremors still running through her. Her walls flutter around you, adjusting, flexing, welcoming.

Then, you begin to move.

Slowly at first, shallow thrusts that draw soft whimpers from her lips. You lift your head, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her sounds. The pace builds gradually, a steady rhythm established. The slide is exquisite, slick and hot, each withdrawal an ache, each stroke a shot of pure pleasure that arcs through your core. Her nails find your back again, scoring fresh lines alongside the fading marks, the sting a perfect parallel to the deep, lingering pressure within you.

She meets your thrusts, arching her hips off the bed, taking you deeper, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around your cock. “Missed this,” she gasps against your mouth, breaking the kiss to pant. “Missed you—inside me—filling me—” The words are fragmented, lost in moans. “So deep—feels so—so good—”

You shift slightly, angling your hips, seeking that spot you know drives her wild. The next deep thrust draws a sharp, broken cry from her, her eyes flying open wide. 

“There! Oh fuck—right there—” Her head thrashes on the pillow, her back arching sharply. “Don’t stop—please—like that—just like that—”

Focusing your thrusts, hitting that perfect angle with relentless precision. The room fills with the raw, pornographic sounds of your bodies coming together: the slick slap of skin on skin, your ragged breaths, her escalating cries—guttural moans, sharp gasps, breathless pleas. She’s unraveling beneath you again, the tension coiling tighter, faster this time. Her legs coil around you like a vise, her heels urging you to go deeper. Harder. Her hands scramble over your back, on your shoulders, before finally tangling in your hair again, pulling your head down.

“Kiss me,” Gaeul demands, driven wild with ecstasy, “Please—kiss me—”

You crush your lips on hers, swallowing her cries as you drive into her with increasing, unforgiving force. The bed creaks beneath in protest. The world narrows to the feel of her cunt, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her vocalized pleasure, the blinding white-hot pressure building at the base of your spine, threatening to detonate at any given moment.

“Gaeul—” you gasp against her lips, your thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. “Can’t—can’t hold—gonna—“

“Yes!” she cries out, tearing her mouth from yours. Her eyes blaze into yours, dark and wild, holding your gaze with fierce intensity. “Do it. Let go. Give it to me—cum inside me—fill me up—please—”

Her words, her desperate plea, the sheer overwhelming sensation of her cunt tightening around you like a silken fist—it shatters your control. 

A guttural cry rips through your lungs as you plunge deep, burying yourself to the hilt, and erupt. Pent-up want explodes, white-hot and blinding, surging through you in pulsing waves that leave you shuddering, gasping, and utterly spent. You feel her orgasm meet yours, triggered by the thumping heat flooding her core. Her body arches violently off the bed, a long, wordless cry ripped from her throat as she convulses around you, milking every last drop of your release.

Shot after shot, unloading into her creamy cunt, feeling every violent throb, twitch, and pulse of your cock, and her wanton pussy beg for more. You give it to her. Each and every load.

You collapse onto her, crushing her into the mattress, your forehead pressed to hers, gasping for air, trembling from the sheer force of your shared climax. Her arms wrap around you, holding you close, her own body trembling beneath yours. The only sounds are your ragged breaths mingling, the frantic hammering of your hearts slowly beginning to slow, and the faint, distant beat of the city outside.

Slowly, carefully, you roll off, pulling her with you so she ends up sprawled half on top of you, her head nestled on your chest. Your arms wrap around her, holding her close, your fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns on the sweat-slicked skin of her back. Her leg is thrown over yours, her hand resting possessively over your still-thumping heart.

The silence now is profound and serene, filled only with the shared warmth and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure humming through your bodies. The frantic energy, the desperate need, has burned itself out, leaving behind a deep, satisfying exhaustion and a profound sense of reconnection.

You tilt your head, looking down at Gaeul. Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes fanning against her flushed cheeks. Her lips are slightly swollen, curved in a small, utterly contented smile. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on her skin. She looks utterly shattered, beautifully claimed, and completely at peace.

You brush a stray strand of dark hair, damp with sweat, away from her forehead. The tender gesture makes her eyes flutter open. She looks up at you, her gaze soft, hazy with satisfaction, but clear. Clear of the fear, the anger, the worry that had shadowed them for so long. There’s only warmth, trust, and a deep, abiding love that takes your breath away all over again.

“Hey,” you murmur, roughed up but tender.

“Hey,” she whispers back, a husky rasp. Nuzzling closer, she presses a soft kiss against the skin over your heart. “Welcome back.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, mirroring hers. You tighten your arms around Gaeul, pulling her even closer, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, the unique scent of her mingled with the lingering traces of sex and sweat. 

“Never really left,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Just took the scenic route.”

She chuckles softly, the sound a warm vibration against your chest. “Scenic route involving a lot of walls and hospital beds.”

“Worth it,” you say simply, your fingers tracing the line of her spine again. “To end up here. With you. Like this.”

She lifts her head slightly, meeting your eyes again. Her hand comes up, her fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips. “Abu Dhabi,” she says softly, the fear fading, replaced by a quiet understanding.

“Abu Dhabi,” you confirm, holding her gaze. “I’ll come back. Whole. Promise.”

Gaeul searches your eyes for a long moment, then nods slowly, a tiny, accepting smile touching her lips. She leans up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss. It’s tender, unhurried, a silent affirmation. “I know you will,” she whispers against your mouth. “Just—make it a less scenic route back, okay?”

You smile into the kiss. “Deal.”

She settles back down against your chest with a content sigh, her body relaxing completely against yours. The silence wraps around you again, incredibly warm and safe. City lights continue their silent dance on the ceiling. The distant thrum of the outside world and the challenge to come is a lullaby. Here, tangled in the sheets, skin to skin, heart to heart, the only victory that matters is this one. The long, painful journey from almost to here. 

Together. 

The roar of engines, the pressure of the podium, the unfinished story—they’re still there. Waiting. But for now, in this quiet afterglow, there’s only peace and warmth, a profound sense of being exactly where you belong. 

Home.

—————

The desert night at Yas Marina isn’t silent. It thrums. A deep, resonant pulse beneath the shimmering heat haze rising off the tarmac even after sunset—the collective heartbeat of twenty power units whispering threats inside their carbon cocoons. Floodlights carve islands of harsh white brilliance in the inky darkness, turning the circuit into a stage set for the season’s final act. The air hangs thick, tasting of overheated brakes, engine fuel, and the sweet, cloying scent of nearby frangipani blossoms, an incongruous counterpoint to the mechanical brutality about to unfold. 

Championship tension crackles like static: Oscar Piastri, cool and focused, holds a fragile points lead over Lando Norris, whose usual playful grin is tempered by steely determination. Victory here for Oscar seals it: his first. For Lando, nothing less than a win will suffice. The narrative is set. 

Until you rewrite it.

You move through the paddock’s controlled chaos, a reanimated corpse walking amongst the living. The Kick Sauber team shirt feels both familiar and alien against skin mapped with scars, held together by reformed tissue and titanium resolve. Every step sends a muted protest from your rebuilt ankle; every turn of your head whispers a reminder of the shoulder that still remembers impact. Yet, your stride is deliberate, purposeful, projecting an unnerving calm that cuts through the pre-briefing chatter. Eyes follow you—mechanics, journalists, junior engineers—their expressions a kaleidoscope of disbelief, morbid curiosity, and burgeoning awe. 

Headlines scream from every screen: 

"Phoenix Rises from Yas Marina Ashes?" 

"Medical Miracle or Madness? Sauber's Lazarus Act." 

You’re the impossible made flesh, the embodiment of defiance against physics, anatomy, and reason.

The circuit briefing room is a sanctum of focused tension when you push the door open. Team principals huddle over data pads. Engineers murmur into headsets. Drivers lean back in their chairs, some relaxed (Verstappen, already championed out, wanting to go home to his setup), others coiled springs (Oscar and Lando). Jonathan Wheatley, Sauber’s team principal, is mid-sentence about track limits when the room’s collective attention snaps towards the entrance like iron filings to a magnet.

Silence. Not gradual, but absolute. A vacuum sucking the air from the room.

Shock. George Russell’s mug of coffee halts halfway to his lips, frozen. Carlos Sainz’s eyebrows vanish beneath his hairline. Fernando Alonso, the wily veteran, leans forward, eyes narrowing with intense, calculating scrutiny.

Awe. Alex Albon stares, open-mouthed, a flicker of pure admiration breaking through. Charles Leclerc’s usually expressive face is unreadable, but his gaze holds a profound, almost reverent intensity. The other rookies glare with bated breath, their eyes seemingly capturing a ghost for the first time in their lives.

Confusion. Lewis Hamilton’s brow furrows deeply, concern etching lines around his eyes as he takes in your stiff posture, the subtle way you favor your right side. Beside him, his former principal Toto Wolff exchanges a sharp glance with Christian Horner, trying to comprehend what he’s seeing.

Insanity. Max Verstappen’s lips quirk in something that isn’t quite a smile. More a recognition of sheer, audacious lunacy. He gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod—the closest thing to respect from the 4x champion.

Worry. Lando Norris’s playful mask slips entirely, replaced by stark alarm. Oscar Piastri’s focused, gentle calm fractures momentarily, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief.

Nico Hulkenberg, already seated near the front in his Sauber gear, doesn’t just look shocked; he looks physically winded. He half-rises from his chair, a low, guttural sound escaping him. 

"Scheiße." 

Not of anger, but pure, unadulterated dread.

The FIA briefing officer clears his throat, bewildered. "Ah—Mr. Bortoleto—? We were expecting—"

"Gaby couldn’t make it," you state, cutting through the stunned silence. Calm. Level. Carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. It’s the voice of someone who’s bargained with oblivion and walked away. "Personal reasons. In his place, I’m driving. This weekend." 

You step fully into the room, the fluorescent light catching the sharp planes of your face, the focused glint in your eyes that holds no room for doubt. You look less like a man and more like a monument carved from desert rock and sheer willpower. The biggest badass in the room, radiating a quiet, terrifying certainty that death had merely detoured your schedule.

Wheatley finds his cadence, a mix of programmed relief and genuine unease. "We—we are, of course, immensely proud and relieved to welcome our second driver back. His recovery has been—" he searches for the word, impossible given the circumstances, "—extraordinary. FIA medical clearance has been confirmed for participation."

The FIA medical delegate, the man who’d signed your paperwork with palpable reluctance, gives a curt nod, his expression grim. "Provisional clearance stands. Subject to review after each session." The unspoken warning hangs heavy.

Hulk is already moving, striding towards you, bypassing standard procedure. The seasoned veteran, the voice of reason Sauber desperately needed all season, now radiates pure, protective fury. "No," he states, low and fierce, grabbing your good arm just above the elbow. His grip is tight, anchoring. "This is not happening. Not like this. Look at you! You can barely walk without wincing! Yas Marina? The forces? The braking into Turn 1? The long G-load through Turn 11? Your neck isn’t ready! Your ankle isn’t ready! The car is a fucking tractor!" He lowers his modulation, but the intensity vibrates through you. "This isn’t courage. It’s suicide. Be reserve. Advise. But get back in that cockpit? Now? After Spa?" 

He shakes his head, a gesture of desperate frustration. "It’s too soon. Too damn dangerous. For you. For everyone on that grid."

You meet his gaze, unwavering. The room holds its breath. Lando looks visibly distressed. Oscar’s jaw is clenched. Charles watches with solemn intensity. Lewis’s expression is of deep trouble. Max leans back in his chair, observing the confrontation like it were a Netflix drama.

"I’m cleared, Hulk," you reply, still calm, but with an underlying steel that refuses argument. "Better than cleared. Ready." 

Gently but firmly, you remove his hand from your arm. The movement is deliberate, controlled, showcasing regained strength, yet the slight stiffness is undeniable. "Sense stayed in the barrier at Eau Rouge. I came back to drive." You offer him a ghost of a smile, devoid of warmth, full of unfettered resolve. "Happy to be your wingman again. Now," you turn towards the briefing officer, "let’s hear about those track limits. I need to know where the asphalt ends."

You find an empty chair near the back, right beside a stunned Williams strategist. Sitting down isn’t fluid; it’s a conscious, careful lowering of your body. Yet the defiance radiates from you like furnacing heat. 

The ghost hasn’t just returned; it’s also taken a seat at the table. 

Hulk stares at you for a long, agonizing moment, conflict warring in his eyes—profound concern battling against a dawning, grudging awe at the sheer, terrifying scale of your resolve. He sinks back into his seat with a heavy sigh, running a frustrated hand over his face. 

The briefing resumes, but the atmosphere is forever altered, charged with the electricity of the impossible walking amongst them.

—————

The paddock buzzes like a kicked hornet’s nest. Cameras and microphones swarm you the moment you emerge from the briefing. Questions are shouted, a cacophony of disbelief and morbid fascination: 

"Are you in pain?" 

"Do you fear another crash?" 

"How is this possible?" 

“Do you have a death wish?”

You offer terse, confident answers, your aura intensifying under the scrutinizing glare. 

Some look at you with reverent wonder. Alex Albon gives you a firm, supportive nod and a quiet "Respect, man." 

Others watch with the horrified curiosity of witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. Fernando Alonso intercepts you near the Sauber motorhome. "Only you, amigo," he says, his voice a mix of dry amusement and deep respect. "You’re one crazy son of a bitch. But good luck. You will need it." 

George Russell offers a hesitant handshake, his expression deeply troubled. "Blown away, mate. Seriously. Don’t know how you do it. Just—be careful out there, yeah?" 

Carlos Sainz claps you on the good shoulder. A firm, comradely thump. "Incredible. Respect." 

Lewis Hamilton simply meets your eyes as you pass, his gaze deep and knowing, filled with an aging wisdom that has seen countless battles and even lives lost fought for this sport. He gives a slow, solemn nod. It speaks volumes: respect for the courage, fear for the cost.

Stepping into the Sauber garage is like entering the eye of a storm. The C45 sits under work lights, its green and black livery gleaming, but the atmosphere heavy with apprehension and fragile hope. Engineers greet you with backslaps that feel cautious, their smiles not quite reaching their worried eyes. The car is a tractor: slow, unpredictable, a handful, even with Hulk’s valiant efforts. And you are—a question mark wrapped in fireproofs.

Slipping into the cockpit for FP1 is like reuniting with a toxic lover. The snug embrace of the seat, moulded to a body that’s been broken and remade. The familiar, complex grip of the steering wheel. The overwhelming scent of fuel, hot carbon, and electronics. The belts cinch tight across your chest, a familiar pressure that now presses directly on healing bone. Your physio gives your neck a final, searching squeeze. You nod, pulling the helmet visor down. The world narrows to the cockpit, the track, and the screaming spectres in your muscles.

Yas Marina roars to life. The circuit is more than a track; it’s the final arbiter, a demanding, glittering beast under the floodlights. 

Rolling onto the pit straight, the engine note climbs to a shriek. Turn 1 looms: a heavy braking zone from high speed that immediately tests your rebuilt ankle. The sheer force jams it back, a bolt of white-hot protest shooting up your leg. You breathe through it, modulating the pressure. Through the fiddly, technical section around the marina, walls flashing past uncomfortably close. 

The car feels numb, unresponsive, heavy in your hands—a stark contrast to the razor-edged machine you danced with before Spa.

Then, the swooping, banked Turns 11-14. The hotel section. This is where Yas Marina bites. Sustained, brutal lateral G-forces press you relentlessly into the side of the cockpit. Your neck muscles, weakened by months of recovery, scream in protest. It feels like an anvil crushing your skull sideways. 

You fight to keep your vision centered, your inputs precise. Sweat beads instantly under your helmet. Exiting onto the long back straight, you push, chasing a feel for the limits on hard tires. The car squirms under acceleration, the rear feeling loose and unpredictable.

Coming into the tight chicane complex before the final hairpin, you carry a fraction too much speed. The still cold tires offer less grip than anticipated. You brake, but the rear snaps out viciously. Instinct screams—the faint memory of a thousand slides—and you counter-steer, wrestling the wheel. The correction is violent, wrenching your healing shoulder. 

A jolt of agony blinds you for a split second. The car slews sideways, tires shrieking, spewing plumes of acrid blue smoke. You catch it mere inches from the unforgiving Tecpro barriers, the car fishtailing wildly before you gather it up, heart hammering against your ribs like a frantic bird. A long, ugly smear of rubber mars the pristine tarmac where you nearly met the wall.

The radio crackles instantly, your engineer’s call tight with alarm: "Box, box! Are you okay? Report damage!"

You suck in a ragged breath, the taste of adrenaline and burnt rubber sour in your mouth. The pain in your shoulder is a deep, insistent throb. Vulnerability is a cold knife twisting in your gut. Hulk watches from the garage entrance, his expression grimly resigned. The anxious huddle of Sauber engineers observe from the pit wall. 

The narrative writes itself: Comeback kid nearly wrecks in first session back!

"I'm okay," you rasp into the mic, forcing steel into your words, pushing down the tremor of pain and near-panic. "No damage. Just—testing limits. Car’s snappy on cold hards." 

Understatement of the fucking season. 

Guiding the Sauber back to the pits, the slow drive is incredibly humbling. The C45 feels heavy and flawed, an anchor dragging you down. Death’s presence in the cockpit feels less like an inconvenience and more like a looming, inevitable passenger.

Back in the garage, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken tension. Data flickers on screens, confirming the worst: P19. Only Ollie Bearman’s Haas is slower. Humiliation bites deep. Mechanics swarm the car, checking for damage. Hulk approaches, his face etched with concern that borders on rage. He doesn’t speak immediately; he just looks at you, then at the damning timesheet. 

"See?" he finally says, low and gravelly. "It’s not just you. The car’s a nightmare. And you—you’re driving hurt. On a track that demands perfection. That snap? That was the car and the rust. Sandpaper on an open wound."

You pull off your helmet, sweat plastering your hair to your skull. The ache is pervasive now: it spikes through your ankle, shoulder, neck, ribs. A dull symphony of protest. But the fire in your core—it’s banked, not extinguished. It simmers beneath the pain and the poor result. You meet Hulk’s worried gaze. The heroic aura is chipped, revealing the raw, unyielding determination beneath. The monument shows some cracks, but it doesn’t crumble.

"Maybe," you concede, rough but steady. "But I know nightmares, Nico. I’ve driven them before." You tap your temple through the balaclava. "Rust scrapes off. Fear fades. The car’s slow," you glance at the timing screen, P19 glaring back like a challenge, "but it’s mine. And it’s racing on Sunday." 

You push yourself out of the cockpit, the movement stiff but deliberate. "Get me the data from that snap. Every telemetry trace. And let’s talk setup. We need to find a tenth. Just one. For Qualifying."

Hulk watches you limp towards the engineering station, your back straight despite the clear discomfort. He sighs, a sound heavy with worry and something else—a reluctant, burgeoning respect for the sheer, undeterred scale of your defiance. The refusal to let the almost of Spa or the almost of that spin define the ending. 

He mutters under his breath, turning back towards his own car, a flicker of his own competitive fire rekindling. 

If the ghost was back, then maybe, just maybe, it could haunt the midfield into submission. Crazy bastard. 

Qualifying loomed. Yas Marina waited, indifferent beneath its glittering lights. The final test was coming, and the fire in your eyes promised it wouldn’t be taken lying down.

—————

The desert sun hammers down on Yas Marina, turning the paddock into a shimmering mirage. Yesterday’s near-miss hangs large, a stale reminder, but it’s buried beneath the fierce, focused energy radiating from you as you stride towards the Sauber garage. The stiffness lingers: a constant companion in your ankle, a dull ache in your shoulder, a tightness across your ribs with every deep breath. But it’s background noise now, drowned out by the determination building inside your chest. 

Qualifying. The crucible.

Atmosphere in the garage is taut, a mix of lingering anxiety and fragile hope. Hulk gives you a long, appraising look as you pull on your fireproofs. The seasoned skepticism in his eyes hasn't vanished, but it’s tempered by a flicker of something new—a reluctant acknowledgment of the sheer, stubborn force of will standing before him. 

"Don't overdo it chasing ghosts," he grunts, adjusting his own gloves. "Points are possible tomorrow. From the back, even. Don't throw it away today chasing—miracles."

You meet his gaze, a feral grin touching your lips beneath the helmet you haven't yet donned. "Miracles are physics we haven't bullied yet, Nico." The defiance is back, sharper, honed by the humiliation of yesterday’s P19. The hero’s aura isn't merely a projection; it feels earned, carved from pain and a bold refusal to give up.

Slipping into the C45's cockpit is less reunion, more reclamation. The belts cinch tight, a familiar vice across your healing torso. The steering wheel feels alive, an extension of arms that remember speed even if the bones protest. The physio’s final tap on your helmet feels less like a warning, more like a benediction. 

Go.

Q1. The track is a furnace. The C45 feels marginally better. Setup tweaks overnight scrape away a fraction of its inherent sluggishness, or maybe it’s your own senses sharpening. The pain is immediate: Turn 1’s braking jolts your ankle; the sustained Gs through the hotel section crush your weakened neck muscles, blurring vision at the edges. You wrestle the car, feeling its every lazy understeer tendency, its nervous rear end. Early laps are messy, tentative. Times are mediocre. P15. Danger zone.

Crofty’s voice crackles over the radio feed piping into the garage: "—and the Sauber struggling, as expected. Looks like the comeback might be a bridge too far today—"

You block it out. The torrential rain of Spa was more than weather; it was chaos incarnate. This—this is heat and physics. Manageable. 

So you push harder. Lap after lap, the times drop incrementally. You find millimeters on the apexes, carry fractions more speed through the sweeps, brake a heartbeat later. The car protests, but you beat it into submission, forcing compliance through sheer, bloody-minded input. The pain in your neck becomes a white-hot brand. Stubborn tenacity overrides it. The final lap of Q1 is a blur of concentration and controlled aggression. 

As you cross the line, the garage erupts. "P12! You're through! Q2!"

Your engineer’s cry is a disbelieving shout. Hulk, watching the timing screen, lets out a low whistle, a genuine smile cracking his usual stoicism for the first time in months. The apprehension in the garage dissolves, replaced by a surge of unfettered, disbelieving energy. 

He’s doing it.

Q2 is a different beast. The track evolution is significant. The front-runners: Verstappen, the McLarens, the Ferraris—they’re in a league of their own, setting purples. But the midfield is a knife fight. You feel it click. The rust isn't just scraping off; it's evaporating. Muscle memory floods back, race instinct overriding conscious thought. The C45 still isn't fast, but you wring its neck, finding grip where there shouldn't be any, carrying impossible speed through Yas Marina’s demanding complexes.

You see Max’s Red Bull flash past on an out-lap, a blur of speed. For a split second, your eyes lock through the visors. There’s no nod this time: just a sharp, assessing stare. He sees it. The man who made him flinch in the Spa downpour is stirring, ready to complete unfinished business.

Lap after lap, you climb. P10. P8. P6. Commentary is incredulous. Crofty’s voice cuts through: "Unbelievable! Look at that Sauber! He's extracting something extraordinary from that car! That's not just resilience, that's raw, untamed talent reasserting itself!"

Your final Q2 lap is a masterpiece of controlled aggression. Every input is precise, brutal, efficient. You kiss the curbs, flirt with track limits, dance on the absolute edge of adhesion. The C45 feels alive, singing beautifully beneath your hands. You cross the line. The timing screen flashes.

P1. For Q2.

Silence, exploding into pandemonium. In the Sauber garage, mechanics leap, hugging each other, pounding the pit wall. Hulk stares at the screen, mouth slightly agape, then turns to your car entering the pit lane, raising a fist—not just in solidarity, but in pure, unadulterated awe. "Bloody hell!" he breathes into the radio, a laugh mixed with disbelief.

Crofty loses it: "Incredible! Absolutely incredible! The Sauber on provisional pole for Q2! He’s topped the McLarens! Topped everyone! The comeback kid isn’t just back; he’s flying!"

Oscar, climbing from his McLaren after securing P2 in the session, stares at the timing screen, his usual calm replaced by wide-eyed shock. Lando, P3, shakes his head slowly, a grin spreading beneath his helmet—part disbelief, part genuine admiration. Charles, watching from the Ferrari garage, offers a slow, respectful clap. Albon radios his engineer: "Did you see that Sauber lap? That was insane!" 

Even Max, perched near the top of the overall times, glances at the Sauber pit with renewed, wary interest. The Lazarus act just became a resurrection of legendary proportions. 

Team morale isn't just high; it's stratospheric. Hope isn't a flicker; it's a wildfire.

—————

The fire is white-hot in your veins. Pain is forgotten, subsumed by the intoxicating shout of potential. For all its flaws, the C45 feels like an extension of your will. You belong here. The podium isn't a dream; it's a tangible target glinting under the Abu Dhabi lights.

The first Q3 run is solid, but conservative. P5. Good, but not stellar. The track is faster now. You know there's more. So much more. There’s the final run. One more shot. Glory.

You push. Harder than before. Harder than Spa. The tires are fresh, the fuel load minimal. The C45 responds, biting into the tarmac. Turn 1. Perfect. The fiddly marina section—razor-sharp. The hotel complex approaches—Turns 11-14. Its sustained, brutal G-forces slam into you, crushing your already screaming neck muscles. Vision tunnels. Fighting through it, teeth gritted, steering inputs precise but demanding every ounce of strength from your battered shoulder.

Exiting Turn 14 onto the back straight, you carry every ounce of speed the car can muster. The rear feels light, skittish on the exit curb. Instinctively you correct, but the movement is sharp, aggravated by the shoulder’s weakness. The car snaps. Not a gentle slide, but a violent, sudden loss of rear grip.

Instinct screams. Counter-steer. But the damaged shoulder betrays you. The input is a fraction slow, a fraction weak. The car whips around. Time slows. The Tecpro barrier at the end of the straight rushes towards you, not sideways like Spa, but head-on. A brutal, unforgiving embrace.

The whole circuit goes deathly silent.

The impact is colossal. A sickening symphony of shattering carbon fiber, screaming metal, and the violent deceleration slamming you against the belts. Your helmet snaps forward, then back. Lights explode behind your eyes. The world dissolves into noise, violence, and a blinding flash of pain that momentarily eclipses everything—shoulder, ankle, neck, ribs—converging into one white-hot supernova of agony. 

Sparks fly. Debris scatters across the track. Red flags wave instantly.

Death feels less like an inconvenience and more a sledgehammer blow to the chest. For a terrifying second, there’s only darkness and the ringing in your ears.

Then, the training kicks in. Move. Assess. You wiggle fingers, toes. Nothing broken. The HANS device did its job. The survival cell held. Pain screams from everywhere, a cacophony of protest, but it’s localized. No numbness. No fire. This isn’t Spa anymore.

Track marshals rush to the scene quickly. You wave them off, unbuckling the belts with trembling, painful motions. The cockpit is a mess of shattered carbon. Pushing the halo aside you climb out, every little movement sending fresh jolts of agony through your weakened frame. You stand, leaning heavily against the wrecked monocoque, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The crowd is silent, then erupts in concerned applause.

Wheatley’s the first in your ear, tight with worry that instantly overrides his earlier awe: "Talk to me! Are you okay? Say something!"

You key the mic. A ragged gasp, but otherwise clear as silk. "Yeah. I’m okay. Just—pissed off. Car's toast." 

Taking a step away from the wreck, you test your legs. They hold. The defiance, though battered, isn't extinguished. You raise a gloved hand towards the Sauber garage. A grim acknowledgement.

The medical car arrives. You submit to the checks, walking unaided to the ambulance for the mandatory precautionary check-up at the medical centre. The stride is stiff, painful, a stark contrast to the fluid power of your Q2 lap. But you walk. The cameras capture every grimace, every stiff movement, but also the unwavering set of your jaw. The human cost of the audacity is laid bare, yet the spirit remains unbroken.

The session ends under red flags. The final grid crystallizes:

1. VERSTAPPEN (Red Bull)

2. PIASTRI (McLaren)

3. NORRIS (McLaren)

4. LECLERC (Ferrari)

5. RUSSELL (Mercedes)

6. HAMILTON (Ferrari)

7. ALBON (Williams)

8. TSUNODA (Red Bull)

9. ALONSO (Aston Martin)

10. ________ (Kick Sauber)

11. HADJAR (Racing Bulls)

12. SAINZ (Williams)

13. HULKENBERG (Kick Sauber)

14. GASLY (Alpine)

15. ANTONELLI (Mercedes)

16. OCON (Haas)

17. BEARMAN (Haas)

18. STROLL (Aston Martin)

19. COLAPINTO (Alpine)

20. LAWSON (Racing Bulls) (-5 grid penalty)

Back in the Sauber garage, the mood is somber but not utterly shattered. The C45’s wreck is a worrying sight. Hulk finds you after the medical all-clear, your shoulder freshly strapped, movements visibly restricted. He doesn't say I told you so. He simply looks at the grid listing on the screen in bright, taunting color—P10. Ahead of Hadjar. Behind Alonso. His own P13 a stark reminder of the car’s harsh limitations.

"Tenth," he states, flat. "From the wreckage. Could be worse." 

He pauses, then meets your eyes. There’s no blame, just a deep, weary understanding. "The ghost is back. Scared the hell out of everyone. Again." 

A trace of his own smile touches his lips. 

"Rest. That," he nods towards where the wreckage had been, his finger pointed where the dust had settled, "was the easy part. Tomorrow is the war."

You stare at the grid. P10. A monument carved from pain, defiance, and shattered carbon. The podium dream is fractured, but not dead. The fire, though dampened by agony, still burns. Death was tested, but the story isn't finished. The final battle awaits under the desert stars.

—————

Abu Dhabi dawn bleeds into the sky, a slow stain of orange and purple above the Yas Marina circuit. The desert air, usually thick and still, hums with a different energy today—the electric crackle of finality. 

For the sporting world, it’s the culmination of a season, a championship duel between Piastri and Norris. But for you, standing alone in the Sauber garage amidst the pre-race frenzy, it feels like standing on the edge of a precipice. 

Your life unfurls beyond this track: Gaeul’s warmth, IVE’s whirlwind, ventures born from your improbable recovery. Possibilities shimmer like mirages on the horizon. Yet, the weight of the fireproofs, the scent of fuel, the phantom roar of engines in your mind—they pull you back towards the abyss. 

A tremor runs through your hands—not fear of the track, but fear of losing everything beyond it. The ghost of Spa whispers in the stiffness of your shoulder, the dull ache in your rebuilt ankle.

Suddenly, a ripple of unexpected brightness cuts through the garage’s focused gloom. Like exotic birds landing in a steel nest, the IVE members materialize. Rei bounds in first, her eyes wide with excitement, clutching a tiny, absurdly fluffy green dinosaur wearing a crocheted black shirt—Sauber’s colours. 

"Oppa! Win! You gotta win!" she declares, shoving the plushie towards you, flailing its tiny arms.

Liz beams beside her, adding, "For real! Show them what a real driver looks like!"

Leeseo bobs her head vigorously, her youthful face alight with pure, unfiltered belief. “We skipped MMA just to watch you in-person! Do us proud!”

“You’re not supposed to reveal that, Seo,” remarks Liz, cutely admonishing her fellow member. The maknae’s cheeks go flush in embarrassment.

Yujin steps forward, her leader’s poise a calming presence amidst the exuberance. She offers a firm, supportive smile. "Do your best out there. That’s all anyone can ask." 

Wonyoung, adorned in a lavish pantsuit, inclines her head, her gaze sharp and observant. "Drive well. We’ll be watching." Her words are concise, carrying the weight of expectation.

Finally, Gaeul. She moves through her members, her eyes finding yours amidst the green-and-black chaos. The fierce protectiveness, the lingering worry from t6r57he crash, is still there, etched in the slight tension around her mouth. But overriding it is a quiet, unwavering warmth. She doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, she reaches out, her cool fingers brushing the back of your bandaged hand where it rests on the cockpit rim. The touch is grounding, an anchor thrown into turbulent seas. 

"Just finish the race," she murmurs, low, meant only for you. Her eyes hold yours, intense, pleading. "Come back whole. That’s the only win I care about today. Promise me."

The chaos of the garage fades. The nerves, the existential dread—they momentarily dissolve under the weight of her presence, her touch, her simple, profound demand. You cover her hand with yours, squeezing gently. 

"Promise," you rasp, thick with emotion. The precipice remains, but the path forward is suddenly illuminated, not by podium champagne, but by the certainty of her waiting embrace.

The formation lap is a slow-motion procession under the harsh desert sun, a final calibration before the storm. You slot into P10, the grid stretching ahead: Verstappen’s Red Bull, a predatory shark on pole, the papaya McLarens of Piastri and Norris poised like hunting dogs behind him. Hulkenberg’s Sauber sits in P13, a green-and-black island settled a little further back. Tension in the cockpit is a living entity, vibrating through the steering wheel, syncing with your own hammering heart. 

Crofty’s voice crackles, a detached narrator setting the scene:

"And there he is, ladies and gentlemen, Sauber #77, lining up P10. A story of resilience unlike any we've seen. The question on everyone's lips: can he translate that qualifying heroics into race pace, or will the physical toll prove too much?"

Brundle’s drier tone follows: "The car's limitations were starkly evident yesterday, Crofty. He wrung its neck for that Q2 time, but over 58 laps? Against this field? And let's not forget the state of the driver after that enormous Q3 shunt. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight last night."

Ahead, the five red lights glow like malevolent eyes. Images flicker: Gaeul’s face as she whispered her plea, Rei’s bouncing enthusiasm, the grim wreckage of yesterday’s car. The nerves coalesce, solidify into a single, crystalline point of focus: Finish the story. Come back whole. 

Your hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles white beneath the gloves. The pain in your body recedes, compartmentalized. The world narrows to the lights, the clutch bite point, the engine note climbing to a fever pitch behind you.

All five lined up red. Right below, in an instant, a flash of green.

"LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO!"

Chaos erupts. A tsunami of sound and violence. You dump the clutch, the C45 lurching forward with a protesting groan. Into Turn 1, a vortex of screaming engines, smoking tires, and desperate lunges. You’re boxed in. Alonso’s Aston Martin jinks left, Stroll goes right right, Sainz’s Williams dives down the inside. You brake hard, the force jolting your ankle, vision blurring momentarily at the edges. Cars swarm past. Racing Bulls. Williams. Alpine. The pack swallows you whole.

"Okay, okay, clean through? Damage report?"

"Clean. Just—swamped. P—where am I?"

"P17. Behind Tsunoda and Gasly. Bide your time. Long race."

P17. Near the very back. 

Frustration wars with cold calculation. The C45 feels sluggish, unresponsive in the dirty air. Yas Marina reveals its true character: a deceptive beast. The long straights lull you into a sense of speed before punishing you with heavy braking zones that test your ankle’s limits. The fiddly marina section is a claustrophobic maze, walls flashing past, demanding millimetre-perfect precision that makes your healing shoulder scream with every corrective input. 

Then comes the hotel complex—Turns 11-14—the circuit’s heart of darkness. Sustained, brutal lateral G-forces slam you relentlessly into the side of the cockpit, crushing your neck, blurring vision, turning your spine into a column of fire. It’s a physical assault, relentless and draining.

Crofty draws the scene: "And the Sauber is really struggling in the dirty air, Martin. Dropped like a stone off the line. Looks like the fairytale might be ending before it really began."

Brundle’s biting tone adds: "Not surprising at all. That car is fundamentally slow, and he's carrying injuries that would sideline most athletes. Question is, can he manage the pain and the car for the duration?"

You push the thought and pain aside. Bide your time, as Wheatley said. Lap after lap, you learn the rhythm of the midfield battle. You study Sainz ahead: tidy, defensive. Stroll. Aggressive and erratic. Alonso—wily, conservative. Your tires settle. And the C45, while no thoroughbred, begins to talk to you again. 

The initial shock fades, replaced by the cold, familiar calculus of the race. The pain is a constant drumbeat, but it’s background noise now, woven into the fabric of the drive.

On Lap 8, the first opportunity knocks. Sainz outbrakes himself slightly into the Turn 6-7 chicane, running wide. You’re perfectly positioned. A squeeze of throttle, a precise turn-in, and you’re alongside the Williams on the exit. 

Clean. Clinical. Clear. P16.

"Nice move! Sainz cleared. Gasly next, 1.2 ahead. He’s on older softs."

Gasly’s Alpine is visibly slower exiting corners. You stalk him through the marina section, feeling the C45’s meagre downforce bite a fraction better in clean air. Down the long back straight, you slipstream, the Renault’s rear wing filling your vision. DRS opens. Pulling out late, braking impossibly deep for Turn 11, forcing the Alpine to defend the inside. Sweep around the outside, carrying momentum through the complex, leaving Gasly scrambling. P15.

Crofty’s impassioned voice rises. "He's climbing! The Sauber is on the move! Gasly dispatched with authority!"

Brundle’s remark is matter-of-fact. "Smart move. Used the Alpine's weak traction and the DRS perfectly. He's finding a rhythm now, despite everything."

Next target: Stroll. The Aston Martin is a wider, more aggressive beast to pass. He defends fiercely into Turn 1, forcing you to take the perilous outside line. You hold it, wheels on the very edge of the curb, the car dancing on the limit of adhesion, G-forces pulling at your injured neck. Side-by-side through the first sector, inches apart. You have the better exit from Turn 5 and muscle ahead before the braking zone for Turn 6. P14.

Then, the master: Alonso. The ageless fox knows every trick in the book. He anticipates your DRS run on the main straight, weaving subtly, breaking your tow. Brakes impossibly late into Turn 1, forcing you to check your own dive. Conserving tires, managing pace—he’s a fortress on wheels.

"Alonso’s managing. His tires are older, but he’s Alonso. Pick your moment. Don’t force it."

Patience. You shadow him for three laps, studying his lines, feeling the C45’s tires starting to grain slightly. Lap 15. Into the final sector. You gain a fraction more exit speed from the Turn 16 hairpin, closing the gap rapidly down the pit straight. DRS opens. This time, Alonso’s weave is predictable. Pulling out early gets you a cleaner tow. You brake marginally later, but crucially, smoother, carrying more minimum speed through the apex of Turn 1. Both cars are alongside by the exit. He tries to squeeze you towards the runoff, but you hold firm, your wheels kissing the white line, the Sauber vibrating with protest. You inch ahead, claiming the inside line for Turn 2. Alonso concedes, lifting slightly. 

P13. A wave of elation overrides the screaming pain in your shoulder.

Crofty lifts with excitement. "Incredible! He’s passed Alonso! The Sauber is near the points-paying positions! This is a drive of sheer, unadulterated willpower!"

Brundle stays calculating. "Astounding composure. Outfoxed the fox. Used the car's meagre strengths—that late-braking stability he found yesterday – perfectly. He’s making that C45 sing beyond its means."

Ahead, Hulkenberg’s Sauber is a green beacon in P12, chasing Albon’s Williams. Hadjar’s Racing Bull lurks behind you. You push. The car feels alive beneath you now, responding to your increasingly confident inputs. Reeling in Albon, the other Williams easily dispatched with a DRS-assisted move down the back straight into the chicane complex, cleaner than the pass on Gasly. P12. 

Then, on the next lap, Wheatley radios in:

"Heads up. Hadjar’s got fresh mediums. He’s rapidly closing in behind you."

You glance in the mirrors. Hadjar’s Racing Bull is indeed closing, a pure-white homing missile. You dig deeper. The hotel complex is agony, each corner a fresh assault on your neck, but you find a tenth, then another. You catch Hulkenberg asleep slightly exiting the marina section, getting a better run onto the straight. DRS. You pull alongside, teammates wheel-to-wheel. There’s a millisecond of hesitation—team orders unspoken but understood—then Hulk lifts ever so slightly, giving you the inside line for Turn 11. A gesture of respect, of faith. P11.

"P11! Hulk let you through. Hadjar 0.8 behind. Tsunoda ahead in P9, 4 seconds. Keep it clean!"

P11. On the cusp of the points. 

This shitbox C45, held together by grit and titanium balls, sits uneasy yet steady on the road. The physical cost is immense; sweat stings your eyes inside the helmet. Every breath feels like a knife twisting between your ribs. Your rebuilt ankle throbs with every brake application. But the fire burns brighter than ever.

Ahead lies Tsunoda’s Red Bull. Behind, Hadjar hunts on fresher rubber. Today’s battle isn't for the championship—far from it—but for redemption, for proving the story didn't end at Spa, or in yesterday's Q3 barrier. The final chapters are being written, one agonizing, winding corner at a time, under the relentless Abu Dhabi sunset. You brace for the hotel complex once more, the roar of the engine synching with the roar of your own blood. 

The promise echoes: Come back whole. But right now, whole feels like pushing a broken machine and a broken body to their absolute limit.

The desert air shimmers like molten glass over Yas Marina, pressing down with furnace heat that seeps through the Sauber’s carbon fiber monocoque and into your bones. P11. The number glows tauntingly on your steering wheel display. Hadjar’s Racing Bull fills your mirrors, a white-hot specter riding fresher medium tires, closing in furiously like a relentless cheetah.

"—and the RB’s looming large! Hadjar has a significant tire advantage. This could be terminal for Sauber’s points hopes unless he finds a miracle—"

The C45’s hard compounds feel like blocks of greased stone. Sector 2’s marina maze—a claustrophobic gauntlet of concrete barriers and abrupt direction changes—becomes a torture chamber. Each flick-left, jab-right wrenches your healing shoulder. The rear skitters nervously over curbs, threatening to snap. Hadjar lunges at Turn 9, his front wing inches from your diffuser. You slam the door shut, sacrificing exit speed, feeling the RB’s disturbed air buffet the Sauber like a boxer’s punch. 

It’s no longer about racing; it’s survival.

"Gap to Hadjar: 0.4. He’s nursing that tire advantage. Can you hold through the hotel complex?"

The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. Yas Marina’s heart of darkness. A relentless, banked corkscrew designed to wring necks and spirits. The sustained G-forces slam you sideways, crushing your injured neck against the headrest, blurring vision at the edges. It’s more than physical agony; it’s an assault on coherence. Hadjar gains in the dirty air.

A spark ignites in the chaos: audacious, born of desperation and an unshakeable belief in your own fraying limits. The team’s conservative strategy is a death sentence.

"Box this lap. Softs."

"Confirm? Softs now? Plan was Lap 32! They won’t last!"

"Confirmed. Softs. Now. We need the delta. Execute."

"Copy. Box this lap. Soft compound."

You peel off the racing line into pit lane’s sterile calm, the roar of the pack fading. 3.2 seconds of agonizing stillness—mechanics a green blur, the thunk of wheel guns, cold soft tires shrieking as you’re released back into the inferno.

P14.

Elsewhere, Crofty crackles with dynamite energy. "Astonishing gamble! He dives into the pits from the cusp of the points! Plummets to fourteenth! The soft tire is a Molotov cocktail—explosive but fleeting. Has bravery tipped into recklessness?"

"The mathematics are brutal, Crofty.” Brundle remains flat, calculated. “He needs near-perfect tire management for over forty laps on a compound that degrades exponentially here. It’s not just climbing a mountain; it’s climbing it on melting ice."

The transformation is immediate, electric. The new softs bite like razors. The sluggish C45 reawakens, its steering sharp, throttle response eager. 

Picking up right where you left off, you devour the backmarkers. Albon’s Williams is a late-braking lunge into Turn 6, inches from the barrier, the Sauber’s rear stepping out before you gather it with gritted teeth. P13. Ocon’s Haas—outmuscled with superior traction exiting Turn 16, DRS slingshotting you past down the pit straight. P12. Purple sectors flash on the timing screen.

“Look at those sector times! He’s a man possessed! Gaining three seconds a lap on the midfield!"

"The car is finally responding. He’s extracting performance buried deep within its flawed DNA. But the clock is ticking on those softs, Crofty. They’re burning bright, but burning fast."

"Pace is phenomenal! But rear left graining is severe. Manage! Temper the aggression!"

Manage. Temper. The words are static. The fire consumes you.

Hadjar’s Racing Bull falls prey to a daring outside-line pass through Turns 2 and 3, wheels kissing the unforgiving white line. P11. Sainz’s Williams succumbs to a DRS-assisted dive down the inside into the Turn 9 chicane, the Sauber vibrating violently as you force the issue. P10. Points finally claimed, but the softs are visibly fraying, chunks of rubber flying. 

Tsunoda’s Red Bull, trapped on older hards, is next. A calculated squeeze on the exit of Turn 16, using every millimeter of runoff, tires screaming in protest as you surge alongside and claim the position before the line. P9.

—————

Meanwhile, Rei bounces, jabbing a finger at the screen. "Go oppa! Faster!”

Liz and Leeseo clutch each other, gasping as the Sauber brushes the wall. Yujin watches closely, a sculpture of focused intensity.

"The tires—they won't hold—" Wonyoung mumbles, hands clasped together in wary focus and faint prayer.

Gaeul sits rigid, knuckles white on the armrest, both eyes glued on the screen, breathing shallowly. Every near-miss, every lurid slide, etches fresh lines of fear on her face. Her silent plea hangs in the air-conditioned chill.

Come back whole.

—————

Up ahead, the landscape shifts. Titans loom. Russell’s silver Mercedes. Leclerc’s scarlet Ferrari. Hamilton’s own scarlet Ferrari. The C45 feels laughably crude against their engineering marvels. Yet, you see fissures in their armor.

Russell. Blisteringly fast but occasionally leaves the door ajar on corner entry, trusting his Mercedes’ acceleration. Lap 41. Down the endless back straight. DRS open. Riding the Mercedes’ slipstream, the tow is monstrous. Russell defends the inside for the chicane complex. You feint left, then snap right, braking beyond the perceived limit for the first chicane apex, aiming for the sliver of space he left. Milliseconds. Tires shriek. The Sauber bucks, threatening to spin. Russell, startled by the sheer audacity, lifts minutely. You’re through. P8.

Crofty’s losing his voice. "He’s done it! Past Russell! A move bordering on suicidal! The sheer nerve!"

Brundle stays in quiet admiration. "Russell left him just enough room—a champion's width. And he took it with the precision of a surgeon. That’s not just speed; it’s racing intelligence under extreme duress."

Over the radio, Wheatley is elated. "Russell cleared! P8! Leclerc next, 1.8 ahead! Your tires are critical!"

Leclerc. The Ferrari is quicker, especially in Sector 1’s flowing curves. But it’s temperamental. Prone to sudden, vicious snaps of oversteer on power-down, particularly when pressured. 

Lap 44. You hound him through the marina sector, filling his mirrors, disrupting his rhythm. Into the tight left-right of Turns 8 and 9. Pressuring him mercilessly on entry, he’s forced to take a defensive, compromised line. On exit, as he feeds the power, the Ferrari’s rear steps out violently. Sparks fly as Leclerc course-corrects, scrubbing precious speed. It’s the microscopic opening. You pounce, squeezing the throttle earlier, surging alongside with superior traction. DRS opens. You sail past the momentarily crippled Ferrari before Turn 11. P7.

"Leclerc! You passed Leclerc! P7! Hamilton next! 2.5 seconds! But the tires—they’re on the canvas! Next lap, box! Box! Please!"

The softs are translucent, vibrating like unbalanced washing machines. Every bump threatens disintegration. But Hamilton’s up ahead. P6. The seven-time champion. The summit glows ahead. Yas Marina’s final sector offers one chance: the long blast after the Turn 16 hairpin, DRS activation, then the plunge into Turn 1.

Hamilton knows. He defends the inside ruthlessly down the main straight. DRS is open, but he blocks the tow, weaving subtly. You jink left, he covers. Speed bleeds away. Into Turn 1, he brakes impossibly late, securing the inside. Biding your time, you nurse the dying tires. 

Lap 46. Exiting the final Turn 16 hairpin, you muster up everything—every ounce of grip left in the shredded softs, every shred of strength in your screaming muscles. The exit is perfect, transcendent. You’re glued to the Ferrari’s diffuser. DRS opens. Hamilton weaves, but you’ve anticipated it. You pull out early, get a cleaner tow, and draw level just before the hundred-meter board for Turn 1.

It’s a drag race headed towards oblivion. The Ferrari’s superior horsepower claws back inches. Side-by-side, wheels almost touching, the scream of engines vibrating through your bones. The braking zone rushes up. You brake at the absolute limit—a force that feels like it will shatter your rebuilt ankle. Vision tunnels to a pinprick. The Sauber holds its line, shuddering violently, skating on the edge of adhesion. Hamilton, the master calculator, judges the margin. He brakes a fraction earlier, conceding the corner rather than risk mutual annihilation. You sweep through Turn 1 in the lead. P6.

Over commentary, Crofty has gone completely hysterical seeing the heroics. "He’s passed Hamilton! The Sauber is in sixth place! I am absolutely speechless! From the depths of P17 to the top six! This defies logic! It defies physics!"

Brundle, on the other hand, remains calm, but reverent. "A move of monumental courage and skill. He forced the greatest of all time into submission. Not with car speed, but with indomitable will and racecraft forged in fire. Legendary. Simply legendary."

"P6! You are P6! Hamilton 1.2 behind! 11 laps! Tires are critical! Manage! Bring it home, mate! Bring it home!"

Let it sink in. P6. Sixth place. In a fucking Sauber of all cars. A glorified lawn mower. 

The physical cost is apocalyptic—neck muscles in spasm, shoulder a molten knot of agony, ankle grinding with every pedal input, lungs burning. Your softs are translucent rags, vibrating horribly, their grip a fading memory. Yet, the dream—P5, Antonelli’s Mercedes just 3.1 seconds ahead—pulses with terrifying reality. Yas Marina’s glittering lights stretch ahead, no longer just a circuit, but the anvil upon which your promise to Gaeul is being forged.

You take a shuddering breath, tasting blood and exhaust fumes. The hardest laps are ahead. You brace for the hotel complex once more, the defiant roar in your veins drowning out the scream of the engine and the whimper of the tires. 

The story demands an ending. You will write it.

The desert heat throbs inside the Sauber’s cockpit, a physical counterpoint to the screaming vibration of the disintegrating soft tires. Sixth place glows on your dash: a monument built on defiance and agony. Antonelli’s Mercedes shimmers just ahead in P5, a silvery sign of unfinished business. The podium isn’t a dream; it’s a physical ache in your bones, a ghost whispering from the Spa runoff.

Wheatley screams in your ear, part static, all urgent concern. “Box! Box now! Softs are shredding! Pitting now gets you P9, maybe P8! Guaranteed points! You cannot hold this pace! Hamilton is closing!"

The calculation hangs in the scorching air. Pit: safety, points, survival. Stay out: glory, ruin, redemption. 

Gaeul’s face flickers in your mind—her whispered "Come back whole"— then vanishes beneath the visceral memory of Spa’s rain-lashed barrier. 

Then you hear your own voice. A call to action. 

Finish the story.

"Negative. Hunting P5. Tires have life."

"They have minutes! At most! You’ll be a sitting duck! It’s—"

The transmission cuts off, drowned by a collective gasp from the grandstands. Ahead, exiting the fiddly Turn 7-8 chicane, Lance Stroll’s Aston Martin rides the inside curb too aggressively. The car snaps sideways like a startled animal, spearing violently across the track. It slams nose-first into the unforgiving Tecpro barrier at Turn 9’s entrance with a sickening, echoing crunch. Carbon fiber erupts in a shower of debris. The Aston spins to a halt, broadside, blocking half the track. Stroll’s hand emerges, waving weakly from the intact cockpit. Relief wars with utter shock.

Yellow flags are waved. The safety car deploys onto the track.

Crofty shouts over the din: "Stroll! Heavy impact! Yellow’s out! Safety car! He’s moving, thank God! But the race is neutralised!"

Brundle sees through the crash and notices an opening. "A catastrophic lapse of concentration! Absolutely unnecessary! But a lifeline for the Sauber! He can pit under safety car and lose minimal time!"

Wheatley also sees it. "Safety car! Box! Box now! Mediums! We can put you out on P6! Fresh rubber! Ten laps! Go! Go! Go!"

The decision is instantaneous. The gamble transforms into opportunity. Glory remains within reach. 

"Copy. Boxing. Mediums."

You peel into the pit lane’s controlled calm, the roaring pack replaced by the whine of the safety car’s engine. The stop is a blur of green. 2.9 seconds. Fresh, yellow-banded medium tires slam onto the hubs. Cooler water floods the system. A microsecond of respite before you’re released into the slow-moving queue and back into the fire. P6. 

The pecking order crystallizes under the yellow flag’s caution: Piastri. Norris. Verstappen. Antonelli. Hadjar. You. Hamilton. Leclerc. Russell. Alonso.

—————

A silenced gasp fills the room as Stroll’s crash unfolds over the live feed. Gaeul presses a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror-turned-relief. 

Rei jumps up, pointing accusingly at the screen. "Ya! Stroll you idiot!" 

Liz and Leeseo clutch each other’s hands tighter, both pale as snow. Yujin grips the Sauber team’s desk board, her knuckles white. 

Wonyoung murmurs, pensive and cautious, "The safety car—his only chance—" 

As the Sauber rejoins P6 on fresh rubber, Gaeul exhales shakily, a single tear cutting through the tension on her cheek. 

Hold on.

—————

The safety car folds in at the end of Lap 51. Green flag is waved. Seven laps remain.

Up ahead, the pack explodes like a shrapnel bomb. Fresh mediums ignite the Sauber. The C45, revitalized, plants itself into the tarmac, responding to inputs with predatory eagerness. Hadjar’s Racing Bull is first. Defends the inside into Turn 1, but his worn mediums offer no traction on exit. You get a monstrous run, DRS flapping open, surging around his outside through Turn 2 with surgical precision. P5.

Next, Antonelli’s Mercedes looms quick. The rookie is fast, but flustered by pressure. You harry him through the marina sector—a claustrophobic dance of concrete walls and abrupt direction changes. Into the Turn 6-7 chicane, he brakes a fraction early, guarding the inside. You feint left, then snap right, braking impossibly late for the second apex. Tires kiss. Sparks fly. The Mercedes wiggles as Antonelli corrects. P4.

Crofty roars. "He’s through! Past Antonelli! Now fourth! The tire advantage is absolute! He’s dismantled the field in two corners!"

Brundle sounds awe-struck, flared with raw emotion. "A masterclass in opportunism! He smelled the weakness, exploited the tire delta with cold, brutal efficiency. That Mercedes had no answer!"

Five laps remain. Ahead, a solitary blue machine. Max Verstappen. P3. 

The Red Bull glints under the floodlights like a resting predator. The ghost of Spa—the man who dared challenge him in the monsoon—has returned. He knows you’re coming. He sees the relentless green-and-black machine filling his mirrors. The gap is 1.8 seconds. Yas Marina’s final sector stretches ahead—the long blast after Turn 16, the DRS activation, the plunge into Turn 1. Your only battleground.

"P4! Verstappen 1.8 ahead! Four laps! Your tires are prime! His mediums are thirty laps old! You can do this!"

The hunt intensifies. You push the Sauber to its screaming limit. Through the flowing curves of Sector 1, you gain tenths. Through the technical marina maze, you gain more. The gap shrinks: 1.5, 1.3—Verstappen defends, his Red Bull weaving subtly on the straights, blocking the tow, his lines inch-perfect. He’s conserving, calculating, the ice to your fire.

Lap 54. The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. G-forces slam you sideways, a crushing weight on your screaming neck. Vision tunnels. You emerge onto the back straight, the gap down to 0.9 seconds. DRS opens. Surging forward, riding the Red Bull’s slipstream, the tow claws you closer. 0.6 seconds. Verstappen defends the inside for the chicane complex. You jink left, he covers. No gap.

Crofty sounds breathless. “The gap is vanishing! Six-tenths! But Verstappen is defending like a lion! Where can he possibly pass?"

Brundle tenses. "It has to be the main straight. DRS. Turn 1. It’s his only chance. But Max knows it. He’ll make him earn every millimeter."

Lap 55. You replicate the approach. DRS open. Closer this time. 0.4 seconds. Verstappen weaves more aggressively. The Red Bull’s disturbed air buffets the Sauber. You hold firm, muscles burning, focus laser-sharp. No gap. Frustration is a live wire, but resolve is titanium.

Rei bounces, chanting, "Catch him! Catch him!” Liz and Leeseo are on their feet, hands still clasped. Yujin watches on seriously, a statue of concentration. Wonyoung’s eyes track every jink, every gain. Gaeul stands rigid, one hand pressed to her chest, the other gripping the team desk, her knuckles bloodless. Her lips move in a silent plea.

Lap 56. You hound Verstappen through Sector 2, filling his mirrors, disrupting his rhythm. Into the final Turn 16 hairpin. You take a tighter line, sacrificing exit speed for a fraction less distance. It’s a gamble. The Sauber’s nose inches closer to the Red Bull’s diffuser. Exiting the corner, you unleash every ounce of grip. The exit clean, but not transcendent. DRS activates. The gap is 0.3 seconds. Not enough. Verstappen defends the inside ruthlessly down the pit straight. 

The checkered flag looms on the next lap. Two more chances.

Wheatley’s voice is raw, hoarse. "Two more laps! Gap 0.3! You need a miracle out of turn 16! Give it everything!"

Sweeping through 14, 15, 16—a blur of concentration and controlled aggression. The hotel complex is a white-knuckle ride, G-forces threatening blackout. Then, the final corner. Turn 16. A slow, hairpin right. You brake marginally later, carry a fraction more speed, turn in sharper. The Sauber rotates beautifully, its mediums biting hard. You plant the throttle earlier, harder than ever before. The rear twitches, threatening to snap, but you catch it with instinctive reflex. The exit is perfect. A surge of acceleration pins you to the seat. You’re instantly glued to the Red Bull’s diffuser.

DRS flaps open. The tow is monstrous. The gap evaporates. Side-by-side with Verstappen before the 100-meter board for Turn 1. The roar of the engines merges into a deafening howl. Wheels inches apart. The braking zone rushes up—a wall of inevitability. You brake at the absolute limit, a force that feels like it will destroy your rebuilt ankle and compress your spine. Vision blurs to a pinprick of light framing Verstappen’s blue helmet. The Sauber holds its line, vibrating on the knife-edge of adhesion. Verstappen, the ultimate calculator, judges the vanishing margin. He doesn’t yield.

The desert air vibrates with the choral shriek of nineteen engines pushed beyond endurance. Inside the battered Sauber cockpit, every nerve screams in protest—neck muscles in spasm, shoulder a molten knot, rebuilt ankle grinding with each pedal stroke. Yet, the world narrows to a tunnel vision: the shimmering blue-and-red rear wing of Max Verstappen’s Red Bull, barely a few tenths ahead. 

Fourth place. The podium. Spa’s ghost demanding its due. Gaeul’s whispered plea—come back whole—echoes beneath the engine’s roar and the frantic hammering of your own heart.

Final Lap. Lap 58.

Exiting the Turn 16 hairpin, you’re glued to the Red Bull’s diffuser. DRS flaps open with a decisive thunk. The pull is monstrous, a physical punch slamming you forward. Side-by-side with Verstappen before the 100-meter board for Turn 1. Wheels inches apart. The desert sky bleeds deep black and sparkly-starry white as Yas Marina’s floodlights ignite, casting long, dramatic pathways across the tarmac. The roar of the engines merges into a deafening howl of defiance and desperation.

Crofty crackles with high tension. "Side-by-side! The Sauber and the Red Bull! Wheel-to-wheel down to Turn 1! This is it! The comeback kid versus the four-time champion! Shades of Spa!"

Brundle’s enraptured by the duel that’s unfolding. “The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated nerve! He’s forced Verstappen into a fight he never wanted on the final lap! Watch the braking!"

Verstappen defends with the fury of a cornered beast. The Mad Max of old resurfaces: desperate, ruthless, borderline violent. He jinks sharply left, forcing you towards the pit wall, the disturbed air buffeting the Sauber like a physical blow. Holding firm, your muscles scream, steering inputs micro-corrected against the turbulence. Inches from the white line. He jinks right, trying to crowd you towards the runoff on the outside. Your tires kiss the artificial grass fringe, kicking up a plume of dust, the car skating perilously. You counter-steer instinctively, the Sauber snapping back onto the black stuff, momentum barely checked.

Over team radio, Wheatley’s shrieking harshly in your ear. "Hold your line! Hold! You’re alongside!"

Verstappen’s aggression is his shield, but it’s also his energy drain. His weaving costs him precious exit speed out of Turn 1. You carry a fraction more momentum, staying glued to his flank through the fiddly Turns 2 and 3. He slams the door shut at Turn 4, forcing you to lift, sacrificing precious tenths. 

The McLarens far ahead are distant specks, their private duel for the championship already decided. None of that matters. Only P3. Only Verstappen.

Through the flowing curves of Sector 1, you gain minutely, the healthier mediums granting superior traction. The gap shrinks: 0.4 seconds. Verstappen mirrors your line, inch-perfect, defensive, blocking any tow opportunity on the straights. The marina sector looms—a concrete canyon demanding millimetre precision. You hound him, filling his mirrors, every twitch of his car telegraphing his next move. Into the tight Turn 8-9 chicane, you pressure him hard on entry, forcing a slightly compromised exit. You gain another tenth. 0.3 seconds.

Crofty’s all but out of breath: "He’s crawling all over him! The gap is vanishing! Three-tenths! But where can he possibly pass? Verstappen is defending like a man possessed!"

Brundle’s tensing up, yet still analytical. "It has to be the hotel complex exit or the final straight. But Max knows it. He’s conserving every ounce of energy, every scrap of tire, for the defence. The Sauber driver needs complete perfection."

The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. The crucible. Sustained, brutal G-forces slam you sideways, crushing your screaming neck against the headrest, blurring vision at the edges. It’s agony distilled. Verstappen navigates it flawlessly. Tight, but defensive. You push harder, carrying a whisper more speed through the banked turns, feeling the Sauber’s chassis groan in protest, the tires howling at the limit. You emerge onto the back straight mere car lengths behind. 0.2 seconds. DRS opens. You surge forward, the tow clawing you to his gearbox. 0.1 seconds. Nose to tail.

“Last corner! Make it count! Perfect exit! Perfect!”

Turn 16. The final hairpin. A slow, agonizing right-hander before the blast to the line. Verstappen brakes early, guarding the inside line, sacrificing exit speed to block any possible lunge. It’s textbook defence. But in that moment of hyper-aggressive control, focused solely on blocking the inside, he pushes his worn mediums a fraction too hard. The RB21 rear snaps out: just a tiny, almost imperceptible slide on the dusty apex curb. 

A microsecond loss of traction. A human moment of fallibility.

It’s all the opening you need.

You’ve braked marginally later, carried a fraction more speed. More than enough to close the near-nonexistent gap. Turning in sharper, the Sauber rotates beautifully on its fresher rubber. As Verstappen corrects his slide, sacrificing crucial exit momentum, you plant the throttle earlier, harder. The rear twitches but holds. The C45 rockets out of the corner, catapulting down the main straight with explosive traction.

Verstappen, desperately trying to claw back lost momentum, fishtails slightly, his exit compromised. You streak past him before the 50-meter board, clean air suddenly yours. The roar of the crowd hits you like a physical wave, drowning out the engine. The checkered flag waves.

P3.

Over at commentary, Crofty explodes, even more so than when Piastri’s McLaren took the win. "He’s done it! The Sauber takes third! He’s passed Verstappen on the final lap! Unbelievable! From the brink of retirement to the podium! A miracle in Abu Dhabi!”

Brundle, full of reverent awe, adds: "A move born of patience, precision, and capitalizing on the tiniest crack in the champion’s armour. Verstappen’s aggression forced the error, and the Sauber driver was clinical in its exploitation. One of the greatest final lap overtakes, on sheer guts and guile, I have ever witnessed. Legendary."

Over team radio, Wheatley’s voice cracks, evidently marred with raw emotion. "P3—P3! I don’t—I don’t believe it! That was—a miracle! An absolute bloody miracle! You magnificent bastard! Welcome back! Welcome back!"

Coasting down the straight, the adrenaline surging through your muscles like a tidal wave recedes, leaving utter exhaustion and profound, shaking elation. Piastri takes the flag and the Drivers’ championship. Norris follows, disappointment etched beside pride for his teammate. You cross the line third, the weight of the impossible settling like a physical mantle.

“We did it. We fucking did it.” 

Your words hang heavy, a verbalization of a dream now fully realized.

—————

The Sauber garage erupts. Mechanics and engineers leap over barriers, hugging, crying, pounding each other on the back in celebration. Hulkenberg, who finished P11, barely missing out on points, is the first one to your car as you crawl into the pit box. He rips off your steering wheel before the team can swarm, his weathered face split by a grin of pure, unadulterated joy and respect. He grabs your helmet, forehead pressed against yours.

"Crazy bastard," he rasps, thick, but brimming with pride. "You magnificent, crazy bastard. Told you you’d scare the shit out of them." He pulls back, clapping your shoulders, his eyes shining. "Podium. In this shitbox. Unreal."

In your heightened joy, you can’t help but aim at that low-hanging fruit. “While you—”

“Suck my balls mate.” The response is immediate, like he already anticipated it. But it’s all in light jest. He helps you out of the cockpit and back down to earth. “Well done.”

Drivers flood towards you, abandoning the usual parc ferme protocols. Oscar, the newly-minted champion, detours straight to you, grabbing your hand with both of his, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Mate—that lap—that last lap—incredible! Absolutely incredible! Welcome back!"

Lando slings an arm around your neck, still buzzing from his own race. "You maniac! Passing Max like that on the last corner? Spa wasn’t a fluke! You’re properly back!"

Lewis offers a firm handshake, his gaze deep, knowing. "Respect," he merely says, the single word carrying the weight of a legend recognizing a budding growth of greatness. 

Charles pats you on the back, a genuine smile replacing his usual intensity. "Chapeau. Truly."

George grins, shaking his head, clapping. "Unreal drive, mate. Just unreal."

Fernando also pats a hand on your shoulder, shaking his head in amusement. “You really are one crazy son-of-a-bitch, amigo. Helluva drive.”

In the midst of the commotion, Max approaches, cutting through the growing circle of competitors. The usual harshness is there, but softened by a hint of rueful respect. 

He extends a hand. You accept it. His grip is firm, but gracious.

"Almost Spa again, huh?" he says, shades of a smile touching his lips. "Good move. Hard, but fair. Welcome back." 

It’s the ultimate acknowledgement from the fiercest competitor. 

You curtly nod, sharing newfound respect for each other’s game.

But amidst the sea of green overalls and starry-eyed rivals, you see her—Gaeul. Pushing through the throng, the other IVE members trail right behind her: Rei bouncing with unrestrained glee, Liz and Leeseo beaming, Yujin radiating proud warmth, Wonyoung offering a rare, dazzling smile of pure admiration. Gaeul’s eyes are red-rimmed, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the desert dust on her skin. She doesn’t give a fuck about protocol or cameras.

She crashes into you, her arms wrapping around your neck with desperate strength, burying her face against your sweat-soaked race suit. The other drivers respectfully distance themselves to make room for shared intimacy. You hold her tight, ignoring the protests from your battered body, breathing in the scent of her hair. A lifeline after what felt like a neverending storm. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs of relief.

"You did it," she gasps against your neck, muffled, trembling. "You’re here. You’re whole. You’re safe." She pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, her hands cradling your grimy face. "You kept your promise."

"I did," you rasp, teeming with emotion. You lean down, capturing her lips in a brief, fierce kiss, tasting salt and relief and triumph. It’s soft, warm, profoundly intimate amidst the surrounding chaos. "I came back to you. Whole."

"Oi! Podium finisher!" Lando’s voice cuts through the personal moment, grinning. "Cooldown room awaits! Chop chop, hero!" 

Oscar nods along in agreement, widely smiling. The other drivers join in hearty laughter. Officials gently but insistently begin to whisk you away.

Gaeul clings a second longer. "Go," she whispers, wiping her tears, a radiant smile breaking through. "Enjoy it. You earned it. I’ll be here."

You squeeze her hand, negotiating a silent promise, before being swept away by the tide of officials and fellow drivers towards the interviewers and cooldown room.

—————

The cooldown room is a bubble of surreal exhaustion and exhilaration. Oscar is buzzing, the weight of the championship settling on his young shoulders. Lando is gracious, his disappointment of P2 tempered by overall team success and the sheer spectacle he witnessed. You slump beside the newly-minted champ, the adrenaline crash hitting viciously hard, every ache and pain announcing itself with renewed vigour.

"Seriously, mate," says Oscar, handing you a cold drink. You’re rewatching highlights of the race on the giant screen, soaking in every piece of nail-biting action. The closing lap shootout between you and Verstappen plays beat for beat like an extended movie scene only Hollywood can write. "That move on Max—I was watching the screens. Unreal. How did you even see that gap?"

"Didn’t see it," you admit, taking a grateful sip. "Felt it. Knew he’d push too hard defending. Knew the tires would bite him."

Lando shakes his head in awe. "Madness. Brilliant madness. Spa wasn’t a one-off. You’re a force of nature. Absolutely insane drive. Glad to have you back out there." 

The respect in their eyes is genuine, humbling.

The podium ceremony is deafening. The cheers for Piastri, the new champion, are immense. The applause for Norris is warm. But when you step onto the third step, the roar that erupts shakes the foundations. It’s a wave of pure adulation, respect, and shared disbelief. Fans waving Sauber green, chanting your name. It’s for the miracle, for the defiance, for the story.

The Australian anthem plays. The race trophies are presented. Oscar lifts his winner’s trophy aloft, aglow with a beaming smile on his face. Then, as the champagne bottles are handed out, Lando catches your glance. He grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. He points his bottle not at his newly crowned teammate, but squarely at you. Oscar, understanding instantly, follows suit.

A deluge of icy champagne hits you full force. You gasp, laughing, raising your own bottle in retaliation, showering them back. The podium dissolves into a chaotic, joyful melee of sparkling wine and shared triumph. The champion gets drenched, but the celebration is undeniably for the phoenix who rose from the ashes. Wheatley watches from below, openly weeping now, surrounded by his ecstatic, overjoyed team.

—————

Descending the podium, soaked in champagne and euphoria, the media swarm is relentless. Questions about the pass, the recovery, the future—they fly thick and fast. You offer tired smiles, heartfelt thanks to the team, praise for Piastri and Norris, immense respect for Verstappen. The story and the race speaks for itself.

Finally, you break free, scanning the crowded parc ferme area. And there she is. Gaeul. Waiting patiently near the Sauber garage, the other IVE members forming a protective, beaming half-circle around her. As you approach, they part like a curtain.

She meets you halfway. No words are necessary. You wrap your arms around her, lifting her slightly off her feet, burying your face in her hair, breathing her in—the scent of her perfume cutting through the champagne and petrol fumes. 

It’s home. It’s peace. It’s the real victory.

"I'm so proud of you," she murmurs, muffled against your shoulder. "So incredibly proud."

You set her down, holding her at arm's length, looking into her eyes, still shimmering with residual tears and pure happiness. The noise of the paddock fades. "I kept my promise," you say softly, an assurance fulfilled. "I'm here. Whole."

Rei bounces over, thrusting your third-place trophy into your hands (retrieved by a helpful mechanic). "You won! Well, third! But it’s like winning!" 

Jiwon and Hyunseo chime in with shared congratulations. Yujin offers a warm hug. "Amazing drive. Truly." 

Wonyoung gives a graceful nod and a slow clap. "You showed everyone. Great job."

Gaeul smiles, tracing the edge of the trophy with a fingertip. "So what now?" she asks, a warm gentleness. "The world is yours. Mercedes and Red Bull—they’re already calling Jonathan. The offers—" She looks up, searching your eyes. 

The unspoken question hangs: Will you leave again. For the top teams. For the ultimate glory.

You look at the trophy: a heavy symbol of an improbable journey. Then you glance back at Gaeul, at the love and quiet hope in her eyes. You recall the hospital bed, the pain, the fear, the promise whispered in the sterile air. You think of the roar of the engines, the taste of champagne, the adulation. Then you remember this. Her warmth. Her presence. The life waiting beyond the grid and the checkered flags.

You take her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. The trophy feels secondary now. A chapter closed in magnificent fashion. The next chapter beckons.

"I already have everything I want right here," you say, your intentions clear, certain. You raise her hand, kissing her knuckles, your gaze locked on hers. "The offers can wait. The season’s over. Tonight—tomorrow, and beyond—I’m with you. I’m here. Always will be.”

—————

(dedicated to raf <3)

(A/N: I hate lying to myself. LOL. As you can tell by now this is practically an F1 story first and foremost. My first brush with the sport was all the way back in 2008 (is that Glock was the first real sports moment I can vividly recall besides Kobe's 81). Up until circa 2010-2011, when Vettel was beginning his dominant run in RB. Got back into it literally last month cause all the friends on Discord were tuned in and the Lakers fucking suck (also LOL). Was kinda easy to adjust back and catch up on the last few years, to be honest! Also there's the movie with Brad Pitt coming out in over a week when this goes live, and I really wanna see that in theaters. Some inspiration from the trailers/marketing definitely bleeds into the story. This is the most action-heavy fic I've ever written and that's mainly due to the third act which is basically an entire race weekend. Tried to blend realism with Hollywood-level bullshit—don't care, I think heightened reality is fun, especially in settings like sports. I hope it didn't stray too far and I tried my best to keep everything mostly accurate to current day, but it is what it is, I'm still catching up on what I've missed. And then for the idol: there was only one choice. Gaeul's got that sweet, mature, tender vibe around her that made the perfect love interest, besides the friend this was written around. Thank you for reading!)

[lieyarzy]

SASAENG? OH NO, MANAGER!

Wherein the peaceful studio of the Saja Boys was suddenly visited by uninvited guests claiming to a huge “Fan” of theirs.

Warning: Describing of the injuries

The Saja Boys’ practice room throbbed with a nervous energy, a potent cocktail of anticipation and anxiety. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, their movements a blur of controlled power as they ran through the choreography for their highly anticipated comeback. Y/N, their manager, meticulously documented every detail, her pen a frantic blur across her notepad. The air crackled with the silent promise of a spectacular return, but beneath the surface, a current of unease flowed. The pressure was immense, not just for the comeback, but for everything.

A familiar urgency struck. "Guys, bathroom break," Y/N announced, her voice tight. The weight of responsibility, the constant vigilance required to protect them, was starting to wear her down.

The music faded, the rhythmic beat replaced by the unsettling quiet of the hallway. Rounding a corner, she heard it – hushed whispers, the subtle rustle of fabric, the almost imperceptible click of a camera lens. Initially, she dismissed it as studio staff, but then the words cut through the quiet, chilling her to the bone.

"...Saja Boys… room numbers… gotta get in…"

"...worth the risk… photos…"

"...their manager… won't notice…"

A cold dread, sharp and visceral, seized Y/N. These weren't staff. These were sasaengs – obsessive fans who crossed lines, invaded privacy, stalked their idols relentlessly, their actions fueled by a twisted devotion. She tried a casual approach, stepping into their line of sight. "Everything alright here?" she asked, her voice betraying none of the fear that clawed at her insides.

One of them, a girl with wide, frantic eyes and messy hair, stammered, "Uh… yeah, just… looking for… uh…"

Another, a boy with a nervous twitch and a camera clutched in his hand, jumped in, "We're… uh… big fans! Just wanted to…"

Y/N’s smile was tight, strained. "I appreciate that, but this is a private area. You need to leave."

The girl’s eyes darted around nervously. "But… we just… we saw them…" Her voice was a desperate plea, laced with a disturbing intensity.

Before Y/N could respond, the boy shoved her with brutal force, sending her crashing to the unforgiving concrete floor. A searing pain exploded in her head, a blinding white light momentarily eclipsing her vision. She felt a sickening crack, a bone-jarring impact, then darkness swallowed her whole.

The music in the practice room screeched to a halt. Silence, heavy and suffocating, descended. Then, the frantic sounds of panicked footsteps, the Saja Boys rushing towards her. They found Y/N unconscious, a spreading pool of blood staining the pale concrete, a horrifying testament to the sasaengs’ violence. Jinu, his face a mask of white-hot fury, roared, "Call 911! Now!"

The hospital was a blur of flashing lights, hushed whispers, and the sterile scent of antiseptic. The diagnosis was brutal, a crushing blow: severe concussion, a fractured skull, internal bleeding, and the chilling possibility of permanent brain damage. The news spread like wildfire, igniting a storm of outrage and disbelief. A reporter’s voice, tight with emotion, filled the airwaves. "We're live outside City General, where K-pop group Saja Boys' manager, Y/N, is fighting for her life after a brutal attack by alleged sasaeng fans…" The words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the dark underbelly of fame.

The next day, the Saja Boys appeared on a national talk show, their faces etched with grief, anger, and a profound sense of helplessness. The host, his voice somber, addressed the elephant in the room. "This attack has shocked the nation," he began. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Abs, his voice raw with barely controlled rage, described the attack, his words punctuated by clenched fists and strained breaths. "They didn’t just invade our privacy; they tried to kill her," he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. "The person who protects us, who works tirelessly for us, who’s become family…"

Baby, his usual playful demeanor shattered, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, confessed, "We felt helpless. Completely, utterly helpless." His voice cracked, betraying the depth of his fear and remorse.

Mystery, his voice a chilling whisper, spoke of the consequences the sasaengs would face, his words dripping with icy menace. "They will pay," he stated, his gaze unwavering, his aura radiating a chilling intensity. "They will face the full weight of the law, and then some."

Romance, his voice breaking, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, spoke of his love and gratitude for Y/N, his words a raw, heartfelt tribute. "She's family," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "We'll never forgive them. Never."

Jinu, his voice steady despite the turmoil within, addressed the fans, his tone firm but laced with a deep sadness. "This isn't fandom," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "This is obsession, and it's dangerous. We need your support, yes, but respect for our privacy and safety is paramount. This isn't a game; it's real life, and real people get hurt."

The interview ended, but the aftermath lingered, a heavy shadow cast over the K-pop world. The incident became a stark reminder of the dark side of fame, the terrifying consequences of unchecked obsession, and the vulnerability of idols and their support staff. The Saja Boys’ world was irrevocably altered, their grief fueling their determination to seek justice for Y/N and fight for a safer future for all idols. The hunt for the sasaengs was on, and the consequences would be far-reaching, brutal, and undeniably unforgettable.

PROMPT:

Manager: “Shit, that hurts like a bitch”

Saja boys: *Looking at their manager who was wrapped like a burito “YOU think???”

PROMPT:

TV Host: *Interviewing the Saja Boys “So, did your manager get hurt?”

Saja boys: *Looking at the host like he grew 3 heads “………what you think?”

TV Host: …………………

PROMPT:

Manager: “We should asked Gwi-Ma to like guard the studio…”

Saja Boys: *Imagining what Gwi-Ma will think about them and seeing them getting burned in the process “*Shivering* yeah no actually, we will take care of the guarding instead!”

Manager: *Not knowing why they don’t agree and wanted to talk about it “Bu-“

Saja Boys: “We got it Manager!!”

[cameronsbabydoll]

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — chronic illness, psychological distress, emotional neglect, power imbalance, themes of isolation, and blood

you wake to the taste of rust. it’s faint, like a penny left too long in your mouth, but it’s there when you swallow. your tongue probes the back of your teeth, searching for a cut, a reason. nothing. you roll over, and the pillowcase crinkles under your cheek. there’s a stain, it’s small and red, almost like a crushed petal. your breath catches. you tug the case off before rafe stirs, his arm heavy across the sheets, his face still slack with sleep. you ball the fabric in your fist and slip from the bed, bare feet cold on the hardwood.

the washing machine hums in the laundry room, a low drone that fills the glass mansion rafe built for you both. you toss the pillowcase in with the towels, pour too much detergent, and watch the water churn. it’s fine. it’s nothing. a nosebleed, maybe. you’ve been stressed, haven’t you? the city’s too loud, the air too dry. you press your knuckles to your lips and tell yourself it’s fine.

in the bathroom, you stand at the sink, the one with the gold faucet rafe insisted on because it looked “timeless.” you brush your teeth, the mint sharp enough to burn. when you spit, the foam is pink. your stomach lurches, but you lean closer to the mirror, inspecting your reflection. your hair’s still perfect, smoothed from last night’s blowout. your skin is dull, but it always is this early. you’re still pretty. you have to be. you rinse the sink until the porcelain gleams, until there’s no trace of red.

you google it on your phone, fingers trembling as you type “blood in spit causes.” the results load slowly, the wi-fi flickering in this high-rise cage. stress. allergies. dehydration. you skim the benign ones, the ones that let you breathe. you don’t click on the others, the ones with words like “chronic” or “terminal.” you close the tabs, delete the search history, and set the phone face-down on the counter. it’s nothing. you’re fine. right?

rafe’s gone by the time you return to the bedroom, his side of the bed already cooling. a note on the nightstand, scrawled in his sharp handwriting: late meeting. don’t wait up. you trace the letters with your fingertip, the paper crisp under your touch. you fold it neatly, tuck it into the drawer with the others. he’s always late now, always chasing something bigger—deals, status, a version of himself he hasn’t caught yet. you don’t mind. at least you tell yourself you don’t mind.

you spend the morning in the garden, the one you planted when you first moved in. it’s tucked against the glass walls of the mansion, a small rebellion against the sterile lines of rafe’s world. the forget-me-nots are wilting, their blue petals curling at the edges. you kneel in the dirt, your silk robe—the one he bought, still tagged—slipping off one shoulder. you water the flowers, your hands steady even as your chest aches. it’s just a cough, you think, when it comes again, sharp and wet. you cover your mouth with your sleeve, and when you pull it away, there’s a speck of red. you fold the fabric over, hide it in the folds of the robe. no one’s here to see. not anymore at least.

you shower after, the water is scalding, as if you your trying to burn the rust from your lungs. you scrub until your skin’s raw, until the mirror fogs and you can’t see yourself anymore. you wrap your hair in a towel, paint your nails coral—the shade rafe mentioned once, three years ago, when you were still new to each other. you sit on the edge of the tub, blowing on your fingertips, watching the polish dry. it’s chipped already, a tiny flaw at the edge of your thumb. you’ll fix it later. you always fix it.

the day stretches, empty and gleaming. you wander the mansion, your footsteps echoing on the marble. the rooms are too big, the furniture too sharp, everything chosen by a designer rafe hired because he wanted it “perfect.” you touch the back of a chair, the leather cool under your palm. you wonder if he’d notice if you moved it, just an inch. but you don’t try.

you cook dinner, something simple—herb-roasted chicken, rafe’s favorite. you set the table for two, the plates, the wine glasses catching the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. you light an old candle, the flame flickering through the light. you sit down and wait. the clock ticks past eight, then nine, and suddenly your stomach twists, but you don’t eat. you just sip on water, your throat tight, and tell yourself it’s fine. he’s busy. he’s always busy.

at ten, you cough again, harder this time. you stumble to the sink, gripping the counter as your body shakes. the blood’s thicker now, a clot that stains your palm. you stare at it, your breath shallow, your pulse loud in your ears. you turn on the faucet, watch the red swirl down the drain. you scrub your hands until they’re pink, until the water runs clear. you dry them on a towel, fold it carefully, and tuck it into the laundry basket. no one will know.

you sit by the window, the city sprawling below, a glittering maze of lights and noise. you’re high above it all, untouchable, the wife everyone envies. your hair’s still perfect, your nails are done, your smile quiet when you practice it in the reflection. you’re still pretty, even when you bleed. you have to be.

rafe comes home at 11:47 pm. you hear the door, the jangle of his keys, the heavy tread of his shoes. you stand, smoothing your dress, the one you wore for him last month when he said you looked “nice.” he’s in the kitchen, loosening his tie, his jaw tight from whatever meeting kept him. you step into the light, your heart stuttering as he glances up.

“you’re still up,” he says, not a question. his eyes skim over you, quick, like he’s checking a box. “you look tired.”

you smile, the one you’ve practiced, the one that doesn’t waver. “just a long day,” you say, your voice soft, the way he likes it.

he kisses your cheek, quick, mechanical, like he’s clocking in. his lips are cold, and you smell the city on him—smoke, cologne, something sharper you can’t name. he moves past you, already pulling out his phone, scrolling through messages you’ll never see. “food’s cold,” he says, glancing at the table. he doesn’t sit.

“i can heat it,” you offer, but he’s already shaking his head, heading for the stairs.

“not hungry. long day.” he pauses, half-turns, his profile sharp against the city glow. “you should sleep. you don’t look good.”

you nod, your throat tight, your hands clasped to hide the tremor. “okay.”

he’s gone before you can say more, his footsteps fading up the stairs. you stand there, the candle still burning, the chicken untouched, the wine glasses empty. you blow out the flame, the smoke curling like a ghost. you clear the table, wrap the food, wipe the counter until it shines. you cough once, softly, and check your palm. it’s clean. for now.

you climb the stairs, the mansion too quiet, the air too heavy. you pass the bedroom door, rafe’s already asleep, his phone glowing on the nightstand. you slip into the bathroom, open your makeup drawer, and pull out the bottle of pills you hid last week. you don’t take one. you just hold it, the plastic cool against your skin. you’ll call the doctor tomorrow. or the day after. there’s time. there has to be.

you slide into bed, the sheets crisp and cold. you curl onto your side, away from rafe, your knees tucked to your chest. you think of the garden, the forget-me-nots, the way they droop under the weight of their own petals. you think of the silk robe, folded in the closet, waiting for a day he’ll notice. you think of the blood, hidden in sinks and sleeves and pillowcases.

you close your eyes, your breath shallow, your heart a quiet drum. you’re still pretty, you tell yourself. you’re still the wife worth coming home to.

you dream of red petals, falling.

[st4rg8te]

The Villainess' Redemption (P. 1?)

Various! Yanderes X Ex-Villainess! Reader

✦✧✦✧

Synopsis: You were once the villainess from some poorly-written romance novel, and somehow, you’ve ended up taking the place of a girl who shared your name—a girl who died while reading your story.

This world is different. Here, you’re no longer tied to a script or doomed to a villainess’s fate. Can you rewrite your ending, and find a place for yourself in this new reality? 

(aka cliche villainess reader gets transported into the modern times and suffers a lot)

✦✧✦✧

✦✧✦✧

The last thing you remember is the swing of the executioner’s blade against your neck—a fitting end for all the terrible crimes you’ve committed. 

Or so you thought.

When you wake up, it’s not the fiery pits of hell that greet you, but a room unlike any you’ve ever seen before.

Through blurred vision, you make out walls impossibly smooth and white, gleaming like polished marble. The light above burns unnaturally bright. The air is sharp and clean, carrying a faint, acrid tang that prickles at your nose.

Was this the afterlife?

Thin tubes are attached to your skin, running from your veins into strange machines you can’t begin to understand. A spike of panic grips you, your breath quickening as your mind scrambles for an explanation.

What if you weren't dead? What if they kept you alive to make you suffer more?

Your trembling hands brush over your body, and your face burns when you realize they’ve stripped you of your former clothes. You’re left in plain, white garments—clean, but thin and exposing.

The indignity is almost as much as the confusion, but you swallow it down, determined to unravel the mystery of this waking nightmare.

On the table beside you lies a book, its presence almost unnoticeable in the room. Yet something about it draws your attention, an unspoken pull that makes your hand reach out despite the unease in your gut.

The front is adorned with a vivid illustration: a man and a woman locked in a tender embrace, their faces soft with affection. There’s something hauntingly familiar about their faces, though you can’t immediately place why.

The title, etched in bold, flowing letters, reads: Enchanted by Fate.

You flip the book open, its pristine pages cool and crisp beneath your trembling fingers.

At first, it seems harmless—a typical romance, the kind that young noble ladies often liked to read. But as your eyes skim the text, a dreadful recognition dawns.

The names leap off the page like venomous snakes: his name—your old lover—and her.

Your heart pounds as anger flares, spreading through your chest. You can almost see her face again, the one who orchestrated your downfall, the one who plunged the blade into your back long before the executioner ever did.

Then your fingers freeze.

Your name.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing your life, your crimes, and your eventual execution. The words blur as the memories resurface—the blade, the crowd, the jeers. Your breath hitches, and the sterile air suddenly feels suffocating.

You slam the book shut, the sound echoing unnaturally in the room, and throw it across the floor. It lands with a dull thud, pages spilling open like a gutted beast, taunting you from where it lies.

That book knew everything. It was impossible. Yet it was real.

With your mind still reeling from what you've just read, you fail to notice the woman entering the room.

Then, the sound of her voice cuts through the fog.

“She’s awake!”

You must have been right. This is your own personal hell.

✦✧✦✧

Human beings are resilient.

So, despite the mental blows you've suffered in a single day, you slowly begin to adjust to your strange new existence in the hospital over the following weeks.

There's so much about this world that you don’t understand, and begrudgingly, you admit that it still frightens you. You can’t shake the feeling that this is all some form of witchcraft.

The nurses, though kind, remind you of your old maids, their faces polite but distant as they introduce you to odd contraptions you can't begin to comprehend.

They call it technology, and they show you things like a 'television,' a box that displays moving images as though alive, and a 'toilet' that can swallow waste with a single flush—something that still seems impossible to you.

They find your lack of knowledge a little concerning, but none of them have the courage to say anything about it, chalking it up to a side effect of your memory loss.

It’s humiliating beyond words to be treated like a clueless child. The condescending tones, the endless explanations of things that feel like they should be second nature—it grates on you until the frustration threatens to spill over as tears.

In your past life, you were always the one in control. You were the influential daughter of a noble family—admired and feared by many. Now, all of that feels like a distant memory, a cruel joke played by fate.

You feel lost.

But the worst part—the part you can never quite confront—is the stranger in the mirror. The face staring back is not your own. You're told she shares your name, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

You can't help but avert your eyes every time you see reflections of yourself.

“[Y/N], are you doing okay today?”

The deep, gentle voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. When you look up, a handsome man comes into focus.

It’s Your Doctor ♡.

Initially, he took an interest in you purely out of professional obligation. Your case was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He had treated patients with amnesia in the past, but never one as severe as yours. Especially considering the circumstances of why you were admitted in the first place. You reminded him of a wild animal—eyes darting with mistrust and fear, shrinking away from your surroundings. And yet, against his better judgment, he found himself drawn to you, compelled by the need to unravel the mystery of your mind. While you lacked even the most basic understanding of modern conveniences, certain skills and knowledge seemed to come to you effortlessly. You could converse fluently in multiple languages. You knew the names and precise uses of every piece of cutlery, from fish forks to soup spoons, and could recount their placement in a formal table setting. It was truly strange. He began to set aside his busy work, stealing moments during breaks to visit your room. It became a routine—teaching you; how to use a water dispenser, explaining the functions of a phone, or describing the significance of certain holidays and traditions.. He relished the way your face would light up in awe at the simplest things. The wonder in your eyes made him feel like he was witnessing the world anew, through your gaze. He still chuckles quietly to himself when he remembers your reaction to the television. The way you gasped, wide-eyed and almost frozen, as moving images flickered across the screen—it was unforgettable. “Pft.” The sound escaped him, soft but audible. A nurse passing by stopped in her tracks, stunned. She had worked with the doctor for years and had never seen him laugh—let alone blush. Yet here he was, smirking to himself like a schoolboy with a crush. After that, whispers began to circulate through the halls: that the hospital’s famous bachelor had fallen for someone.

"I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking, doctor."

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, his tone warm. "And you don't have to be so formal with me."

He sits down by your bedside, eyes curved upwards in a gentle smile as he begins to speak again.

"You're being discharged this afternoon. You'll be able to go home soon."

"Home?"

Would that mean that you would have to meet the body owner's family?

Throughout your entire stay at the hospital, not once had anyone visited you except the doctor and the nurse who attended to you daily.

A knot of nervousness forms in your stomach at the thought of finally meeting those people. What if they found your behavior too strange? What if they saw through you?

They didn’t know the truth—that their daughter was gone. Replaced by a stranger.

The doctor seems to notice the shift in your demeanor. Without hesitation, he reaches over, his hand warm and steady as it rests over yours. The gentle squeeze pulls you back to reality.

"Don’t worry," he says softly. "If you feel any pain or discomfort, please don’t hesitate to let me know. And I can give you my contact information—you can call or text me if you need help with anything."

"I... I’ve troubled you enough already," your eyes are fixed firmly on the bedspread, unable to meet his intense gaze.

Maybe it is normal in this world for women and men to touch eachother so casually like this.

"Nonsense," He replies with a chuckle. "Helping you is my job, after all ♡."

In the end, you are sent off with a small bag containing all your belongings and a crisp white slip of paper in hand, the string of digits scribbled neatly on it.

He watches you walk away, his gaze never wavering. A part of him wishes you had stayed longer.

He exhales a long, quiet sigh, his lips curving ever so slightly into a smile. You’ll call him soon.

And when you do, he’ll be there, ready to help.

✦✧✦✧

To your surprise, a nurse leads you to what they call a “car” parked in front of the hospital entrance—a carriage without horses. You feel a small flicker of pride in yourself for remembering the term.

It moves faster than any carriage you’ve ever known. And as the scenery blurs by, you can’t help but press your face to the window, eyes wide with wonder. Towering buildings scrape the sky, their glass and steel glinting in the sunlight. The bustling streets are filled with all kinds of people from all walks of life.

The driver eventually steers the car away from the bustling scene, guiding it into a quieter neighborhood. The streets narrow, and the towering skyscrapers give way to smaller, more subdued structures. Finally, the car comes to a halt in front of a large, old building.

"Have a nice day, miss."

"Ah… thank you," you say softly as you step out, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

The car drives off, and then you're finally left alone.

You turn to face the building, its weathered facade staring back at you. Compared to the grand mansion where you spent your entire life, this place feels cramped and shabby, its age evident in the peeling paint and creaking steps. Rows of numbered doors line each floor, stretching upward in a vertical maze.

Navigating the unfamiliar hallways proves to be a challenge, every turn leaving you more disoriented. When you finally find the staircase, you hesitate. The nurse had mentioned “elevators,” those strange boxes that carried people between floors. But the thought of stepping inside one fills you with unease.

Shaking off the idea, you take the stairs instead, the journey upward feeling longer than it should. Your legs ache with every step, and by the time you reach the supposed floor you live on, you’re out of breath.

At last, you find your door. Apartment 303. The brass plaque gleams faintly in the dim hallway light.

"Hello?"

You knock on the door, but only silence greets you. Anxiety begins to coil in your chest, tightening with each passing second. You glance around the empty hallway, hoping for a sign, a clue—anything. But nothing comes.

Your gaze shifts to the pad mounted beside the door. The arrangement of numbers stares back at you. It should be easy, you tell yourself. Just enter the code.

You press the first digit, then the second. It feels right—like you’re doing what you’re supposed to—but when you hit the final key, the pad lights up red and emits a harsh beep.

Locked.

Your heart sinks. You try again. But the result is the same: a flash of red and that sharp, cold beep.

Again.

Each failure making your frustration rise. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as the sudden overwhelming pressure of everything catches up to you.

The tears spill over, warm streaks running down your cheeks as quiet sobs escape your lips. You feel pathetic.

You miss your family.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think about them until now—not fully. But their faces stay clear in your mind.

You miss your father’s embrace, your mother’s soothing voice, the way your brothers would tease and protect you in equal measure.

But they are gone. All of them, condemned to death because of your stupid actions.

And now, here you are—trapped in this foreign land, surrounded by incomprehensible machines and alien customs. The people here don’t know you, and you’re certain they never could. You’re an imposter in a world that feels as if it’s actively rejecting you.

And for the first time since you woke up in this strange world, you let yourself finally admit the truth.

You don’t belong here.

✦✧✦✧

"Holy shit lady, are you okay?"

The last thing Your Neighbor ♡ had expected after coming home was to find you sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably by your apartment door.

The two of you have exchanged pleasantries a handful of times, maybe a nod or a muttered “hello” in passing. But it had still worried him a little when he hadn’t seen you in months. Hell, he even figured you’d finally had enough of this place and moved out for good.

"Do you… need help?" he asks, stepping closer cautiously.

Your face burns with embarrassment. You quickly wipe at your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of your shirt, sniffling as you try to compose yourself.

"I just… I can’t get the door to open.."

His eyes flickers to the lock and then back to you. "What, the code’s not working?"

You nod, avoiding his gaze. "I… I’ve tried it so many times, but it keeps locking me out," you say, your voice wavering. "Do you know how to open it?"

"Yeah, I can take a look. Just give me the code."

As he steps closer to the keypad, you wipe at your eyes again, trying to salvage what is left of your dignity.

What is wrong with you? Your mother would have been disappointed at you acting like this.

"Hey," he say after a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Don’t sweat it. This lock’s a piece of crap. Happens to me all the time."

"Um... do you know if anyone else lives in this place with me?"

The man tilts his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I don’t think so."

A part of you feels relieved. The idea of facing her family—the family you now supposedly belong to—had been gnawing at you since you left the hospital. At least you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.

But at the same time, the thought of living alone makes your stomach twist. You’ve never been on your own before. In your old life, you were always surrounded by people—your parents, the servants, ready to spoil you rotten. You never once thought about what it would be like to have to manage on your own.

This is your punishment.

The irony isn’t lost on you. The gods must have seen how you mocked her—your father’s bastard. You used to laugh at her and make fun of her upbringing. Now you can't help but think that she would have done much better if she was in your situation.

"Thanks." you mutter finally, your voice barely audible.

She wouldn't have cried over some stupid door like this and humiliate herself in front of a random man!

"Anyway, that's how you do it. If you need help with anything else, just knock on my door-"

BAM!

Before he could finish his sentence, you were already gone.

✦✧✦✧

Your Neighbor ♡ thought that would be the last time you two would really talk to eachother.

Every time he saw you in the hallway or from across the parking lot, you’d scurry away like a startled rabbit, avoiding eye contact. He figured you were just shy—or maybe embarrassed about how you’d met. Either way, he didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So, he was surprised when, a week later, there was a knock on his door.

When he opened it, there you stood, cheeks flushed an indignant pink, holding a neatly folded napkin in your hands.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"I made it for you," you said, thrusting it toward him. "It’s a gift for helping me that day."

He unfolded the napkin and blinked in surprise. His name was carefully stitched onto the fabric, surrounded by flower motifs.

"Holy shit. You made this?"

It was the sweetest gift he had ever received.

I-I noticed you seem to… sweat a lot. Whenever I see you. I thought it might help," you added, the words tumbling out in a rush.

It took him a second to register what you’d said, and when he did, he couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, that’s because I go to the gym a lot. Not because I’m just… sweating everywhere."

Your eyes widened, mortified. "Oh! I didn’t mean—"

He grinned, cutting you off. "Relax, it’s thoughtful. Thanks."

There was an awkward pause before he gestured behind him. "You want to come in?"

That moment marked the beginning of something—he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Friendship? Maybe. But that night, over tea, you finally opened up and told him about your memory loss.

A protective instinct had sparked in him the day he found you crying outside your apartment, and it only grew stronger as the two of you started spending more time together.

Before long, it became a routine—going back and forth between apartments, sharing meals, and finding small ways to help each other.

You didn’t know how to cook, so he often brought over dinner and started teaching you how to make simple meals. At first, you were hesitant, your pride making you stubborn, but he patiently guided you through every step.

Grocery shopping became another shared activity, with him pointing out what to buy and explaining things you didn’t recognize. Though he did like to tease you whenever you added far too many sweets to the cart.

One day, he had casually mentioned his interest in learning an instrument, and before he could blink, you’d practically leapt at the opportunity to teach him. Your enthusiasm embarrassed him at first, but he couldn’t say no to you.

When you discovered the dusty electronic keyboard he’d tucked away in a storage box, your eyes had lit up like it was treasure. From that moment on, you became his self-appointed music tutor, insisting it was your way of repaying him for everything.

“Why do I feel like you’re only spending time with me for the keyboard?” he jokingly asked after yet another lesson.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m doing this because I want to help you.”

He couldn’t hold back his grin.

The more time he spent with you, the harder he fell. You were blunt and prideful, but also sweet and endearing in a way that caught him off guard. When he told you about his job as a club bodyguard, you had compared him to a knight, which made him burst out laughing.

On his way to the gym, a nosy neighbor had stopped him. “So, are you two dating yet? I remember her asking around about your name once.”

He blinked in surprise before the memory clicked. It must have been when you made that embroidered napkin for him. The image of you nervously going door to door asking around, too shy to talk to him directly, made his chest tighten.

Without thinking, his hand drifted to his pocket, where he still kept the cloth. He was on cloud nine the entire day.

Ah, he’d ask you to be his girlfriend soon. That much he was sure of. If only you weren’t so wary of relationships—and that other man who kept hanging around you. How irritating.

The man claimed to be your doctor, but what kind of doctor visited his patients so often? He wasn’t naive, and he could see the way the guy looked at you, the way he lingered too long in your presence. He knew those signs well enough.

Well, no matter. He’d just have to keep a closer eye on you.

After all, you were his to protect.

✦✧✦✧

EXTRA:

After slamming the door in the man’s face, you sighed in relief.

Finally, some peace.

Turning to the apartment, you fumbled around for the light switch. When the bright light flickered on, it hit you—and so did the sight in front of you.

"What the hell?!"

The walls were plastered with posters—of him. Your old betrothed. His smug face stared back at you from every direction, alongside her, the woman who ruined your life.

You froze, taking it all in. It wasn’t just posters. There were figurines, framed photos, and even a pillow with his face on it.

It didn’t take long to figure out the awful truth. The girl whose body you’d taken wasn’t just any stranger—she was a die-hard fan of the book you came from.

✦✧✦✧

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this wacky gift for New Years. I plan to introduce 2 more love interests if I ever get to writing the second part. They're like color coded. Anyway, this was like massive compared to my other works.

I'm still writing Twisted Affections Pt. 3, but some pieces of smut are probably going to come out before that. Thank you for patience!

✦✧✦✧

[grandisknight]

afternoon treatment | zayne

summary: Zayne follows the "doctor's orders" in order to feel better.

tags: suggestive, established relationship, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), soft zayne, medical kink, 'doctor' kink, kissing, medical procedures (auscultation), medical inaccuracies (in a sense), chest mention, straddling

wc: 2.2k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: relax time affinity 80 with zayne and that one liner he has. that's it, that's the tweet.

Afternoons at Akso Hospital were always the busiest, from routine check-ups to meetings alike. Staff and accompanying patients hustled through the halls and hushed rooms—there was always something happening, and the cardiac surgery department was no different.

Yet, today seemed to offer Zayne some grace and time to reside in the chilled comforts of his workspace. The morning surgery went well, and his next procedure wouldn’t be for another hour or two. 

Therefore, he’s rewarded himself with a simple diagnosis report. The file was lighter in subject, easier to digest in comparison to what was usually on his plate. In his mind, this was a well-fitted solution to kill some time before returning to sterile scrubs and tense operating rooms.

Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he looks over their exterior when a soft series of familiar knocks reach his door.

“It’s open,” he calls out, rectangular reflection returning to the onscreen data. Without missing a beat and sparing another glance, he adds on, “Weren’t you supposed to visit a No-Hunt Zone today?”

“Finished my observations earlier than expected,” you chirped, pushing the door to a close and striding towards his busy desk. 

Recent reports of Metaflux fluctuations had consumed your bright morning with Herte Knaves running amok. Nothing out of the ordinary from your usual line of work, easily dealt with in a couple of bulleted blows. Their dispersing remains flecked the air in a quiet flurry that reminded you of snowflakes—naturally, your feet led you to the pristine floors of Akso soon thereafter.

Curiously, you sidestep to shadow his focused form, gaze altering between the wall of text and precise clicks of his keys. “Thought you were on break, but it seems like you’re working,” you mumble, in awe of his steady pace. “As always, Dr. Zayne.”

He speaks with an obvious, “Well, I am at work. The call is coming from inside the house.”

“Zayne,” you punctuate. His sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, and you cross your arms in turn. “You know what I mean.”

A faint chuckle passes under his breath. “You’re accusing me as if I’m in the wrong.”

He was not, actually—far from it. That goes without saying when you were in the middle of his office, imposing during said work time. But you’ve been in his graces for nearly a year now, and know well enough that it was only around this time in the afternoons would he be able to catch a breather.

You shake your head, putting on your best voice before coming to your defense. “No, but the doctor’s orders require you to take a break.”

This catches his attention, fingers slowing their clicks and chair swiveling to face you head on. Slight confusion quirks his brow, mirroring your folded arms in observation. “And pray tell, who would that be? Last time I checked, only one of us is a certified surgeon in this room.”

Your eyes instinctively dart to his stationed badge, credentials on full display against his chest pocket. He had you beat there, at the very least.

“You may hold a degree for medical hearts,” you start, taking a step into the space of his parted knees and tapping your chest. 

“But I hold the degree to your heart.” Your finger redirects to the meeting point of his neckline, resting above the aforementioned muscle.

“Is that so?” The corners of his lips lift, amused by your display and newfound authority. “I was unaware of such a professional. Surely, I would’ve remembered seeing someone as dedicated as you during my studies.” 

He takes the chance to brush away a strand of hair hugging your cheek, neatly tucking it behind your ear. Gentle appreciation fills his comment of, “Would’ve made them much more enjoyable, too.”

“That’s besides the point.” You wave him off, though it doesn’t fan away the heat blushing your ears, sensing his underlying meaning. 

Returning to your self-presumed role, you nod. “As your dedicated and completely legitimate doctor, I believe you’re showing concerning symptoms.”

Zayne hums, withdrawing his hand. “I’m afraid your assessment is lost on me. What exactly are these symptoms?”

“Well, my patient seems to love working overtime. This can cause unnecessary stress to the body and mind, for one.” 

You lift one knee to bracket his, the other following in suit—Zayne adapts rather quickly, leaning back to give you space as you carefully straddle his waist. His arms naturally circle around you, hands hovering your tailbone to keep you steady.

Neatly settled on top, you continue with your mild lecture of reported observations. “Even though he should be using the precious time in-between work to give himself a well-deserved break, he does the exact opposite.” 

“He is on a break,” Zayne says to his defense. “It’s barely considered heavy work.”

“Doing any kind of work during down-time does not count, mister,” you chide.

You gently tussle his bangs, pushing them to the side and revealing his forehead. Smoothing over the skin above his brow, your eyes searched his expression before noting a shadow of fatigue beneath his lashes. He really was working himself to the bone, even if he didn’t want to admit it. 

“A dire symptom of a workaholic is when his skin is faring worse than usual,” you exaggerate. “Your eye bags are so prominent they could be checked in at the airport.”

“It’s not that bad,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling at your touch. They flutter to a close when your hand slides to cup his face, thumb brushing the high of his cheekbone in gentle care. “The lighting just makes it seem worse for wear. I’m fine.”

“I beg to differ.” You slowly trail downwards, caressing the side of his neck with a pursed lip. 

His pulse point thrummed nicely against your fingers, and a curious press elicited a low sigh from him. Unexpected, though the sound was music to your ears and had butterflies rampant in your stomach. A part of you wanted to hear more of the gravelly timbre that rarely made an appearance—you knew what needed to be done.

Picking up where you left off, more of your self-declared medical ramblings followed. “See here? Another symptom, such a fast pace surely isn’t for the faint of heart. Your apical pulse,” to which your fingertips lightly drag themselves towards, “can’t lie to me.”

Zayne is breathless by the time he formulates a response in sincerity. “How can we go about a treatment plan, then? It seems pretty serious.”

A slowed, purposeful pronunciation follows soon thereafter. “Doc-tor.”

Your heart skipped not one, but two beats—dangerous, surely, but it fell short in the face of Zayne’s steadfast compliance. He peers up at you, factually smitten and framed softly by the office lights blending the contours of his face. You raise your other hand to hold his fine face between them. Admiring, in awe of all that he was.

“There’s only one known treatment option, I’ll have you know.” Unable to hide your smile, you quickly add, “Might require mouth to mouth if things go south.”

Zayne’s pools of hazel flick to your upturned lips, before meeting your mischievous stare with a hint of his own.

“Is this truly scientifically proven, or did you come all this way just to kiss me?”

“Yes,” was all you offered to his question, before placing an airy kiss to his cupid’s bow. 

A second found its way to the bridge of his nose, laid over the slight ridge you adore before another rested between his raised brows. His eyes flutter to a close when your lips gently pressed to his temple, stilling at the contact. Slowly, you leave a trail of love across his cheeks, pausing once you meet the corner of his mouth.

Your thumb brushes against his lower lip, smiling at the way he parts them so readily for you. His chin tilts in the direction of your touch, mouthing the chase. A flush of pink sinked into his skin, a perfect peach for you to sink your teeth into.

“Tell me,” you say softly. Your fingers curl underneath his chin, observing the lidded gaze that follows. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

A tender exhale pushes past those very lips. “Right here,” he quietly admits. Closing the distance until you were only a breath away, his eyes focused on the plush of your mouth. “Please, Doctor.”

The union was gentle and warm, a kiss so kind that the same sentiment blossomed in your chest. Traces of a sweetened coffee picked from the hospital’s cafeteria and warm amber from his collar consumed your senses.

Zayne held you closer, chest to his and enveloping in a tender embrace. His hands traced the curve of your back, following your spine to gently cradle your head. Just to keep you this close, he was restless—realizing that he needed this more than he thought. The smile that cracks through another kiss is a testament to it, sealed with a deep breath of contentment.

It was perfect, a moment in time where your thundering heartbeats were equally matched. The world was nothing but a witness to the seconds spent in meaningful lip-locking.

“Mmph,” you groan unceremoniously. 

Something firm brushed against your brow, pulling you out of the sweet trance. The culprit looked back at you in its silver rimmed and glass glory, sliding down the bridge of Zayne’s nose.

“Hm?” He leans back, noticing your discomfort. “What’s the matter?” 

You contemplate on telling him, partially distracted by the puff of his lower lip. It has a sheen of your affection, and you were sure you looked no different in his eyes.

“Your glasses are falling,” you admit. You reach for the frames, intending on pushing them back to the high of his nose.

Zayne pauses your wrist then, a warm mirth in his gaze. “These are in the way, are they not?” He guides your hand, allowing the glasses to depart from his face and settling it on his desk. 

With or without the specs, he truly was handsome—the kind of beauty modeled in Greek busts, from the contours of his cheeks to the sharp angle of his brow bone. You’d have to thank his parents the next time you see them.

He sneaks in a kiss, no longer obscured by the barrier and face perfectly pressed to yours. “My Doctor seems to be distracted,” he comments, taking in your wandering gaze. A cool hand graces the crowd of your head, patting softly. “What are you planning this time?”

His touches brought you out of your daydreaming, and you nod. Hands settling on the curves of his shoulders, you slide them upwards with a murmur of, “I should check your apical pulse again.”

Your eyes wander to the space behind him, a stethoscope only a grab away. With some effort, you spare a hand to reach for it, rising from the chair to a degree. 

Zayne noticeably stiffens at his newfound view—your chest in his face wasn’t something on his agenda for today. The breath in his throat hitches, recognizing your fragrance. Comforting and pleasant, a piece of home warmly enhanced by your skin.

By the time you successfully have the medical device in hand, you nearly drop it at the feeling of his nose digging into your chest. 

“Zayne? You’re—mmh?!” His hands find their way to your midsection, holding you still as he inhales deeply. You only hear him hum between muffled fabric, and your mind dizzies at the heatwave the mere sound sends to your core.

He pulls back with a soft sigh, the peach of his skin notably deepened to a soft rouge. Zayne guides you back to sit proper in his lap, reaching for the stethoscope in your surprised hand. Carefully, he places the ear tips into place for you and brushes your hair back in the process. Nonchalant, as if he didn’t spend the last waking moments happily buried in your chest.

“If you’re checking my pulse for me, I hope you’ve read the hospital’s code of conduct.” He drops his hands then, patiently awaiting your auscultation. In the reflection of his coy stare, you find that your own blush is faring far, far worse than his.

“Right, right. I did, trust me,” you say in confidence.

You, in fact, did no such thing. But memory of past appointments guides your hand over his heart, chest piece sliding around to count the beats. Not a single count was missed, all perfectly in place and accounted for.

Though, the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat drumming. It didn’t help that his eyes were entirely focused on you, pointed with affection and observation alike.

“Well?” Zayne hums. “How does it sound?”

“You have a heart, and it’s beating alright.” Your conclusion was far from exemplary, but at least it was the truth.

“That’s a relief,” he laughs quietly. He gently removes the stethoscope, setting it aside. “Realistically, this isn’t how an auscultation works.”

“My methods are just special, that’s all.” You shrug, lightly patting the space that protects the aforementioned organ. “But you seem to be feeling better, and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Mhm.” Zayne presses a kiss to your nose, and offers his gratitude. “Thank you, Doctor. I don’t know what I would do without your care.”

[cumironi]

DO I EVER GET A CHANCE TO BLOSSOM? : GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

being a mother is a dream for almost every woman. the thought of carrying a child inside them and bringing them into the world is also something you want for a moment, but . . just a second the dream shattered right between your feet.

warning. established relationship au, husbands! gojo geto, angst.

the room feels more like a prison than a place of healing, with its cold white walls, sterile smell, and the incessant, mechanical beeping of machines. everything here is sickeningly clean, stripped of warmth and life, as if joy itself would be too fragile to survive in these surroundings. the sterile, metallic tang of medicine hangs in the air, heavy and unforgiving, mixed with the faint, unsettling clink of instruments being shuffled somewhere beyond the door. each sound, each scent digs into you, weighing down every breath, every thought.

your husbands are by your side, their presence grounding you in the middle of this surreal nightmare. on your right, geto’s hand wraps around yours, firm and steady, his thumb brushing soft, comforting circles against your skin. he hasn’t said a word since the doctor’s visit, but he doesn’t need to; his touch alone speaks volumes. you can feel his silent strength radiating through his hand, an unspoken promise that he’s here, that he’ll be here through all of this.

on your left, gojo’s hand is just as tight around yours, though his grip trembles ever so slightly. for someone who usually seems so invincible, so in control, it’s almost unsettling to feel his fingers shaking against yours. he’s normally the one with a mischievous smirk and an easy confidence, but right now, all of that bravado has fallen away, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable version of him you rarely see. his face is tense, hidden behind his signature sunglasses, but you can sense the turmoil in him, even if he tries to hide it.

you look down at your lap, trying to process everything. you’ve been married for nearly five years now, years that have been filled with laughter, adventure, and a deep, unwavering love. despite their busy lives, constantly being called away on missions and responsibilities, they’ve always made time for you, always come home to you. and together, you’ve built a life filled with happiness, support, and dreams. one of those dreams, the most precious of all, has been to start a family—a child to raise, to love, to share all the joy and strength you have with two people you adore.

for years, you’d imagined what it would be like. late-night talks about what they’d be like as parents, joking about whose traits your child might inherit, wondering if they’d have geto’s calm intelligence or gojo’s playful spirit. you imagined tiny hands reaching for yours, little footsteps running through the halls, shared laughter filling your home. every vision of the future had included this—a family with them by your side, watching as the life you’d nurtured together grew.

but now, sitting in this cold, sterile room, you’re faced with a harsh reality. the doctor’s words replay over and over in your mind, each syllable a weight pressing harder onto your chest.

“your heart condition… the risks are severe. pregnancy could strain your body too much. it could put your life in danger.”

the words echo, and they feel like a physical blow, tearing at the vision you’d held onto for so long. you’d always known you wanted kids, always thought it was something that would happen one day. but now, it feels as if that dream is slipping through your fingers, dissolving into the clinical air of this hospital room.

a deep silence settles between the three of you, thick and heavy with unspoken fears. your hands tighten involuntarily around theirs, desperate to hold onto something, to anchor yourself in this moment. a tear slips down your cheek, and you’re only barely aware of it until you feel geto’s thumb brush against your cheek, wiping it away gently. he leans closer, his face soft yet unreadable, his eyes full of a quiet intensity.

you feel the words catch in your throat, your chest tight with a weight so heavy it’s suffocating. your gaze drops to the cold linoleum floor, but the desperate flicker of hope—however faint—pushes you to look up. swallowing hard, you turn your eyes back to the doctor, your voice barely a whisper, cracked and fragile as you speak.

“there has to be something…” your words come out haltingly, breaking over each syllable. “some treatment, anything that could make it safer… is there any possibility?”

the doctor’s expression softens, but it’s a look of sympathy that does little to ease the ache in your heart. they sigh gently, gathering their words with care, and you feel both of your husbands tense beside you, their grips tightening as they hang on the answer just as much as you do.

“there are options,” the doctor replies, and for a moment, hope flickers—a small, fragile spark in the sea of uncertainty. “but they’re limited, and none of them can entirely eliminate the risks.”

you listen intently, clinging to every word, as if each syllable might hold the key to your dream. the doctor goes on, explaining possible procedures, medications, treatments to strengthen your heart… each one sounds like a glimmer of hope, but as they continue, the reality sinks in. no option guarantees your safety, each one carrying its own set of risks and compromises.

“even with these precautions,” they continue, their tone gentle but firm, “pregnancy would still place significant strain on your body. there’s no way to completely avoid the risk, especially given your specific condition.”

a fresh wave of tears wells up, slipping down your cheeks despite your efforts to hold them back. it feels as though your heart is splintering, piece by piece, each fragment a shard of a dream you’d cherished, now scattering away beyond your reach.

you feel geto’s hand tighten around yours, grounding you, pulling you back from the despair threatening to swallow you whole. you turn slightly, meeting his gaze, his eyes filled with an intensity that’s somehow both gentle and unbreakable. his other hand comes up to cup your face, thumb wiping away the tears that keep slipping out, his touch warm against your skin.

gojo watches your face intently, his gaze following as your eyes drop to your lap. he looks down as well, his focus landing on the interwoven fingers of his, yours, and geto’s, the wedding band glinting softly around your finger.

a single tear slips from your cheek, landing on his skin. the sight alone twists something painfully deep inside him, and he feels a wave of nausea at the harsh reality you’re facing. instinctively, he squeezes your hand, offering silent comfort, before turning his attention back to the doctor as they continue explaining your condition.

the doctor adjusts their glasses and sighs, shifting slightly before beginning to explain the complexities of your condition. there’s a gravity to their tone, an unspoken understanding that the words they’re about to deliver aren’t easy to hear.

“your heart,” they start carefully, “has a condition called cardiomyopathy. it's a disease that affects the heart muscle, making it harder for your heart to pump blood effectively. over time, this can lead to weakness, and during times of physical stress, it puts an increased strain on your heart.”

they pause for a moment, glancing at you and your husbands, gauging your reactions. though both of them remain stoic, you feel their hands tighten around yours, their steady grips trying to brace you. you’re nodding, but the doctor’s words feel like they’re sinking deep into your bones, the full weight of them settling heavily.

“pregnancy,” they continue, their tone clinical yet compassionate, “is one of the most physically demanding experiences the body can undergo. it requires the heart to pump a larger volume of blood to support the baby, often up to fifty percent more than normal. for a healthy heart, this additional workload can be managed… but with cardiomyopathy, this level of strain could be life-threatening.”

you swallow hard, feeling the words settle like lead. the room feels even colder now, and you shiver despite the warmth of your husbands’ hands. “what… what exactly would happen if we tried?” you ask, voice trembling.

the doctor’s expression softens as they consider their words. “there’s a high risk that your heart could struggle to keep up with the demands of pregnancy. symptoms of heart failure—like severe fatigue, shortness of breath, and fluid retention—could appear early. if untreated, these symptoms could escalate, leading to dangerous complications for both you and the baby.”

they hesitate, but continue, knowing it’s important you understand. “in the later stages of pregnancy, the strain on your heart could increase to a point where the risk of heart failure or sudden cardiac events becomes very real.”

the words hang in the air, cold and final. the possibilities—the dreams you’d held close, the life you’d envisioned—feel fragile in the face of these realities.

“are there any options?” gojo asks, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “anything that would make it possible without risking her life?”

the doctor nods slowly. “we could look into treatments to help strengthen the heart muscle, medications to manage symptoms, and closely monitored care. there may also be assisted options like surrogacy, though i understand that may be a different direction than you’d hoped.” the weight of the decision settles between you, a choice that’s neither simple nor fair.

geto’s throat tightens as the doctor outlines the dangers your heart disease posed to a potential pregnancy. he knew this disease was serious, but the stark reality of what it might mean for your future—and your dreams together—hits him like a punch to the gut.

he glances down at your hand, the ring he’d given you gleaming softly on your finger, and a flicker of guilt worms its way into his heart. he should have known, should have seen the signs sooner… should have taken better care of you.

his mind races with thoughts, each one a barb of worry and anxiety. the idea of you undergoing all that risk, all that pain, to bring a child into the world is almost too much to bear. but he’s torn, caught between the love he has for you and the knowledge that this might not be the life you’d wanted.

he squeezes your hand tighter, anchoring himself to you as the doctor mentions assisted options like surrogacy. the suggestion is bitter to his ears, a reminder of what might have been.

the doctor’s words continue, listing potential options and solutions—treatments, medications, the possibility of surrogacy. each one feels both hopeful and disheartening—a life preserver offered to someone drowning, while simultaneously being reminded that nothing can completely erase the danger your condition poses.

gojo’s question is direct and desperate, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his emotions. “how likely is it that the treatments would be enough?”

the doctor sighs, their expression sympathetic. “even with these treatments, there’s no way to guarantee a safe pregnancy. the risk might be reduced, but it’ll still be considerable. and even if you do get through the pregnancy, the risks of delivering a child and recovering afterwards would be enormous.”

the words hang heavily in the air, the reality of what they’re saying slowly sinking in. even with everything they could do, there were no guarantees—only a series of risks and unknowns. the room feels even colder now, the fluorescent lights above bathing everything in a sterile, harsh glow.

geto guides you gently to sit on the cold metal bench outside the doctor’s office, his hand lingering on your shoulder as he kneels down in front of you. he studies your tear-streaked face, watching how your eyes remain unfocused, fixed on a spot on the floor as if it might anchor you to something stable. your expression is empty, yet tears still trace silent paths down your cheeks, leaving faint stains on your skin.

a pang of deep hurt stirs in his chest as he looks at you. he takes a slow, steadying breath, wanting nothing more than to take away your pain, to shoulder it himself if he could. after a moment, he reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently, his voice soft as he murmurs, “just wait here for a moment, okay? we’ll talk to the doctor.”

he doesn’t want you to hear any more—he’ll take whatever they have to say himself if it means sparing you even an ounce of further heartache. in his own quiet, determined way, he’s protecting you, doing what he can to shield you from any more painful words about your condition.

you don’t respond, too lost in the overwhelming weight of it all, the sterile walls and the lingering smell of antiseptic, the doctor’s words still echoing in your mind. everything feels distant, muted, like you’re drifting somewhere far away.

geto’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and gentle as he calls your name. “hey… hey, look at me,” he murmurs, his hand giving yours a gentle squeeze, coaxing you back, pulling you toward him with a quiet patience. “please... just look at me.”

but you’re still trapped in the fog, staring somewhere past him, your thoughts spiraling, unable to reach him. he calls your name again, this time a little firmer, his tone threaded with worry but steady. “come back to me, please,” he says softly, repeating, “look at me, please. i’m right here.”

after a long, silent beat, you finally look up, your tear-filled eyes meeting his. all you can manage is a faint nod, a small, wordless acknowledgment, barely enough to convey all that’s swimming inside you. but for geto, it’s enough. he watches you with a soft, understanding gaze, gently squeezing your hand as if to anchor you, grounding you in the only way he knows how before he slowly raise on his feet and walk back inside the room where gojo is waiting, already talking to the doctor.

gojo is pacing around the office, running a hand through his white hair in agitation, the other curled into a tight fist at his side. his usual carefree demeanor has been replaced by a tense energy, a stark contrast to his usual easygoing self.

the doctor is standing by the window, looking weary and slightly uncomfortable. they’re not used to dealing with such emotional situations, and the distress of both men in the room is clear. geto enters quietly and closes the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room.

gojo spins around as geto enters, his expression tight with worry and frustration. he turns to the doctor, his voice clipped. “what are the risks, really? how high is the risk?” he asked, desperate for the change of the answer. hoping this might be one of your stupid pranks you and the doctor pull.

the doctor sighs, clearly bracing themselves to explain once more. “the risks are significant. even with the treatments we’ve discussed, the risk of complications for both the mother and the child would remain very high. the possibility of heart failure or sudden cardiac events is a serious concern.”

gojo’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. “there has to be something more—something we can do to make it safer, even just a bit.”

the doctor adjusts their glasses, their expression empathetic but firm. “we’ve discussed all the options. we could look into assisted reproduction, but even that poses a risk. there’s no easy way around it… this condition makes pregnancy unusually dangerous.”

outside the doctor’s office, you sit alone, the cool metal bench beneath you somehow grounding and yet painfully cold, like the sterile walls around you. everything feels distant, muted, and your mind is heavy with a sorrow that seems too vast to fully understand. you mourn the vision you’ve held onto for so long—the idea of becoming a mother, of holding a child in your arms, of sharing that love with your husbands. the dreams you’d nurtured so carefully seem to dissolve with every painful echo of the doctor’s words, and no matter how hard you try to grasp them, they slip further away.

tears trace slow, hesitant paths down your cheeks, each one carrying a fragment of that hope you’ve clung to. lost in this aching silence, you feel as though the world around you has faded into a blur, leaving only the heaviness of your thoughts and the quiet sound of your own breathing.

you’re so wrapped up in your grief, so deeply entangled in your own thoughts, that you don’t notice at first when someone settles onto the bench beside you. a faint rustling sound reaches your ears, but you dismiss it, assuming it’s just one of your husbands come to sit quietly by your side, respecting the storm of emotions you’re lost in.

but then you hear it—a soft, unfamiliar coo, followed by a tiny, muffled whimper. you freeze, your heart stuttering as the unexpected sound registers in your mind, cutting through the haze of sorrow. it’s the unmistakable cry of a baby.

your head lifts slowly, almost as if in a trance, and you turn to see a young woman sitting next to you. she’s cradling a small, red-faced infant who’s squirming and fussing in her arms, his tiny fists clenched as he lets out a series of hiccuping cries. the woman looks up and meets your gaze, a sheepish, apologetic smile crossing her lips. her eyes are tired, but kind, and she looks as though she hasn’t had a moment of rest in days.

“oh—i’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, tinged with an embarrassed laugh. “he’s usually calm, but I think he’s a little hungry, and... well, it’s been a long day.”

she adjusts the baby carefully in her arms, trying to soothe him with a soft shushing noise, her hand gently patting his back in an effort to ease his discomfort. but even as she rocks him back and forth, his cries continue, a tiny, plaintive sound that tugs at something deep within you.

for a moment, you’re speechless, just watching them, taking in every detail—the delicate roundness of the baby’s cheeks, the way his little fists flail in the air, the soft, downy hair on his head. there’s a warmth in the mother’s eyes as she looks at her child, a look filled with an overwhelming, unconditional love that seems to radiate from her every movement.

you feel a strange pang in your chest as you watch them, a bittersweet ache that brings fresh tears to your eyes. the woman notices, her smile softening as she gazes at you, her expression filled with gentle understanding, as if she can sense the sorrow you’re carrying.

the woman shifts on the bench, adjusting the baby in her arms as he finally begins to settle, his tiny whimpers fading to soft hiccups. her gaze falls to the ground, her fingers idly tracing small patterns on the blanket wrapped around her child. she lets out a sigh, one that’s heavy with exhaustion and frustration, and then, almost hesitantly, she begins to speak.

“it’s been… a rough time,” she says softly, her words laced with a bitterness she can’t entirely hide. “my husband… he’s so insistent on having more kids, even though we’re already struggling with the two we have. he just… doesn’t seem to understand how much it takes to raise them, not just money, but time, energy, patience… it feels like i’m the only one holding everything together sometimes.”

she lets out a weak, humorless laugh, shaking her head as if to brush away the heaviness of her own words. her fingers tighten around the blanket, and she glances away, as though ashamed to admit her struggles. “and now,” she continues, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, “now i just found out i’m pregnant again… with twins.”

her eyes close for a moment, and you can see the strain etched into her face, the faint lines of worry and fatigue that seem to weigh her down. her shoulders sag under the weight of it all, and her voice trembles slightly as she confesses, “i don’t know how i’m going to manage it. i’m barely making it as it is.”

you sit silently beside her, listening as she pours out her frustrations, her fears, her anger. the bitterness in her tone is unmistakable, each word filled with a quiet resentment, a simmering resentment towards the husband who doesn’t see, doesn’t understand, doesn’t help. she speaks as though she’s been holding these feelings inside for far too long, and now they’re spilling out, raw and unfiltered.

as you listen, a strange feeling settles in your chest—a deep, gnawing sense of unfairness, one that cuts through your own sorrow like a knife. here she is, a woman who already has two children, who’s now expecting two more, and yet… she feels trapped, overwhelmed by the life she’s been dealt. and here you are, with a loving family, a stable life, and yet, the one thing you want most in the world—to have a child of your own—is slipping further and further from reach.

the contrast feels almost cruel, a painful reminder of the injustice woven into life. she has the thing you yearn for, and yet she struggles beneath its weight, feeling burdened rather than blessed. your heart aches with a confusing mix of empathy and envy, a bitter sorrow that deepens with each of her words. the air between you grows heavy, charged with unspoken emotions, as you both sit there, each lost in your own worlds of struggle and longing.

your chest tightens as you listen to the woman next to you, her tales of exhaustion and frustration cutting deep into your already raw emotions. it’s a stark reminder of the very thing you yearn for, yet a cruel twist of fate keeps it from your grasp.

the unfairness of it all weighs heavily on you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. she has the very thing you want so badly, the very thing you feel you’ve been denied, and she’s drowning in it, struggling to keep her head above water.

the woman turns to you, her eyes filled with a desperate, weary sort of hope. “would you mind… holding him for just a moment?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if afraid of imposing. but before you can respond, she carefully places the baby into your arms, murmuring her thanks as she hurries off toward the restroom.

for a moment, you freeze, unsure, feeling the soft weight settle in your lap. the baby blinks up at you, his cries stopping as he takes in your face, his wide, curious eyes locking onto yours as though studying this new, unfamiliar person holding him. a soft coo escapes his lips, and he reaches one tiny hand toward your face, his fingers brushing gently against your cheek. you can feel his warmth, his small body alive and pulsing with the innocent, unburdened spirit of someone just beginning life.

gently, you tighten your hold around him, cradling him close. his skin is soft and delicate, his little body curling instinctively against yours, as if already trusting you completely. the warmth of him spreads through you, soothing some of the ache in your heart. he babbles softly, his small sounds breaking the silence that has weighed so heavily on you.

slowly, you let yourself smile, just a little. it’s a fragile, bittersweet smile as you watch him. your finger brushes over the downy hair on his head, his tiny fingers wrapping around one of yours in an instinctive, trusting grip. the simplicity of it tugs at something deep within you, a feeling of tenderness you can’t quite put into words.

for a fleeting moment, holding him in your arms, it’s easy to imagine what it might be like—to have a child of your own, to hold them just like this, to watch as they grow, to care for them with all the love you have.

as the door to the doctor’s office opens, your husbands step out, their eyes scanning the hallway, but they don’t see you anywhere. a flicker of worry immediately crosses their faces, an unease that tightens with each passing second of not finding you. but before they can start searching, a woman catches their eye, standing nearby, looking distressed and on the verge of tears.

she notices them and hesitantly approaches, wringing her hands, her voice trembling with anxiety. ’excuse me… have you seen a girl?” she asks, describing your features in detail—the features they know all too well. the woman’s words bring a sense of familiarity to them, but her next sentence makes their hearts race.

“she’s… holding my baby,” she adds, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes filling with fear. the words seem to echo between them, and both their expressions shift, alarm flashing across their faces.

gojo’s mouth parts slightly, and he instinctively reaches for geto’s arm, a tight squeeze that mirrors the sudden worry gnawing at them. a thousand thoughts fill their minds at once—where could you have gone, why hadn’t you told them, and how on earth did you end up holding a stranger’s child?

without a moment’s hesitation, both husbands exchange a look of mutual understanding, and, their expressions serious and determined, they begin to search, the woman trailing after them as they walk down the hall, their hearts pounding in fear and urgency to find you safe and sound.

gojo and geto navigate their way through the hallway, their gazes sweeping the area with a growing sense of unease. they had expected to find you sitting quietly in the waiting room, perhaps even in the same exam room, but your absence is concerning and unsettling.

the woman’s description of you holding a baby sparks a moment of recognition, and their worry escalates into genuine fear. the thought of you being alone with a stranger's child and the possibility of something happening to you is suddenly very real.

you look down at the baby in your arms, and a soft smile spreads across your face as he coos again, his tiny voice bubbling up with sounds that melt away the weight of your earlier despair. he looks at you with wide, innocent eyes, filled with curiosity, studying you in his own baby-like way. you can’t help but let out a small laugh, the sound barely a whisper as you brush your knuckles gently over his plump cheek, marveling at how impossibly soft and warm his skin feels against yours.

“my baby,” you murmur, almost unconsciously, as though saying the words makes this moment a little more real, as if he really were yours, even if only for a heartbeat. The simple phrase stirs something deep within you, a fierce, protective warmth that spreads through your chest, and you lean down to press a tender kiss to his forehead. His skin is so warm beneath your lips, carrying a sweetness and purity that makes your heart clench.

you pull him a little closer to your chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing as he settles against you, his tiny head resting comfortably in the crook of your arm. It’s like he fits perfectly, as though he were made to be here, to be held by you. one of his hands reaches out, gripping at your shirt in his tiny, determined fist, and the sight of it—the smallness, the trust—makes your breath hitch.

you run a gentle hand over his soft hair, stroking the fine strands that feel as delicate as silk, and he gazes up at you with those wide eyes, his tiny mouth parting as if he’s trying to form words. “you’re so precious,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion as you continue to hold him close, like he’s the most delicate treasure in the world.

he makes another small sound, an innocent gurgle that draws a smile from you, and you find yourself instinctively swaying, rocking him gently, as though your body knows exactly how to comfort him. you lean your cheek against his head, inhaling the pure, powdery scent of him, that soft, warm fragrance unique to babies. for a moment, you let yourself dream, holding him tightly, letting yourself imagine what it might be like if he were truly yours, if this precious warmth in your arms was something you could come home to every day.

you tighten your embrace around him, as if you could somehow keep him a little longer, savoring every heartbeat, every small sound.

gojo’s hand moves to your head, his touch tender as he gently pats you, his fingers threading through your hair in a comforting gesture. his voice is soft, almost a whisper, as he leans close. “love,” he murmurs, his tone filled with both sorrow and understanding, “this… isn’t your baby.”

the words come slowly, each one heavier than the last, and you can hear the strain in his voice, feel the weight of what he’s saying. it hurts him to say it, to shatter the fragile happiness he saw on your face just moments ago. his fingers linger on your head, gentle and reassuring, as if he’s trying to soften the blow, to hold you together even as he reminds you of the reality.

you look at him, eyes wide, lost, the pang of realization settling in. it feels like a harsh slap, one that pulls you abruptly from the small world you’d slipped into—the one where, for just a moment, you let yourself imagine holding your own child. your gaze shifts back to the baby, held protectively in the your arms, and the ache in your heart swells.

“i know it’s hard,” gojo continues, his voice barely above a whisper, each word wrapped in the tenderness he reserves only for you. “but… taking someone else’s baby… that’s not what you want. we’ll… we’ll figure this out, alright?” he tries to offer you something, anything to cling to in this moment, his thumb brushing lightly against your temple, hoping his presence can ground you.

your lips tremble, a soft, almost inaudible “no...” slipping from your mouth as your whole body shakes. you instinctively tighten your arms around the baby, pulling him closer to your chest as if protecting him from the world, as if he truly belongs to you. the warmth of the baby against you feels like the only thing real in this moment, the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s suddenly come crashing down around you.

you shake your head, eyes wide with panic and desperation, as though refusing to accept the truth. the baby’s tiny, innocent face is a sharp contrast to the turmoil you feel inside, and it’s all too much to comprehend. the joy, the love, the ache in your heart—it all blurs together, overwhelming you. you can feel the weight of his small body, so delicate, so perfect, and for a brief moment, in your arms, you allow yourself to believe that he’s yours.

as you tighten your hold on the child, gojo's heart aches at the sight. your refusal to let go, your desperate attempt to keep the baby as close as possible, speaks volumes more than any words could. he watches you, seeing the pain and confusion, the longing and the pain, all painted across your face, reflected in the tears that shimmer in your eyes. he knows, more than anyone, how deeply you yearn for this, how painful it is to be reminded of what you don’t have.

he leans in closer, his hand still caressing your head, trying to soothe you. “baby..”

he leans in closer, his hand continuing to stroke your hair, trying to soothe you. “baby,” he murmurs, his voice tender but firm. “i know how much you want a baby… believe me, i do. but… this child, he’s not ours. it’s not right to take him like this.”

gojo’s words hang heavy in the air, each one a painful but necessary truth. his eyes gaze at your face, filled with a deep understanding, but also the weight of a reality you both must face.

before you can even react, the baby is suddenly lifted from your arms. startled, you instinctively reach out, panic flashing across your face. turning around, gojo sees geto standing beside the baby’s mother, who’s holding her child tightly to her chest, her expression a mixture of fear and anger. her eyes narrow as she looks at you, her gaze searing, resentment clear as she holds her baby protectively.

you stand up, the panic rising in your chest as you take a step forward, almost pleading, “it’s my baby…” the words escape your lips, raw and broken, a desperate echo of the fragile dream you were just holding in your arms.

the woman’s face hardens, her glare cutting through you. “how dare you,” she snaps, her voice laced with fury. “how could you just take him? you… you had the nerve to call him yours?” her hands clutch her child even tighter, shielding him as if to ward you off.

you feel the words pierce you, shame and sorrow mixing painfully in your chest. your hands tremble as you lower them, your heart racing, still caught between the desperate, fading hope of a future and the cold reality in front of you. gojo steps closer to you, his hand finding your shoulder, his presence grounding you as you struggle to catch your breath, feeling a sharp ache in the hollow space where the baby had just been.

gojo’s touch on your shoulder is a lifeline, anchoring you to the present while your heart is still clinging to a dream. he stands beside you, his presence a shield against the woman’s anger, his grip on your shoulder steady and firm, as if silently telling you that he’s there for you, that he understands.

he watches as the woman holds her baby away from you, protective and fierce, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and fear. the baby’s cry pierces the air, adding to the painful truth of the moment.

gojo’s touch on your shoulder is like a lifeline, grounding you in a moment where everything feels like it's slipping away. his hand rests gently yet firmly, a silent promise that he's there for you, even as everything inside you screams to hold on to what’s slipping through your fingers. you’re trembling under the weight of your own feelings, but his presence is a small comfort, the only thing that makes you feel like you’re not entirely lost.

you glance at the woman, her eyes blazing with anger and protectiveness, clutching her baby away from you. the baby’s cries are sharp, filling the air with an undeniable reminder of the painful truth. it’s hers. not yours. the desperate ache in your chest intensifies, and you can't help but look at the tiny life in her arms, wishing, hoping, that somehow, it could be yours.

geto, standing beside gojo, looks at you with the same heavy expression that mirrors his, his gaze filled with a sorrow that matches the pain you're feeling. his eyes soften as they meet yours, but there's nothing he can say to ease the ache in your heart. he feels it, too—the agony of watching you break, and it pulls at his soul.

you look at the baby now, tears falling freely as you watch the little one’s cries intensify in the mother’s arms. you can’t help but whisper, “he’s crying because he doesn’t want her...” the words come out like a plea, a desperate attempt to make sense of everything, to try and convince yourself that maybe, just maybe, the baby wants you instead. your voice shakes, raw with emotion, but before you can take a step closer, geto’s hand wraps gently around your arm, stopping you.

his grip is firm, but his eyes are soft as he looks down at you, silently asking you to stop. you try to pull away, but he moves to your other side, standing between you and the woman, as though to shield you from the unbearable truth.

your eyes lock with geto’s, and for a moment, your world narrows to just him, the one person who has always been there for you. you silently beg with him, your expression pleading, but his face remains unreadable. you turn your gaze back to the baby, the ache in your chest deepening.

“please...” you whisper, the words a broken cry as you speak to the woman. “give me the baby... you’re struggling with money, and you have two children already... my husbands and I, we could give him a good life. we could provide for him. please.”

your voice cracks as you continue, your heart breaking more with every word. you sound pathetic. desperate. it’s not a side of yourself you’ve ever shown, but the unbearable weight of this moment has shattered everything inside of you. you know, deep down, that you’re asking for something impossible, but the dream of having a child, of raising a family, drowns out everything else.

you feel small in the moment, exposed, vulnerable in a way you’ve never been before. and even though you know you’re not supposed to be doing this—taking another woman’s child—you can’t stop yourself. the desperation is consuming, the longing for what you can’t have swallowing everything else around you.

gojo’s heart shatters as he hears the pain in your voice, the raw plea for something you want so badly, but can’t have. he can feel the weight of your despair, the aching desire for a life that seems just out of reach. he wants nothing more than to take away your pain but there’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do in this moment to make it right.

the woman’s face is set in a hard, unmoving expression, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and hurt, and the baby’s cries only serve to intensify the tension.

the woman’s eyes narrow with fury, her grip tightening around the baby as her emotions boil over. her voice cracks, sharp and furious as she screams at you, her words slicing through the tension in the air. “how dare you?!” she spits, her voice thick with anger, as she glares at you with pure disdain. “how dare you ask a mother to give up her child?! even if i’m struggling, he’s still my son! no one is taking him from me!”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the world feels like it stops spinning. the rage in her voice is palpable, her protective instincts flaring as she stands her ground. your heart aches, but you can’t look away. you feel the sting of her accusation, the weight of her anger pressing down on you, and despite the deep sorrow inside, there’s a small, quiet voice that tells you she’s right.

you can’t take someone’s child, no matter the reason. the reality of what you've done, of what you’re asking for, sinks in, making you feel smaller, more insignificant than ever. her words echo in your mind as you stand there, trembling under the weight of your own mistake. you want to explain, to tell her that you didn’t mean it like that, that you only wanted to help, but the words die in your throat.

the baby in her arms continues to cry, and you instinctively want to comfort him, but you know now that it’s not your place. not your baby. and even though the longing still burns in your chest, the reality is clear now. you can’t force something that wasn’t meant to be.

you stand there, your words tumbling out in a frantic rush, a desperate attempt to salvage some semblance of control over the chaos swirling inside of you. “i’ll give you money,” you say, your voice trembling. “every month. for compensation. i can help you, just—just give me the baby.”

you look at geto, searching his face for something, anything, to support the madness spilling from your lips. “right, suguru?” you ask, your voice pleading as you turn to him, desperate for him to agree, to somehow make it all okay.

but the moment the words leave your mouth, you realize how irrational, how out of touch with reality they sound. your husbands exchange a glance, and the look in their eyes is enough to break your heart all over again.

geto’s face tightens, his jaw clenched as he watches you. the pain in his eyes is overwhelming, like a weight pressing down on him. he doesn’t respond immediately, as if trying to process what you’ve said, what you’re asking. his silence speaks louder than anything he could say.

gojo, standing beside you, looks just as torn. his usual calm demeanor shattered, replaced with a raw, vulnerable expression. his hand grips your shoulder, not in comfort, but in a desperate attempt to bring you back, to snap you out of this madness.

but it’s clear to them both that you’ve lost yourself in this haze of grief and longing. nothing makes sense. the reality of your situation has overwhelmed you so completely that the words you speak are the frantic pleas of someone who feels like they’re losing everything.

both of them are hurting. deeply. watching the woman holding the baby, and seeing the desperate, disoriented look in your eyes, they feel the weight of your pain, but also the crushing responsibility of your actions. they can’t support you in this. not this. they both want to hold you, to make the pain go away, but even they know they can’t fix everything, no matter how much they wish they could.

as you turn to geto, your pleading eyes searching for validation in your words, the heavy weight of your request hanging in the air, he can feel his own heart breaking. the words you’re speaking, the desperate plea, are like a daggerpiercing his chest. he can’t help but wish he could say yes, that he could fix this situation, that he could make you happy. but the truth is crushing, and he can only shake his head, the words trapped in his throat as he tries to find a way to reply.

but it’s gojo who speaks first, his voice soft but firm. gojo's hand tightens on your shoulder, his voice strained as he speaks, “love...” he begins, his tone quiet and heavy. “you... you know we can’t do that.”

each word feels like a blow, and he can see the pain in your eyes as you listen, as his words sink in. “you know we can’t take someone else’s child,” he continues, each word a lance to your heart. “we can’t just... we can’t just ask her to give up her baby, love. that’s not right.”

you look at gojo, your expression lost and pleading, as if none of this makes sense to you. “but… why not?” your voice is barely above a whisper, thick with desperation. you sound so genuinely confused, like your mind is struggling to grasp a reality that feels so wrong, so unfair.

“she’s struggling, satoru,” you say, gesturing weakly toward the woman. “she doesn’t even have money. she can’t give him the life we can, the life he deserves.” your words are raw, your gaze flicking between the baby nestled in her arms and gojo, searching his face for some understanding.

“she’s having twins. twins. what harm could it be to… to just give us one?” your voice breaks, the plea in your tone aching and vulnerable. “we’d be helping her, making things easier for her. why can’t you see that?”

gojo looks at you with an ache that mirrors your own, his eyes red-rimmed, struggling to hold back tears. his grip on your shoulder is firm, grounding, but his silence cuts deeper than anything. he wants to make this okay for you, to take away the hurt.

gojo’s heart breaks at the pleading tones of your voice, the desperation that seems to cloud your judgment. he wants more than anything to fix this, to make the world right for you again, but the truth is unbearable. the reality is that taking another person’s child is wrong on every level and no amount of pleading, no amount of convincing, can change that.

“love,” he whispers, his voice strangled. “it’s not about how much we can give him, or how much she can. this child is hers, and we have no right to take him.”

he can see the anguish in your eyes before meeting geto’s for a second and back to you, the way you’re struggling to make sense of a world that’s suddenly become so unfair. but the fact remains— this isn’t about what’s easier for the woman or what’s better for the child. it’s about doing the right thing, and the right thing is to leave that child with his mother.

gojo’s hand reaches up, his fingers gently tracing your face, wiping a tear from your cheek. the look in his eyes is filled with pain and sorrow, but more importantly, it’s filled with understanding.

“i know...” he says, his voice strained. “i know how much you want a family. i know how badly you want a child. but love, this... taking someone else’s child isn’t the way...”

you ignore gojo’s words entirely, your heart and mind spiraling as you drop to your knees in front of the woman, desperation pouring out of you. your hands tremble as they reach out, clasping her knees, and you look up at her, your face streaked with tears, eyes wide with a raw, unfiltered plea.

“please,” you whisper, voice breaking. “please… if you can’t… if it’s too much for you, give him to me.” your words tumble out, nearly incoherent in their urgency. “or… or sell him to me,” you add, the words slipping past your lips without thought, your desperation clouding everything else.

the woman stares down at you, her expression shifting from shock to anger, but you don’t stop. you press the top of your head against her knees, bending forward as you sob, shoulders shaking with each breath. “i can’t—i can’t get pregnant,” you manage, voice choked. “i’ll never… i’ll never be a mother. please… please, just… please let me have him.”

the room seems to close in around you, all sounds muted except for your own quiet, desperate cries. your husbands stand nearby, their faces etched with pain and helplessness as they watch you, seeing the extent of your suffering laid bare.

gojo’s hand hovers over your shoulder, uncertain, as if afraid to break the fragile shell of your sorrow, while geto’s gaze is fixed on you, his face drawn with grief. they feel every ounce of your pain, yet are bound by the truth they can’t alter—no matter how deeply they wish they could take this agony away.

gojo steps forward, his face tight with remorse as he looks at the woman, who clutches her baby protectively to her chest. “i’m so sorry,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “please… just go. thank you for your patience.”

the woman stares back, her expression a mixture of confusion and hurt, but she nods slightly before turning and hurrying away, the baby’s soft cries fading as she disappears down the hall.

as the door clicks shut, geto moves immediately, sinking down beside you, his arms reaching around your trembling form. he pulls you close, wrapping you in a firm embrace, one hand cradling the back of your head as you press against him. he holds you tightly, his touch a gentle anchor amid the storm inside you, grounding you even as you break down, sobs spilling from your chest in waves.

gojo watches as the woman and the baby disappear down the hallway, his heart aching in his chest. the silence that follows is heavy and oppressive, the atmosphere thick with sorrow and disappointment. he feels a pang of guilt, realizing that his words, despite being true, couldn’t soothe your pain, couldn’t change your reality.

he sees geto pull you against him, the way you cling to him, your body trembling with sobs. gojo stands there, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he struggles with the feeling of helplessness that washes over him.

seeing you like this, so vulnerable and broken. seeing you so shattered, so utterly broken by something he can’t fix, is like a dagger to his heart. he wants to fix it, to make it all better, but he can’t. and that realization, the feeling of being powerless to bring you the happiness he knows you deserve, is eating him alive.

geto’s gaze drifts up to meet gojo’s, and for a moment, they share a look—one filled with a profound helplessness neither of them is used to feeling. gojo’s jaw tightens, his hand resting on your shoulder as he murmurs softly, “let’s get her home. she don’t need to be here anymore.”

geto nods, his expression heavy with sorrow as he carefully slides his arms beneath you, lifting you into his embrace with gentle strength. you curl into his chest, clinging to his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. he cradles you close, his grip secure, yet tender, as though he fears you might shatter any moment.

gojo walks ahead, clearing a quiet path as they make their way through the sterile hospital corridors and out into the fresh air. every step is quiet, purposeful, the weight of the moment hanging between them. they reach the parking lot, the cool breeze offering a slight comfort as they move toward the car. gojo opens the door, waiting as geto settles you gently in the backseat, tucking a blanket they always keep in the car around you as if it might shield you from the ache of reality.

both men share another look—one that speaks of the hurt they’re carrying for you, the unspoken promise that they’ll stay by your side through it all, no matter how heavy it gets.

geto sits beside you in the backseat, his hand gently combing through your hair, his touch a silent reassurance. gojo starts the car, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on you, his heart clenching at the sight of you, bundled in the blanket, your eyes empty and vacant, your body still trembling lightly.

the car ride is silent, the only sound coming from the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from you. gojo keeps his eyes on the road, his fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his thoughts a turmoil of worry and despair.

“she’s asleep..” gojo notices you’ve fallen asleep in the backseat, the exhaustion of everything you’ve been through evident in your closed eyes and the deep breaths coming from your lips. he looks back a few times, his heart constricting each time he sees your weary form.

he glances over at geto beside you, who’s watching silently as well. the two men exchange a look, a thousand wordless thoughts and emotions passing between them in that instant, before gojo diverts his attention back to the road.

geto keeps his gaze on you, his hand still gently stroking your hair, his fingers tracing soft, slow circles against your scalp, as if hoping the rhythmic motion might offer some comfort in your sleep.

the rest of the car ride passes in a silent, heavy tension. neither gojo nor geto speak, the depth of their worry and despair is too great for words. they both feel as though they’ve failed you, even though they know they’ve done everything they can.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, they pull into their driveway. gojo cuts the engine, the sudden quiet only adding to the heavy atmosphere. he looks over his shoulder at you, your face still and peaceful in sleep, the pain and sorrow gone for the moment.

gojo steps out of the car first, moving around to open the door for geto as he carefully lift you from the backseat, working in tenderness to carry you inside, his hands and arms gentle and protective against your body.

once inside, he leads the way down the hall, heading straight for your shared room and gently laying you on the bed. he pulls off your shoes and slides you further up the bed, pulling the sheets over you as you continue to sleep. geto looks down at you, concern etched into his features, his heart aching in his chest. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, watching as your chest rises and falls with each breath.

gojo stands in the doorway, his face drawn and weary, his eyes tracing over your sleeping form with a mixture of pain and heartache. seeing you like this, so vulnerable and broken, is tearing him apart, the knowledge that he’s powerless to ease your suffering gnawing at his heart.

“she’ll be okay…” he whispers, more to himself than to geto, a silent hope that speaking the words might make them true. geto doesn’t respond, his eyes glued to you, his hand resting atop the blankets that cover your form. he’s just as worried as gojo, just as hopeless. he knows better than anyone that time is the only healer in situations like this, and time can be a brutal remedy.

gojo steps outside the room, letting the door open, his movements mechanical, stiff—as if keeping himself together is all he can manage, leans back against the wall, the cool surface grounding him as he shoves his hands into his pockets, fingers curling into fists. he tries to steady his breathing, tries to force himself to be strong for you, for geto. but the weight of everything finally breaks through, and the tears begin to slip silently down his cheeks. he doesn’t wipe them away, just stands there, letting the grief settle in his chest, heavy and unrelenting.

inside, geto still sits on the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on your hand resting atop his lap. he swallows thickly, feeling the tightness in his throat as he lets himself tear up, his vision blurring as he studies your wedding ring—the small, delicate circle that symbolizes the promises they made to you, promises they feel helpless to fulfill. his thumb gently brushes over the ring, and he bites down hard on his lip, the pain a small distraction from the ache in his heart.

for a long moment, geto just sits there, his hand never leaving yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch. he wants to say something, to offer you comfort, but he knows words would fall short. so he simply stays, his silent tears falling as he holds your hand, hoping that maybe, somehow, his presence can bring you even a small measure of solace.

gojo stands just outside the room, his shoulders slumped, the weight of his grief and helplessness evident in every line of his body. he watches as geto’s shoulder trembles slightly, the quiet sobs that geto tries to suppress as he sits beside you on the bed. gojo feels his heart break further each time he sees geto struggling to hold it together, knowing he can’t ease his own or geto’s pain right now.

he wants to step forward, to offer comfort, a hand on a shoulder, a word of reassurance, anything. but he can’t move, a part of him afraid that the moment he steps into the room, the dam holding back his own tears will break for good. instead, he just stands there, the sound of geto’s soft weeping echoing in his ears, a silent testament to a pain that refuses to stay hidden.

it had been days since that painful incident, and each one weighed heavily on you. you’d barely left the bed, consumed by a deep, silent grief that kept you withdrawn, the hurt sinking deeper with every passing hour. you barely ate, barely spoke. you’d turned away from your responsibilities, from jujutsu high, from the life you’d built with such dedication. instead, you lay in bed, letting exhaustion take you each night as tears ran dry against your pillow.

tonight, though, the weight of your sorrow pulled you from bed in the middle of the night. in a daze, you found yourself drifting to the walk-in closet, your only escape from the endless loop of sorrow. sitting on the carpeted floor, you pressed your back and head against the shelf, drawing some comfort from its solidity as you sat there, letting soft murmurs slip from your lips—whispers of thoughts you barely registered yourself.

in the dark bedroom, geto stirred, reaching out instinctively for you, only to find the sheets cool and empty. he blinked, the room settling around him as he sat up, trying to piece together where you could be. beside him, gojo still lay asleep, his face etched with lines of exhaustion and worry, even in sleep.

then geto saw it—the faint glow of light spilling out from the closet, and he heard your soft voice drifting from within, quiet, like a sorrowful melody he couldn’t quite make out. with a sigh, he slipped from bed and moved toward the closet, the sound of his bare feet soft on the floor.

as he reached the doorway, he found you there, sitting alone on the carpet, your figure almost blending into the shadows, shoulders slouched, your head leaning back as you stared blankly ahead. slowly, you turned your head toward him, your expression so exhausted, so worn, yet somehow you mustered a weak, fleeting smile—one that tugged painfully at his heart.

“hey,” he whispered, his voice soft and tender, laced with the worry he felt deep within.

“hey,” you murmured back, your voice barely audible, like the faintest crack of light through a closed window.

geto lowered himself onto the floor beside you, his eyes gentle as they took you in. he reached out, his hand finding yours while the other arm wrap around your shoulder. his thumb tracing delicate circles over your knuckles, grounding you both. for a moment, neither of you spoke. there was nothing to say that hadn’t been said already, no comfort that could ease the ache you both felt. but his presence, solid and steady, brought a small glimmer of warmth to the cold grief wrapped around you.

gojo slowly blinked open his eyes, the absence of your warmth on the sheets drawing him from sleep. confusion clouded his vision when he found the bed empty beside him, and for a moment, he simply lay there, the lingering remnants of sleep still holding onto his mind.

then, the low murmurs of a quiet voice drifted through the silent room, pulling him completely into wakefulness. his eyes focused in the darkness, and in the faint glow spilling from the crack in the walk-in closet doorway.

he sat up in bed, the covers pooling around his waist as he listened to the familiar cadence of your voice, the strain in your tone a harsh contrast to its usual smoothness and strength.

he could pick up snippets of your quiet, almost broken-sounding whispers, but the words were indistinct in his ears, lost in the haze of sleep and worry. the only thing that was clear was the sorrow, the despair that seemed to linger around each syllable.

gojo threw off the covers. the floor was cold beneath his feet, the hardwood offering no comfort against the icy chill that seemed to settle in the absence of your presence in the bed.

the cool night air hit gojo’s bare legs as he threw off the covers, the warmth of sleep vanishing with every step toward the closet. each step on the hardwood felt like a jolt to his heart, the icy chill settling not just in his feet, but in the aching place where you should’ve been beside him.

he found himself pausing at the doorway, his gaze softening as he took in the sight of you and geto on the floor, hunched together in the glow of the closet light. geto’s hand was gently intertwined with yours, his other arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders as if he could somehow shield you from the sorrow that weighed you down.

gojo forced a small smile, leaning casually against the door frame, as if to lighten the mood. “having a party without me, huh? i see how it is,” he joked, trying to inject a little warmth into the quiet room. “the invite must’ve gotten lost in the mail.”

you looked up, and for a moment, that familiar sparkle flickered in your eyes, even if just for a second. your lips lifted in a sad, faint smile as he crossed the small space and sat down beside you, pressing his shoulder against yours with a gentle nudge.

“oh, satoru,” you murmured softly, holding up the tiny, delicate baby clothes in your hands. “i… i bought these without thinking.” your fingers ran over the soft fabric, as if the touch itself was soothing, but your gaze was distant, lost somewhere else, somewhere softer, somewhere that felt far away from this pain. “they were so cute. i couldn’t help myself.”

you managed a laugh, but it was hollow, filled with sorrow. “i… i thought, maybe… one day, you know?” your voice cracked, and gojo’s heart clenched as he saw the tear slipping down your cheek. he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you gently against him, while geto’s hand tightened around yours.

you looked at the tiny clothes again, a fresh wave of grief in your gaze. “i was just about to throw these out,” you whispered, barely meeting their eyes. “they’re just… they’re just a reminder now.”

gojo’s throat tightened, the sight of the baby clothes clutched in your hands, a painful reminder of what might’ve been. his arm tightened around you, pulling you snugly against his side as geto’s grip on you tightened too, the three of you creating a silent bubble of comfort in the dim light of the closet.

“you don’t have to throw them away if you don’t want to,” gojo said quietly, his voice soft as he took in the delicate fabric, the innocent symbolism of a future that was so suddenly snatched away.

your fingers traced over the fabric, trembling as they glided across each tiny fold and seam. the baby clothes were soft, achingly so, and it was like holding a piece of a dream that had slipped through your fingers. your lips quivered, a quiet murmur escaping as you whispered, “it’s... so soft.” the words fell from your mouth, barely more than a breath, but they carried the weight of everything you’d hoped, everything you’d imagined.

your hand lingered, stroking the fabric as if comforting yourself through the gentle touch. tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision, and you couldn’t look up at gojo or geto—couldn’t face the pity, the sorrow that mirrored your own pain. instead, you kept your gaze on the tiny clothes in your hands, clutching them as if they were a lifeline, a piece of the child you’d longed for.

“i thought... i thought one day...” you choked on the words, a tear slipping down your cheek, dampening the fabric. “i thought one day they’d be filled. they’d... they’d be his. or hers.” your voice was a trembling whisper, barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

gojo’s heart ached with each word, each broken confession that echoed in the quiet of the closet. the weight of your sorrow, the quiet pain in your voice, it was all too much. he swallowed past the lump in his throat, his grip on you tightening—a silent, wordless offering of comfort.

“you can keep them.” gojo said, his voice quiet but firm. he leaned closer, his arm around you pulling you a little closer, his fingers tracing small circles on your shoulder, “if... if it helps. you don’t have to let go.”

geto, his fingers still intertwined with yours, listened silently, his eyes on you, watching the mixture of pain and longing that played across your face. he could almost feel the weight of your sorrow, the ache in his heart matching yours.

he gently squeezed your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he spoke, his voice a low, comforting murmur. “you don’t have to do anything right now,” geto said, echoing gojo’s sentiment. “we’re here. we’re right here with you.”

your voice was barely a whisper, the words thick with the weight of everything you’d been carrying for days. you rested your head on gojo’s shoulder, your body trembling with the sobs you tried to suppress but couldn’t hold back any longer. “i’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice shaky and fragile. “i’ve been so... so sad all these days, and... i just... i can’t help it.”

your hands gripped the soft baby clothes tighter, as if holding onto something—anything—that might make the pain just a little more bearable. you could feel their presence around you, the warmth of both of them, and yet the emptiness inside felt overwhelming.

gojo pulled you even closer, his face burying into the top of your hair as he held you tight, his arms strong and comforting around you. “don’t be sorry,” he said fiercely, his tone brooking no argument. “don’t you dare apologize. you’ve been through something unbearable. you don’t have to pretend to be okay. we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

geto moved in closer too, his knee bumping against yours as he shifted, his voice firm and reassuring, “you’ve done nothing wrong. you can feel whatever you need to feel, we’re here for you,” he echoed gojo’s words, his hand holding yours, the warm, tangible contact a lifeline in the sea of grief that surrounded you. he moved slightly, his free hand gently brushing the dampness from your cheeks, his touch tender and soothing. “you don’t have to hold back. not with us. you don’t have to be strong. not right now.”

tears welled up again, threatening to spill over, and you couldn’t stop the overwhelming flood of emotions. “i don’t want to keep hurting you both,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “you’ve been so patient, so kind, and i just feel like i’m breaking apart... and i don’t want to drag you down with me.”

but even as the words left your lips, the warmth of their embrace told you everything you needed to know. gojo’s hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, while geto’s fingers gently brushed through your hair, both of them offering their quiet support, their unspoken understanding.

“you’re not breaking us,” gojo murmured, his chin resting on the top of your head, his breath stirring the fine strands of your hair. “you could never break us,” he said, his voice strong and sure. “we’re here for you. through the good, through the bad. we’re not just going to abandon you because you’re hurting.”

geto’s hand slid to your cheek, his fingers gently tracing along your jawline, his gaze filled with pain and love, “you’re our wife,” he said quietly. “our soul. our everything.”

your head lifted slowly from gojo’s shoulder, your eyes searching his face with a flicker of something new—something more hopeful. for the first time in days, there was a spark of determination, an ember igniting in the midst of your grief. your fingers trembled slightly as they reached up, brushing through gojo’s hair, as you locked eyes with him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“maybe...” you started, your voice shaky but gaining strength as you went on. “maybe we should try. maybe the doctor was wrong.”

you could feel your heart race at the words, a mix of vulnerability and hope swirling inside you. you wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. that maybe, just maybe, things could work out—despite everything that had happened. despite the crushing weight of loss you still carried. maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought.

“what if we give it a shot?” you whispered, eyes darting between your two husbands, your gaze now full of hope. “maybe there’s a chance. maybe... we could try again.”

“no,” geto’s voice is quiet, answering without hesitate, the gentle steadiness in his tone somehow making the words sting even more. “i know how much you’ve dreamed about having a family, raising a child together.”

his words are comforting yet heartbreaking, an acknowledgment of the unspoken fears you both share. you feel a tightness building in your throat as you fight to hold back tears, feeling the weight of his hand grounding you. but it’s gojo’s voice that breaks the silence next, and it’s strained in a way that cuts right through you.

“but… we can’t lose you.” his words come out in a whisper, barely above a breath, and there’s a tremor to it you rarely hear. he looks down, his head hanging low as he grips your hand, his knuckles white with the intensity of his hold. “i don’t… i can’t imagine… if something happened to you.”

gojo’s grip on your hand tightens, the thought of losing you, his lifeline, too much even to speak of. geto's hand on your cheek feels like an anchor, keeping you grounded, even as your heart races in anticipation of gojo’s next words.

“not at the risk of losing you. never.” he continues, his voice firm despite the strain. “i can’t… i’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.” he lifts his gaze from the floor, his eyes meeting yours, a mix of love and fear swimming in the blue depths. “i would give up everything, give up the idea of family, if it meant keeping you safe. losing you would be an emptiness… a pain… that i wouldn’t survive.”

gojo’s gaze shifts up again, from geto before meeting yours, the depths of his love and worry so achingly clear in his eyes. “i can’t lose you,” he repeats, the words catching slightly in his throat. “i can’t risk it. i’m not willing to gamble with your life. you’re too precious to us. too precious to me.”

geto’s hand moves to your chin, gently guiding your gaze towards him. his expression is gentle, filled with care, and yet there is an almost unbearable sadness lurking in the depths of his eyes. “please understand,” he says softly, “we value your life above everything else.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but geto’s soft, steady voice stopped you before you could speak any further. his hand on your chin held you gently, but firmly, as if trying to ground you in the moment, to make sure you understood his words clearly.

“no buts,” he murmured, his gaze unwavering, a quiet plea in his eyes. “this isn’t about what you want, love. it’s about your life. and we’re not willing to risk it. not for anything, not for anyone.”

his words hit like a cold wave, each syllable piercing through the haze of desperation you’d been holding onto. you felt your heart falter, the overwhelming urge to fight back, to keep grasping for that sliver of hope, but deep down you knew the truth in his voice. the painful truth that your husbands loved you far too much to let you endanger yourself again, no matter how much you wanted to try.

“you mean everything to us,” gojo added softly, his voice barely a whisper, as if he too was struggling to keep the weight of it all from breaking him. “we can’t lose you. not like this.”

geto’s thumb gently brushed your cheek, his expression softening, even as sorrow shadowed his gaze. “we would do anything to see you happy, but we can’t let you sacrifice yourself for a dream. your health, your life... that’s what matters most to us. not the baby, not anything else. just you.”

the words wrapped around you like a vise, heavy and final. it felt as though the very thing you clung to—the hope of motherhood, the thought of a family—was slipping through your fingers. the ache in your chest deepened, but as you looked into the eyes of both your husbands, you saw only love, only the raw, painful care they had for you.

you swallowed hard, the tears that had been on the edge of falling finally breaking free. you didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let go of the dream, but you knew—they were right. the risk was too great, and they were asking you to protect yourself, even if it meant letting go of a piece of your heart.

“i understand,” you whispered through the sobs, your voice small, fragile.

gojo’s arm pulled you closer, wrapping tightly around your shoulders, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back and his face burying into your hair. his body trembles slightly, fighting back his own tears as he holds you fiercely.

“we love you,” he whispers hoarsely. “so much. please, understand that this... this isn’t about not wanting a family with you. it’s about keeping you safe.”

geto’s hand moved from your chin, his fingers tracing down your neck, the touch gentle, as he stepped closer, his own eyes glossy with unfallen tears. “we want a future with you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with love, “a long, long... safe and happy future. and we won’t take any risks with that.”

he gently pulls you to his chest, holding you close, his arms wrapping around your frame as he cradles your body. his heart is hammering against yours, the rhythm a quick, nervous staccato that speaks of the fear they’re both feeling.

“please, please understand,” gojo’s voice is a quiet, desperate plea, “it’s not that we don’t want kids with you. it’s that we want you to be safe. we want to keep you safe. we both do.”

geto’s hand is stroking your hair, his lips pressed softly against the top of your head as he holds you closer. the pain in his voice is evident as he adds, “we want you to be healthy, happy… with us… for a long time.”

you nod slowly, pressing your face against geto’s chest as a defeated “okay” slips from your lips, barely more than a whisper. your voice trembles with the weight of the word, laden with acceptance and heartache all at once. the surrender in your tone brings a wave of relief mingled with sorrow to both your husbands, who tighten their embrace around you as if shielding you from the pain of letting go.

geto’s hand gently strokes your hair, his lips brushing your temple in silent reassurance. his hold is steady, strong, grounding you as you lean into him. gojo’s hand finds yours, his fingers intertwining with yours after he wraps his arms from behind, squeezing gently, offering a quiet reminder that he’s here, that they’re both here.

gojo's head rests on yours, his forehead against your hair, his breathing soft and steady against your neck. his body is a warm, solid presence behind you, a shield against the emptiness, a constant that you can rely on.

geto leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “we're here. we'll always be here.”

the room is silent, the quiet interrupted only by the shared, steadying rhythm of your breaths. in the comfort of their embrace, there is a heartbreaking beauty to the moment, a quiet strength in the simple act of being together.

gojo’s hand gently releases yours, his fingers tracing up your arm in a slow, careful path. it comes to rest on your waist, the thumb tracing soothing, repetitive circles against your hip. a silent, gentle touch, an attempt to soothe your aching heart as he continues to lean into you, his body curved around yours.

geto’s hand in your hair is now a gentle, almost massaging motion, his fingers slowly sliding through the strands, his touch both comforting and intimate. they hold you—not as if you’re fragile or broken, but as if you’re precious, valuable, worth every

breath and second of their time. gojo and geto’s silence speaks louder than words—the steadiness of their presence, the tenderness of their touch, the quiet strength in their hold. they love you, they love you so desperately, and you can feel it with every beat of their hearts, every soft exhale as they hold you.

in the quiet of the car, geto’s fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel as he stares at gojo, both of them caught in the tension of their unspoken thoughts. they glance into the backseat, where two small, confused faces peer back at them. the boy with pink hair and brown eyes clutches the sleeve of the other boy with jet black hair and striking blue eyes, looking to him for reassurance, even in their silence.

geto sighs, voice low and uncertain. “i don’t know how she’ll react. bringing two strangers—two kids—into the house... especially when she’s going through so much.”

gojo shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “i know,” he says, his tone hesitant. “but we can’t just… leave them. we found them because they were being hurt—abused by the villagers just because they have jujutsu. we can’t turn our backs on them now.” his words are resolute, but his expression falters. behind his cool, stoic front, there’s a softness, an unwillingness to abandon these two boys who have already been through so much.

geto looks away, taking a moment to weigh their choices. he knows gojo’s right, knows he doesn’t have it in him to just leave these kids to fend for themselves. not after what they’ve seen, and not when they have a home to offer, even if things are complicated. but he also knows you, and he knows how fragile things are right now.

the pink-haired boy shifts, sensing the tension, and tightens his hold on his friend’s arm. the boy with blue eyes stares back at the two men, his gaze unwavering, as if waiting for them to make a decision, as if he’s already used to uncertainty and the discomfort of being unwanted.

geto glances at gojo, reading the determination in his face, the concern for the boys, and sighs. he can feel a sense of responsibility for them too, the same feeling that has him glancing at the boys’ faces in the mirror, their wide eyes silently pleading.

he turns back to gojo, his own expression torn, “you don’t think she’ll… react badly?” he asks softly, his voice filled with worry. “after… everything that’s happened, i don’t want to overwhelm her.”

geto’s words hang in the air, the weight of their implications obvious—the fear of further straining the delicate balance of your current state, the worry of adding to the emotional burden you’re already carrying.

gojo’s gaze flickers to the boys in the backseat again, their innocent faces watching them, waiting. he can feel the tension in his own chest, the conflict of wanting to help these kids and protecting you from further sorrow.

gojo lets out a quiet, resigned sigh, his hand running through his hair one last time before he nods toward geto. “let’s just… see how she reacts. if it’s too much… if it hurts her more, we’ll figure something out.” his voice carries a tone of forced steadiness, but geto can see the conflict still etched in his eyes. he’s trying to reassure himself as much as he’s trying to reassure his friend.

with that, gojo pushes open the car door and steps out, the night air feeling heavier than usual. he circles to the backseat, pausing as he looks at the two boys through the glass, their small faces gazing up at him with a mix of uncertainty and trust. he softens his stance, letting his usual intimidating presence melt away, and carefully opens the door.

kneeling down to their eye level, he offers a gentle smile, his voice as soothing as he can manage. “hey… you’re safe now, alright? no one’s going to hurt you here.” his hand extends, and the pink-haired boy looks at his friend before they both reach out to gojo, taking comfort in his calm demeanor.

“come on out,” he says softly, his hand light on their backs as he guides them out of the car. “we’re going to take you inside. there’s someone very special to us who lives here too, and she’s… she’s going through a tough time, so we’ll need to be gentle with her. but i promise, you’re safe.”

the boys nod quietly, their small frames pressing closer to gojo as he stands, keeping them close as they walk toward the house with geto following behind. his heart aches, knowing they’re stepping into something complicated, but he feels a flicker of hope as they near the front door.

gojo can hear the quiet, anxious breaths of the boys standing next to him, their hands gripping his shirt. their wide eyes are fixed on the door, filled with both fear and anticipation. he glances at geto, their unspoken understanding of the situation heavy between them.

he gently pats the boys’ heads, hoping to soothe their uneasiness. “don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “everything’s going to be alright.” he reaches out, his hand wrapping around the cold, brass doorknob, and with a soft inhale, he pushes the door open.

the soft creak of the hinges seems unusually loud in the quiet night, a prelude to the quiet of the house and the unknown that awaits inside. gojo feels the boys’ grip on his shirt tighten slightly, their small bodies tensing with nerves.

he leads them quietly inside, their footsteps muted against the smooth wooden floor. the house is still, as if holding its breath, the only sound coming from the boys’ soft breathing and the slight creak of the old floorboards beneath their feet.

geto places a steady hand on gojo's shoulder, a silent agreement passing between them as he asks him to stay with the boys in the living room. gojo nods, a gentle understanding in his eyes as he watches geto head outside.

in the backyard, you sit quietly on the bench, your face softly illuminated by the last light of the day. the glow of the sunset dances across your features, casting a gentle warmth over you. at the sound of approaching footsteps, you slowly open your eyes, turning to see geto’s familiar figure walking toward you.

he gives you a soft smile, the kind that holds a thousand unspoken words, and sits beside you, close enough that you can feel his presence in every quiet beat between you.

“hey…” he whispers, his hand reaching out to brush a few strands of hair from your face. he lets his fingers linger for a moment, tracing gentle circles, a small comfort as he gathers his words.

“i need to talk to you about something,” he says, his tone tender, careful. you can see something in his eyes—an unspoken depth, a mixture of love and worry. he holds your gaze, waiting for you to take in the moment, as if he knows how much you’ve been through and wants to ease you into whatever’s coming next.

under geto’s touch, your heart stutters, the familiarity of his gesture settling something deep within your chest. you lean your head into his hand, relishing the small comfort it offers, but you can feel something in the air, a tension that he’s trying to hide behind his soft smile.

you listen as he speaks, your eyes never leaving his. you can tell he’s carefully choosing his words, threading a delicate needle between what he needs to say and your current fragile state.

geto’s voice is soft, almost tentative, as he begins, “love… there’s something i need to tell you.” his hand remains a reassuring presence on your shoulder, grounding you as he carefully chooses his words. “gojo and i… we brought home some kids.”

you blink, a flicker of surprise crossing your face, and he takes a breath before continuing. “during our mission, we found these two boys. they were… kept in a cage, treated like they were less than human, all because of their cursed energy.”

he watches your expression closely, as if bracing himself for your reaction, hoping he’s not overloading you. there’s a slight sadness in his eyes as he speaks, feeling the weight of what he’s just shared.

“we… we couldn’t just leave them,” he adds, voice laced with quiet conviction. “i talked to gojo, and we both agreed—they don’t have anyone else. they were being hurt for something they can’t control, something they were born with. we… we couldn’t just turn away from that.”

he pauses, waiting, his hand gently tracing soothing patterns on your shoulder, his gaze never leaving your face as he lets the gravity of his words settle between you.

before you can even form a response, geto’s words rush out, almost in a tumble, “just for a night or two, love,” he assures quickly, his tone soft but slightly anxious. “we’re… we’re not trying to make this more difficult for you. it’s just temporary, okay? just until we figure something else out.”

he gives you a small, hopeful smile, his hand still on your shoulder, trying to soothe any worries that might be surfacing in you. “we don’t want you to feel overwhelmed. i know things have been… heavy lately. we’ll handle everything, i promise. you don’t even have to see them if you’re not up for it.”

he’s watching you with a gentle, pleading look, his gaze searching your eyes, hoping that his words are enough to ease any anxiety. it’s clear he’s trying to make this as easy as possible, fully aware of all that you’ve been carrying.

his voice is gentle, yet it’s clear that he’s worried about how you’ll react. he gauges your expression as he speaks, watching for any sign of distress or discomfort, all while maintaining a soothing rhythm with his hand on your shoulder.

his words rush out, trying to provide reassurance while also pleading for your understanding. his anxiety is evident, the weight of the situation heavy in his voice. despite all of this, there’s a hint of hope in his eyes, a hope that you will understand, that you will accept the temporary situation for what it is.

“what about their parents?” your quiet question hangs in the air, and geto’s expression falters, a brief flicker of sadness crossing his face. he sighs, his gaze dropping to his hands before looking back up at you. “they… they don’t have any,” he says softly, his voice laced with a quiet grief. “the villagers… they saw them as a curse, something to be feared. they were going to leave them to fend for themselves.”

he pauses, taking a deep breath, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand. “we couldn’t just walk away,” he adds gently. “not after everything we saw… and knowing what could happen to them.”

he glances back toward the house, where gojo is no doubt keeping the boys company. “they’ve been through so much already. we thought… maybe we could give them a little safety, even if just for a short while.”

you nod, your lips forming a soft, understanding smile as you look up at geto. “okay,” you whisper, a gentle acceptance in your voice that makes the tension in his shoulders ease. he lets out a quiet sigh, his hand moving to rest over yours, squeezing it in silent gratitude.

geto’s expression softens as he looks at you. your quiet acceptance seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips. he reaches out, his hand covering yours, giving it a gentle squeeze of gratitude.

he continues to watch you for a moment, the weight of the situation still hanging in the air. but there’s a sense of peace between you now, a quiet understanding that you’ve both come to an agreement, albeit a difficult one.

“thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and gentle. “i know it’s a lot to ask, but…” he trails off, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles over your skin. he looks up at you again, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and concern. “i just want to make sure you’re okay.”

and it’s been two days since the boys came into your home, and your husbands can already see the change in you. they watch from the kitchen as you sit in the living room with the two boys, your laughter echoing softly through the house. after weeks of grieving the news that you couldn’t have children, they see a lightness returning to your face—a spark they’ve missed more than they could say.

geto leans against the counter, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watches you. “she’s really taken to them,” he murmurs, his voice low but warm.

gojo nods, eyes glued to the scene before him. you’re talking to the boys, both of them wearing oversized shirts from your wardrobe—the smallest clothes in the house, yet still comically large on their tiny frames. the boys look up at you, wide-eyed and smiling, completely enraptured by your presence.

“look at her,” gojo says softly, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. “i don’t think i’ve seen her smile like that in… a long time.”

geto’s gaze softens, the sight of you laughing and at ease bringing a sense of peace he didn’t realize he’d been longing for. “maybe,” he begins cautiously, glancing at gojo, “maybe they’re what she needs right now. maybe… this is good for her. for all of us.”

gojo looks over at him, a faint smile forming. “yeah,” he agrees, the hope in his voice barely contained. “maybe it is.”

you step into the kitchen with a soft, purposeful stride, moving toward the fridge without a word. your husbands watch you carefully, their attention fixed on your every movement. it’s become a familiar pattern over the past few days—when you’re about to say something, your movements always slow down, like you’re gathering your thoughts before speaking, even if you haven’t fully decided what to say.

the fridge door clicks open, the cool light inside casting a gentle glow on your face. you reach for the soy sauce bottle without thinking, your fingers brushing over its smooth surface. the motion is casual, almost instinctive, yet your husbands notice the slight pause in your movements as you close the fridge door behind you.

they exchange a brief glance, both noticing something subtle but significant in your expression—the way your lips are pursed just slightly, the furrow between your brows. it’s a look they’ve come to recognize all too well; a mix of hesitation and contemplation. your thoughts are racing, but you haven’t yet found the words to match the emotion brewing inside.

gojo is the first to break the silence, his voice soft but steady, knowing that his wife often speaks in ways more subtle than words. "what is it?" he asks gently, his gaze never leaving your face. his eyes are understanding, attuned to the nuances of your silence.

his question hangs in the air, his tone comforting but expectant, waiting for you to share whatever’s on your mind. gojo can tell that it’s something important, something he knows you want to express but haven’t quite found the courage to. he doesn’t push, but his eyes are full of quiet concern, urging you to open up, to let him in.

geto, standing beside gojo, also watches you closely, his expression softening as he notices the way you clutch the soy sauce bottle a little tighter than necessary, your fingers wrapped around it almost protectively. his gaze meets yours, waiting for a response, his usual calm demeanor barely masking the worry in his eyes.

the kitchen feels suddenly small, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

the silence in the kitchen is almost deafening, the only sound coming from the steady, comforting breaths of your husbands. you can feel their eyes on you, their gazes unwavering as they wait patiently for you to speak.

gojo’s question hangs in the air, his voice soft but firm, his eyes searching yours. geto stands beside him, his body taut with anticipation, his eyes fixed on your face, waiting for you to give them any hint of what’s going through your mind.

you look up at them, your gaze soft, almost tentative, as if afraid of what their reaction might be. you hesitate, your fingers still gripping the bottle of soy sauce, though it feels almost distant now, like you’re holding it just to keep yourself grounded. you take a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper, “have you figured out what you're going to do with the kids yet?”

the question hangs in the air, fragile and uncertain, your words quiet, as if testing the waters, as if you don’t want to bring up something that might undo the small comfort you’ve started to find in the chaos of it all.

your husbands exchange a brief glance before turning their attention back to you, the weight of the question settling between the three of you. the truth is, they haven’t figured it out, not yet. they haven’t really wanted to talk about it, not after seeing how much the boys have seemed to brighten your spirits. since they arrived, you’ve been lighter, more like yourself again—laughing more, talking more, playing with the kids. the last few days have felt like a breath of fresh air, a small but much-needed respite from the heavy grief that had been hanging over you.

but now, standing in the kitchen, the reality of the situation is unavoidable.

geto lets out a long, soft sigh, his eyes flickering to the floor for a moment as he rubs the back of his neck, thinking over his words carefully. he then looks up at you, his expression soft but weary. “no,” he says quietly, his voice almost regretful, “we haven’t figured it out yet.”

the silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable, the words unspoken between you three hanging like a shadow. geto’s gaze never leaves yours, as if he’s trying to read the very depths of your thoughts, hoping to understand what’s going on in your mind.

gojo steps closer, his usual confident demeanor softened as he looks at you with a gentle understanding. he places a hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding but also filled with reassurance. “we didn’t want to bring it up,” he admits, his tone low, “not when we see how happy the boys have made you. not when you’ve seemed… better.”

you can feel the hesitation in their words, the fear of adding more weight to your already heavy heart. they’ve seen how much the boys have meant to you, how much joy they’ve brought back into your life. it’s hard to bring up the reality of the situation when it feels like the kids are part of the healing you’ve started to experience.

the air between the three of you is filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet understanding passing between you.

in that moment, the glimmer of hope in your eyes is unmistakable. you gently place the soy sauce bottle down on the counter, the weight of the decision momentarily forgotten as you step closer to them. your hands tremble slightly as you reach for both of their hands, your fingers curling around theirs with a quiet desperation. your gaze locks onto theirs, and for a moment, it’s like the world narrows down to just the three of you.

“maybe… maybe the kids can stay here,” you say softly, your voice thick with hope, a plea more than a suggestion. “maybe we can make it work. they don’t have anyone else, and I—I don’t want to see them hurt. not when they’ve already been through so much.”

your voice falters, but the sincerity in your words remains. you search their faces, waiting for any sign of understanding, any indication that they might agree with you. the thought of the kids leaving, the idea of them going back into the world where they were mistreated, tears at your heart in ways you can’t quite explain.

the more you think about it, the more the idea of them staying with you feels like the right choice. your heart aches with the thought of giving them a home, a family, the safety they so desperately need.

you squeeze their hands, your voice more pleading now, “i know it’s a lot, but maybe... just maybe, we can make this work. they deserve a chance, don’t they?” your words are soft, but the conviction behind them is undeniable. “please..”

the look of hope in your eyes is like a knife through their hearts, a mix of desperation and longing that neither of them can deny. your words hang in the air, almost pleading, your voice shaky as you ask them to let the kids stay. your grip on their hands is strong, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as you silently urge them to understand. you’re terrified of losing the sense of comfort and fulfillment you’ve found in them, and the thought of sending them back into the world that has hurt them so much is unbearable.

geto can feel his heart breaking as he listens to your words, your pleading, geto’s hands cradle your face with gentle tenderness, his touch so soft, yet firm enough to ground you. his expression is a careful balance of guilt and love, his eyes soft as he searches yours, trying to understand every layer of your emotions. he sees the hope, the hesitation, and the underlying fear that lingers in your gaze—the same fear he carries in his heart.

“okay,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, a soft promise wrapped in the usual warmth and love he always offers. his words are gentle but resolute, as if this one word, this one decision, is all that matters in the world right now. “we’ll make it work. we’ll take care of them.”

the silence between them is thick as they share a lingering stare. geto’s gaze holds steady, a silent challenge in his eyes, but there’s no anger—just resolve. after a long beat, geto turns his attention back to you, his smile softening as he sees the light returning to your face. he reaches out, his hand slipping behind your neck to gently pull you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “okay, baby,” he murmurs, the words filled with tenderness.

and when he pulls back, his eyes meet gojo’s once more, the tension between them palpable, unspoken. his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. you rest your head on his chest, feeling the weight of the moment settle. gojo’s gaze is still full of disapproval, but there’s a deeper understanding in it now, a recognition of the weight of geto’s decision. he doesn’t agree, but in the end, he knows this is something that can’t be undone.

before you can respond, a heavy silence hangs between you, filled only by the weight of what’s about to come. from behind you, gojo’s voice slices through the air, sharp with disapproval. “suguru,” he warns, his eyes narrowed and cold, a storm brewing behind those intense blue orbs. the tension in the room thickens, like a wire pulled taut.

geto doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break his gaze. he’s made up his mind, and there’s no going back now. he knows what he’s risking, knows the weight of his choice, but he also knows this is what you need. “i’m doing this for her,” he says quietly, but his words ring with finality. “if giving them a chance, if keeping them here with us, makes her smile again, if it gives her some peace—then i’ll take the risk.”

there’s no anger in his voice, only the raw honesty of someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to see the woman he loves happy again—even if it means defying the man beside him.

gojo can feel his jaw clenching, the muscles taut with frustration as he watches you lean into geto’s chest, your head resting against his shoulder. a wave of protective anger runs through him, but beneath it, he can feel the beginnings of understanding—the slow but gradual realization that geto is serious, that this isn’t just a fleeting decision made in a moment of rashness. his eyes dart from you to geto, his expression a mixture of anger and regret.

gojo’s jaw clenches tighter, the muscles in his face twitching as a storm of emotions swirls within him—anger, frustration, and the gnawing ache of helplessness. he watches you, nestled in geto's arms, the gentle curve of your body fitting so perfectly against him. his protective instincts flare up, but there's something deeper, more reluctant, stirring within him too: the creeping recognition that geto’s decision is not a momentary whim. this is something serious, something geto believes in with all his heart.

gojo’s gaze flickers from you to geto, his eyes narrowing in conflict. he sees the quiet certainty in geto’s expression, the way he’s holding you, the way you’ve allowed yourself to lean into him, to trust him with your vulnerability. and there’s no denying it—geto’s commitment to this, to you, to this family, is real.

then his eyes move to the two boys, laughing and playing, oblivious to the tension in the room. gojo watches them for a moment, their innocent joy a stark contrast to the complicated emotions running through him. he feels a wave of guilt mixed with frustration—it’s not just about what’s best for you anymore. it’s about the kids too, the responsibility, the choices they’re all going to have to face.

with a defeated sigh, gojo pulls his gaze away from the children and looks at geto once again. his expression softens just slightly, a resigned acceptance beginning to seep in as he meets geto’s knowing smile. there’s no more fight left in him—not now. it’s clear that geto’s made up his mind, and somehow, gojo knows this isn’t a battle he can win.

“alright,” gojo mutters, his voice low but tinged with finality, before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for just a moment. it’s a silent promise, an acknowledgment of your pain, your grief, and the decision he’s now forced to accept. his heart aches as he straightens up, but there’s a flicker of something else there too—maybe it’s love, maybe it’s just the weight of the situation, but gojo knows this is the path they’ve chosen now.

he turns his attention back to geto, his eyes locking onto his husband’s with a mix of weary fondness and reluctant understanding. “don’t make me regret this,” he warns softly, giving the man a kiss on his forehead, his voice carrying an edge despite his acceptance.

geto’s expression softens, his eyes filled with an understanding that can only be gained through years of being together, through the trials and tribulations that they’ve faced together. he knows what gojo is going through, the inner struggle of weighing risks and the weight of responsibility. “i won’t,” he replies quietly, his words carrying a promise and a plea, a reassurance that he has thought this through, that he has considered every angle, every possible outcome.

geto’s eyes flick to you, still resting against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin. he rubs your back gently, his touch firm yet gentle, a comforting gesture filled with love and reassurance. he sighs quietly, his chin resting on the top of your head, watching you both with a mix of love and concern.

gojo can feel the mix of emotions swirling within him, a maelstrom of feelings, each one pulling him in a different direction. there’s anger, frustration, a deep-seated protectiveness, and a lingering sense of helplessness. but as he looks at geto, as he hears his husband’s gentle reassurance, he can also feel a strange sense of acceptance, a reluctant surrender.

sighing, he concedes, “i know you won’t.”

gojo expression softens, the tension draining from his shoulders as he lets out another soft sigh—a sigh of acceptance, a sigh of resignation to this new reality. “just... just make sure we don’t end up with more kids here than we can handle,” he murmurs with a hint of sarcasm as he give you another kiss on your head, a small attempt at humor to ease the tension.

geto chuckles quietly, a dry laugh that holds a hint of agreement. he looks down at you, his hands holding you gently, and smiles. “don't worry,” he replies, his tone a mix of certainty and sarcasm, “the last thing i want is to see you two get even more gray hairs from the stress of looking after a bunch of little brats.”

a soft laugh escapes you, amusement bubbling up as geto’s dry humor cuts through the tension. you lift your head from his chest, meeting his gaze, and there’s something warm and unspoken in his eyes—a mixture of love, understanding, and that hint of playful sarcasm that always lightens the heaviest moments.

with a grin, you rise on your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, feeling the way his expression softens in response. then you turn to gojo, who’s still watching the two of you with a mix of reluctant acceptance and warmth in his gaze. without missing a beat, you place a kiss on his cheek too, feeling his arm instinctively come around you, grounding you between them.

“thank you,” you murmur, your smile sincere, gratitude shining in your eyes as you look between the two of them. they’ve given up a lot for you, bent themselves around your happiness, and this choice feels like a gift—a promise that you won’t have to face the heartache alone.

“so,” you add, glancing back at the two boys in the living room as they continue to play, “should we go shopping?” your tone is light, but there’s a spark of excitement there too, the promise of a new beginning. “y’know, for the kids..” you added, fingertips touching gojo’s collar playfully.

gojo rolls his eyes at your words but his lips curve into a small smile, still wrapped around you. “shopping, huh?” he murmurs, his hands settling on your hips, his fingers tracing absent circles there. “you just like spending my money, don’t you?” he teases, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

geto’s arm wraps around you from the back, his chin resting on your shoulder. “don’t worry,” he adds, his voice tinged with an amused fondness, “i’m sure we’ll find plenty of things the kids need,” he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your skin, “and maybe a few things that we adults can…” his words trail off, the implication clear, his lips brushing your neck softly.

you chuckle, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you look up at gojo, giving him a small, playful pout. “the kids need clothes, hubby,” you say with a soft huff, feigning indignation, being mischievous with the hubby word. “and, y’know, probably everything else, and for us, ‘adult’ too.”

his fingers continue tracing those gentle circles on your hips, and you can feel the warmth of his hands anchoring you. he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused as he watches you try to hold your pout, a teasing gleam in his eyes.

gojo laughs quietly, his hands moving down to give your hips a gentle squeeze, his fingers warm and firm against your skin. “and just what kind of ‘adult’ things do you have in mind?” he asks, his voice a low murmur, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “because if my memory serves me right, we’ve got plenty of those at home already.”

geto laughs too from behind you, his chin still resting on your shoulder, his hands wrapped around your waist, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your neck again.

you hum softly, a knowing smile curving your lips as you let your gaze flick between the two men. but instead of answering, you slip out of their hold, leaving them standing there, anticipation sparking in their eyes. with an easy, confident stride, you head toward the living room, throwing a casual wave over your shoulder.

“yuuji, megumi,” you call, your voice light and inviting as the two little boys perk up, their eyes wide and curious as they look at you. “let’s go spend my husbands’ money.”

their faces light up with excitement, and they quickly scramble to their feet, hurrying toward you with delighted grins. behind you, you hear the surprised chuckles of gojo and geto from the kitchen.

the two men stand there for a moment, their gazes fixated on you and the two boys. gojo looks bewildered, a hint of amusement playing on his face, while geto has a mixture of shock and humor in his expression. “spending our money, huh?” gojo mutters, his eyes narrowing slightly in mock indignation.

geto laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “oh, this is going to cost us a fortune…” he muses, a smile tugging at his lips.

the boys rush over, their little bodies bumping into you, their hands reaching up to grab onto yours. you can feel their excitement as they giggle and chatter with each other, their voices high with anticipation.

“where are we going?” yuuji asks, his eyes wide with curiosity.

megumi, on the other hand, is quieter but just as curious. “shopping?” he asks, his small fingers gripping your hand firmly.

you hum with excitement, giving each boy’s hand a reassuring squeeze as you answer, “that’s right! we’re going to get you two everything you need.” yuuji’s eyes sparkle with glee, and even megumi lets a small smile slip as he squeezes your hand back, his quiet curiosity bringing a warmth to your heart.

turning around, you glance over your shoulder at your husbands, a radiant smile lighting up your face—a look they haven’t seen in too long. your eyes glint with happiness, a genuine joy that makes you look like yourself again, the shadows of recent weeks nowhere to be found.

for a moment, gojo and geto just stand there, captivated by the sight of you, your laughter mingling with the boys’ giggles. neither of them can do anything but follow, exchanging a quiet look that says more than words ever could. they know they’re in for an adventure today, but neither would trade it for anything.

as they fall into step behind you, a sense of peace settles over them. maybe this wasn’t the life they’d planned, and maybe things hadn’t gone as expected. but seeing you happy, seeing you whole again as you lead these two bright-eyed boys out the door—it’s worth every risk.

[kingkat12]

OCD; obsessive cunt disorder (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: sex toys, vibrators, exhibitionism, voyeurism, humiliation, OCD freak-out, banter, fluff, degradation, overstimulation, slight clit-torture ig, I want to have lunch with this asshole too pls

summary: Mr. Godfrey has invited you to lunch-- you best believe it won't be a normal one

word count: 10,331

← previous chapter | next chapter →

a/n: FORBES NOSE ALERT ON THIS GIF... but ok phew I love this man and this chapter was written on a ten-hour writing session this Wednesday because I'm obviously either ovulating or going crazy, so ENJOY<333 think this gif is from @godfreysteel btw!!

When Mr. Godfrey sent me an email telling me to join him for lunch, I nearly choked to death-- literally.

I coughed and harked as I crouched over my desk, wondering whether I was choking on my left lung or all the excitement my body had managed to muster. With tears in my eyes from the restricted air flow, hoping my face hadn't turned bright red, I grabbed the weekly report he had asked for earlier and made my way to the top floor. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't eat with the rest of us lowlives, no-- he had his own private lounge for that. I had only been inside there once to tell him that one of his business partners had arrived earlier than expected, and that had been one of my most nerve-wracking moments of working at Godfrey Industries to this day.

The only way I could describe his private lounge was sterile. Typical him, really. 

With my heart pounding in my chest, I bit down on a smile and entered with careful steps; there was no way in hell I'd trip over in my Louboutins now. 

Seated at the marble table by the floor-to-ceiling window, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes skimmed the pages of what looked like The New Yorker. Of course-- he wouldn't be caught dead reading anything less pretentious. With a comfortable manspread and a glass of cucumber water in front of him, untouched, the plate beside it sat the most sterile meal I'd ever seen; a few folded, pale slices of poached chicken breast, cut into perfect, rectangular portions.

Even his fucking food seemed like something taken out of OCD-heaven. 

I hovered by the door, clutching the report like it might protect me. My heels made no sound on the marble, but I felt loud, clumsy, human. "Sir?" I called out. Had he maybe not noticed me?

This was my first mistake-- Mr. Godfrey noticed everything. He had even warned me himself, a few weeks ago. He simply hummed; "You're late,"

"No, sir," I whispered back, clenching my jaw to ensure my smile wouldn't slip. "I'm not." Our typical dance. 

Mr. Godfrey glanced up, and in that split-second, I remembered why I still worked at this hell-hole. 

His brown hair was immaculately swept back, making his shadowed cheekbones visible. He was wearing all black, naturally-- something told me this was a new suit, even more expensive than the last one. His green eyes didn't look at me so much as diagnose me, probably wondering what the heck was wrong with me to dare to talk back to him like that, until something in them shimmered-- I knew that deep down, I amused him more than anything. He gestured to the chair opposite him; "Sit," he said. 

But just as I was about to move away from the door, Mr. Godfrey allowed himself a smirk as he delivered the final blow; "Unless... you're still sore, of course,"

My eyes widened just a bit-- I should've known that this wasn't going to be a normal lunch. Trying to calm down my jumping heart, I let out a tiny scoff, shaking my head as I approached his table with composed elegance-- I wasn't going to let him get that one so easily. 

However, as I sat down, I had to bite down on the tip of my tongue to not wince. Sure, fine, I was a bit sore. After how he put me over his knee and spanked me last evening, that was to be expected, right? Something told me that Mr. Godfrey enjoyed the way my eye twitched as I shifted to make myself comfortable, and he chewed his next bite with that cocky grin he didn't manage to wipe off his face.

To relieve some of the stinging on my left side, I crossed my legs-- simply for relief, nothing more. Nothing more, nothing more. Clearing my throat, I placed the folder on the table; "So, I brought you the weekly report, but only for you to review it. Are you happy with the forged signature, sir? I wouldn't want anyone to get suspicious, and--"

"You're not, then?"

My brows drew together as I watched Mr. Godfrey's green eyes, the unmistakable evil glee shining through more blatantly obvious than ever. Did he not care to hide it anymore, or was I just getting used to his small quirks? "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey shrugged, cutting up his next bite without breaking eye contact; "You're not sore?"

... Fuck. 

My breath got stuck in my chest-- it didn't move. I stared back at him, blinking once, twice. "And what answer would please you, sir?"

"That's not relevant," he replied, short. "Although I'm flattered that you're eager to please."

I so dearly hoped I wasn't blushing. "It's not that bad,"

"It's not?"

"It's bearable," I mumbled, shifting in my seat as I now avoided his gaze, fidgeting with the weekly report. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't respond right away. He tilted his head just slightly, and I felt his eyes track the way I moved, how I adjusted my weight, how I sat a little higher on my right hip-- I could practically hear him cataloging it in that freaky mind of his. 

"Right," He speared another perfect slice of chicken with his fork, but didn't eat it right away. "That's disappointing."

I blinked. "Pardon?"

Mr. Godfrey finally brought the fork to his mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, like he was tasting more than just the food. His green eyes never left mine; "I thought you knew better than to lie to me by now," he said, setting the utensil down with a quiet, final sound. "Bearable isn't honest. Bearable is what people say when they're trying not to cry."

My lips parted, and I had to force myself to speak. "But sir, I--"

"Are you perhaps about to cry?"

"No!" 

He leaned back in his chair, appraising me with a clinical interest, like he had found a new setting on a machine and was waiting to see what it would do. At the same time, his gaze narrowed like he was waiting for me to crack; "Then specify,"

I wanted to throw the weekly report at him, yet I knew I had to collect myself. Taking a deep breath, uncrossing my legs, therefore applying pressure on that exact spot on my ass that still made my thigh twitch with stinging soreness, I allowed myself to wince out loud; with my eyes burning into Mr. Godfrey's, I managed a smile, staring back at him through the sharp pain that was slowly subsiding; "You could do worse,"

And then, there it was-- as though I had unlocked a new level on a video game, or slipped the right key into an unknown door, the hinges came undone. Mr. Godfrey was now smiling back, no mask to cover his intent. There was an unfiltered joy to him now, like a sigh. He put his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers; "Are you hungry?" came his response. 

This made me feel warm. Way too warm, way too comfortable. With my fingertips buzzing with excitement, I nodded. "I can go take lunch and come back, sir?--"

"Nonsense," With utmost elegance, Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair, motioning for someone to come. I would've thought he was asking for a bill or something, hadn't what looked like a chef appeared through the door within the blink of an eye. Where had he come from? Stumped, I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, immediately wincing under my breath. 

Mr. Godfrey motioned toward the chef, his nostrils flaring for a brief second at the sound of my pain; "Martin here will make you whatever you want," he said, charming as ever.

"Oh," I breathed, smiling shyly up at Martin. He seemed nice, after all, but I wondered if he could sense how out-of-place I felt. "I don't-- I don't know, I--"

"Come on, now," Mr. Godfrey sat back, watching me like I was a contestant getting grilled on X-Factor for entertainment. "Don't be shy."

I swallowed. This must be the perk of being filthy rich, right? Private chef, private lounge, private secretary. 

Just as I finished ordering a salad and a cup of tea, letting out a small breath of relief when Martin left the room, I kept watching Mr. Godfrey and wondering when he would switch back to being the CEO I knew.

But... he didn't.

He didn't lean back, didn't reach for his glass, didn't even blink.

Instead, he studied me. His elbows still rested on the edge of the table, fingers laced together like he was listening to a confession only he was smart enough to understand. His black suit, tailored to his every inch, cut a sharp silhouette against the backdrop outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The warm sunlight hit the side of his face, and for a second, he didn't look real-- when did he ever, though? Gorgeous, gorgeous man.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were clearer than I'd ever seen them, glittering like a well-polished scalpel; focused, intrigued, and almost soft.

Almost.

"There's something else," he suddenly said.

Oh. "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, and his lips (that were so unreasonably pink for someone with so little softness in him) curved with a hint of satisfaction. "You've proven yourself rather... resilient," Then, he paused, the weight of that word hanging-- "And you seemed to like your last present, so I have another one for you."

I blinked again, slower this time, as I bit down on a sheepish smile. "You didn't have to," 

What kind of present had he gotten me? Was it more lingerie? Maybe another set of Louboutins? Oh, I'd certainly like that. I tried to push away all the occurring questions on whether this was actually some form of prostitution, sex acts for gifts, as Mr. Godfrey reached beneath the table. His movements were smooth, measured in the way men who don't rush for anyone tend to be-- from below the gleaming marble, he produced a small black box. No label. No ribbon. Just a clean square, matte and elegant, like it had been made by a brand that didn't need to announce itself. 

My heart immediately kicked into my ribs. This box was small. What could this be? Some stupid part of me sort of hoped it would be an engagement ring, and that he would now get down on his knees and profess his never-dying love for me!-- 

... Christ, I needed to grow up. 

Mr. Godfrey placed it in front of me, the soft scrape of the box against the table becoming the only sound in the room. Immediately, I felt my body reacting; hips pressed tighter against the chair, thighs subtly tensing, breath caught somewhere just behind my collarbone, I finally reached for the black box, allowing a soft, grateful smile to show before I slowly opened it like it might detonate.

Inside, cradled in black velvet, was a...

My jaw clamped down on the gasp that nearly escaped me. Oh my God.

With round, wide eyes, I stared down at the sleek, red vibrator in the box. It wasn't too big, and it was flat-- I hadn't seen one like this before. I used to have a different vibrator when I was eighteen, maybe even seventeen, but that was more of a clit-sucker than anything. This one curved upward just slightly, and it had a smooth, satin finish; this was some sort of new tech, wasn't it? How did this even work?

Just as I dared to look up and meet Mr. Godfrey's burning gaze, I spotted the way he smoothly caught the oblong remote he had hidden up his sleeve. He stared back at me with that boyish charm he wore the first time I met him, like he was testing a hypothesis he knew would be correct. "I thought you'd appreciate something a little less... taxing, this time around," he murmured, tasting his words. "And something to make up for last time, hm?"

For the time he spanked me raw? Christ. 

I kept staring at my boss-- his white shirt clung to his frame with obscene elegance. Slim collar. Two buttons undone. Enough to glimpse a sliver of chest, smooth and pale and maddeningly inaccessible. He wore power like other men wore watches; effortless, ingrained, and expected. Mr. Godfrey was so, so beautiful that it made me stupid. I certainly felt stupid right now, gawking at the brand new device in front of me-- had this model even hit the market yet?

My fingers twitched against the edge of the box. I couldn't even bring myself to touch it-- not yet. My cheeks burned, and something impossibly hot coiled low in my stomach, like the idea of him thinking of me, this version of me, flipped a switch to something supple in me that I had long suppressed. 

I was still staring at the vibrator when he spoke again, voice pitched low; "It's custom," Mr. Godfrey said. "Quiet. Discreet. More powerful than it looks." His long fingers gripped the remote loosely, like a predator toying with the leash of something small and caged. "And you're looking at me like I've just confessed to dropping the bomb on Hiroshima, so I suggest you start speaking."

Eager to please, I straightened up in my seat again, only to be met with the stinging of my backside once more; with yet another low hiss, I allowed my intrigue to spread across my lips. "And I put this...?"

"In your underwear,"

"Ah," I felt myself clenching around nothing; I must've gotten aroused in record time, no? "And what you have right there is the?--"

"Remote, yes,"

Letting out a breathy, anxious giggle, I allowed my fingers to trace the smooth surface of the vibrator. "Where's the catch?"

At that, Mr. Godfrey actually laughed. It was a warm sound, low and real, like it came from deep inside his chest, and somehow that was worse than any reprimand. "There's no catch," he said. "See it as a... reward."

"For?"

"Taking your punishment," Then, slowly, Mr. Godfrey placed the remote down on his side of the table. His fingers tapped against it once, casually, like a man resting his hand on a loaded weapon. "So, if you could go on and put it in that little pocket in your underwear, I'd appreciate that. I don't have all day, so I suggest you use my time wisely."

How the fuck did Mr. Godfrey know about that pocket?! How familiar was he with women's underwear...? Damn him. My breath caught somewhere in my throat, and for a second, I just stared at him; not in horror, but with that strange, weightless sensation of realizing I was about to do this in front of his lunch. "You're serious," I whispered, and it didn't come out like a question.

"I'm always serious," he said, voice like velvet dragged over a blade, humoured. "You said it yourself once, I'm a very serious man. Serious man with a serious business. Can't get more serious than this."

Yeah right, asshole. My hand moved before my thoughts could catch up; I picked up the vibrator, but I hesitated for a second-- then, subtly, I slid my hand under the hem of my skirt, avoiding Mr. Godfrey's gaze as my cheeks started to burn.

I adjusted slightly, trying not to wince as the bruises from earlier flared up again with my every move. With ease, I slipped the vibrator neatly into place, nestled in that stupid secret pocket that was supposed to be a damn secret. It fit perfectly, clearly made for this exact space and use.

I looked up, my breath choppy, eager to please.

Mr. Godfrey hadn't moved. His gaze followed every twitch in my expression as his fingers tapped against the remote, waiting for the fog in my brain to clear.

Swallowing over and over, I tried to sit normally again, like I hadn't just tucked a goddamn vibrator into my panties at lunch. "There," I said, my voice soft. "Like this?"

For a moment, Mr. Godfrey didn't answer. Then, the corners of his mouth lifted, slow and decadent. He reached for the remote-- not to hand it to me, not to pocket it, but to turn it on.

The effect was immediate; a sudden, quiet hum bloomed low between my legs, like being struck by a breath of heat and static all at once. My thighs snapped together under the table, breath punching out of my lungs with an involuntary stutter-- the pleasure was unexpected.

"There you go," Mr. Godfrey murmured. "We'll go with the lowest setting for now."

I glared at him, lips slightly parted, trying not to squirm; I loved how this reduced me to the state of a cat in heat, but was I about to show it so easily? Fuck no.

"Sit still," he added, with a quiet authority that pinned me to the chair harder than gravity ever could. "If you want to prove that you're obedient, then you're going to sit still, eat lunch with me like a professional, and keep quiet. Those are the rules."

"This is crazy," I whispered, throat dry. 

He smiled wider, teeth just barely visible. "We've done worse," Then he took a sip of his wine, calm and composed, like he hadn't just weaponized my own underwear against me. "If you fail to follow the rules, I'll make sure those pretty eyes of yours tear up every time you sit down. Have I made myself clear?"

My... pretty eyes?

"Yes," I said, feeling my heart swell.

"Good," Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair like this was a perfectly normal business lunch, not mentioning his little slip-up. Had he even noticed that he said that? Had he intended to call my eyes pretty? I doubted it.

I tried to mimic his composure, tried not to fidget, but it deemed itself harder than expected. The hum between my thighs was subtle but torturous, just enough to distract me, to keep my focus needle-fine and shaky-- I hadn't expected the shape of the vibrator to be so effective. It somehow managed to cup my whole mound, yet the curved tip of it pressed into my clit with the utmost delicious of pressures; if I could, I'd start rocking into it, but I knew that could leave me in a much worse situation.

Mr. Godfrey picked up his wineglass and took a sip, slow and elegant. The weight of his attention hovered just above my skin-- watching, waiting. "You've gone quiet," he pointed out.

"I'm just-- trying," I muttered, breath catching. "To follow your rules, sir."

A smile ghosted across his lips; "And how's that working out for you?"

"It's... difficult,"

"Good,"

I squirmed just slightly, but that was all it took for the vibrator to shift, sending another warm, taunting wave through my core. Now, it pressed just a tiny bit harder against my clit, and I inhaled sharply and tried not to make a sound; this felt so good. So, so good. "Thank you, sir," I breathed.

"Oh, you're thanking me now?"

"It feels-- nice,"

"Bet it does," Mr. Godfrey cooed, taking another bite of his food. Putting the cutlery down with a hum, and with practiced ease, he palmed the remote as though debating whether to turn it up a level or not. I held my breath, watching him in anticipation as I felt my underwear grow damp.

He tilted his head to the side, watching me. "What? You want more already?"

I didn't utter a word-- I was too scared to say the wrong thing.

Mr. Godfrey's grin remained; "Posture," he said softly. "Straighten your back, shoulders down, and I'll think about it."

I obeyed without thinking, like a string had been pulled somewhere behind my spine; I didn't care about the ache in my behind anymore. My hands came to rest neatly on the table, and I could feel my heartbeat everywhere at once as my skin prickled and my stomach coiled. The low pressure of the vibrator against my clit wasn't enough anymore-- I had to do everything in my power not to start grinding on it to get more friction.

Then, Mr. Godfrey picked the remote up properly, as though to study it. I wondered whether he heard the way my breath caught with hope. "I think this has different settings too," he pondered out loud. "Let me see... What happens if I do this?" 

With a soft click of the remote, the steady vibrations I'd had on my clit changed-- the pattern changed. Now, it was as though the vibration came in wavy motions, starting from the bottom of the surface until it moved to the tip, like I was being licked. I gasped softly, and bit down on the inside of my cheek; this was some really high-tech shit. My thighs snapped together beneath the table, pressing harder now, as heat pooled between them so fast that it was almost cruel.

Mr. Godfrey's voice was steady, completely unmoved, as his voice rung as a reminder; "Still the lowest setting,"

"You're insane," I whispered, cheeks flaming. "This is-- this is evil."

He lifted his brows in mock innocence; "No. This is lunch,"

"Fucking-- fuck," 

With another hum, Mr. Godfrey's thumb hovered over the button again with faux innocence; "Now I'm getting intrigued, though. What else does it do?" 

Click.

My hand shot to the edge of the table, fingers gripping the smooth wood. My breath came out short, sharp, as the pattern changed again-- this was more of an on-and-off motion that nearly had me jolting in my seat. This one made it feel like my clit was getting flicked, and I wasn't the biggest fan. "Sir," I tried. "I-- I think the first one was best."

Mr. Godfrey's eyes wandered between the remote and me, scanning the burning pink hues of my cheeks. "I see," he said. "I'll keep that in mind for the future." 

To my relief, he clicked something that reset it and put it back to that wonderful, toe-curling pressure on my clit. "Thank you-- Thank you, sir,"

He hummed; "You've caught me in a good mood," 

And just as Mr. Godfrey leaned forward to pick up his wineglass, there was a polite knock at the door-- three soft taps, barely a warning before the door swung open. My heart stopped in my chest, and I widened my eyes to signalize him to turn it off.

But... Mr. Godfrey's grin widened. Oh no.

His darkening green eyes dropped lazily to the table, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he slipped the remote back beneath his sleeve, hiding it like a magician about to perform a trick no one else would notice.

Oh no, no, no, no.

As if on cue, the chef stepped in, carrying a tray in one hand and a wide, distracted smile on his face. "Apologies for the wait, Mr. Godfrey," he said, making a beeline for the table. "The rest of the staff have taken to lunch, so it took a bit longer than usual."

Mr. Godfrey hummed in response, noncommittal. His eyes tracked the way I stiffened as the vibrator continued buzzing quietly between my legs, an unholy pulse I had no control over. My cheeks were burning with humiliation, nearly worrying myself into cardiac arrest over whether the chef could hear the damn vibrator I had against my clit. 

"That's fine, Martin," Mr. Godfrey said, absentmindedly waving with the same arm that had the remote. "We won't need anything else, so you're free to take lunch after this." And just as he put his hand down, his eyes seared into mine as he tapped once against the underside of his sleeve.

I buried my mouth in the palm of my hand as the vibrations got stronger, having been upped a notch. I tried to focus on the tea that was placed to the side of me, followed by the salad, yet I could only think about how nicely the curve of the vibrator pushed up on my clit, the harder buzz now making it jump just slightly at the surprise. I felt myself pulse as I locked eyes with Mr. Godfrey, silently pleading with him to turn it off with the chef still present. 

Chef Martin straightened up, announcing the ingredients of my salad like any professional cook would-- however, I could only focus on trying not to squirm. It was nearly impossible to fight the urge to grind down against the vibrator now, and I was holding on by a small thread. The chef's voice drowned out as I tried to keep my face composed, tried to ignore the growing tension in my lower abdomen, and the steady rhythm teasing the edge of the unbearable. My palms were flat against my thighs under the table now, nails biting into the fabric of my skirt.

"Thank you," Mr. Godfrey finally said, glancing briefly at chef before waving him away like royalty.

But instead, Martin paused, sensing something strange; "Do you hear that too, sir?" he asked. "It's like a... small buzzing sound of sorts?"

No.

No, no, no!

This was the moment to faint, wasn't it? I genuinely felt like I was about to die from how mortified I was, yet... that feeling of shame made the vibrations feel even stronger. God, I was a freak, wasn't I? I felt myself trying to fight how much wetter I suddenly was, like clenching my walls would make it stop seeping out of me, but nothing helped. Instead, with all the willpower I had left in my body, I mustered the courage to draw my brows together and blink at Mr. Godfrey like I had no idea what Martin was talking about. "I'm-- I'm not sure I hear it, actually," I said. "It might be the vents?"

Mr. Godfrey sat back in his chair, mouth twitching in delight. It felt as though we were speaking our own little language that no one but us could understand, and certainly not the chef; then, to put the icing on the cake, Mr. Godfrey pressed his wrist against the edge of the table again, turning the vibrator up one more notch. 

I held back a hitch of my breath and the urge to squeeze my eyes shut as Mr. Godfrey spoke; "It might be the construction, actually," he explained to Martin, voice smooth as ever as he turned to the chef with an apologetic look. "They're remodelling the offices right above this room. Don't pay it any mind."

With an awkward nod, Martin seemed to accept that as a plausible explanation. "Right," he mumbled. "Enjoy your food."

When he finally stepped out, with the door clicking shut behind him, I let out a sigh of relief as I buried my elbows into the table and hid my face in my hands. Hopefully, that had suppressed the soft moan that escaped me, finally coming out after holding it in. 

Mr. Godfrey could only chuckle, slipping the remote from under his wrist. Then, he reached for his fork as though nothing had ever happened-- fucker.

My heart hammered in my chest as I bit down on all the noises I wanted to make, but I allowed my lips to part and my eyes to shut. This felt way too damn good, and I couldn't stop myself anymore-- my hips bucked softly against the vibrator in my underwear, grinding my clit against the buzzing sensation with slow, repeated motions. The pressure was near perfection, now. 

Mr. Godfrey's eyes scoured me; "Eat," he ordered. "You'll need the energy."

My eyes snapped to his. "For what?"

His fork paused in mid-air. "Endurance,"

... Fuck.

I picked up my utensils with trembling hands, trying to keep my face composed as I dug into my salad. The vibration pulsed on, rolling my clit gently but consistently, like he'd tuned it to the rhythm of a ticking clock. I brought the first bite to my mouth, chewing carefully, trying not to hum or moan.

"You're doing very well," Mr. Godfrey murmured between bites, not even bothering to look up. "Most women wouldn't have lasted this long."

That made me pause mid-chew. I swallowed, feeling my heart drop; "You've-- You've done this before?"

"Of course I have," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

My breath caught. Had he done this with his previous secretary too? The one with the odd tear in her skirt, the one who was now suing him? I shifted slightly in my seat, and immediately regretted it-- the pressure was worse now, the angle crueler, somehow more precise. My hand darted to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.

Mr. Godfrey set down his silverware and leaned back in his chair with that infuriating calm, tilting his head to watch me with something dangerously close to fondness. "I think I'll turn it up a notch," he purred, picking up the remote again.

My eyes widened; "Sir, wait, please!--"

Click.

My hips jolted forward before I could stop them, an involuntary movement so stark I nearly knocked over my damn tea. The sound I made wasn't a moan, but it wasn't exactly a dignified noise either.

Mr. Godfrey smiled, serene; "You can take it. Just breathe,"

Well... All I could do was breathe deeper to keep from crying out, praying the chef didn't come back in. I wanted to snark, wanted to snap back at him, but I didn't dare to. The fourth level was too much; this notch was overstimulating to the point of pain.

He let me suffer like that for another twenty seconds (longer than any reasonable person would ever call funny) and then, at last, blessed relief; a click sounded, and the vibration dropped back down to something bearable, something I could manage, even if my thighs still shook and my face burned hotter than the fucking sun.

I exhaled through my nose, my whole body trembling like a tuning fork. "You're a sadist,"

Mr. Godfrey raised an eyebrow as he dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. "And I bet you're very, very wet,"

Oh my god.

"Oh my god," I echoed aloud, too stricken to filter it. My entire body tensed like I'd just been caught naked in a church. "That's-- Jeez, that's just not something you say at lunch."

"But it's true," His gaze dipped to my plate; "Eat."

Somehow, I lifted my fork again. My fingers barely worked, but I managed another bite-- lettuce, maybe cucumber, who knew? Anything to distract from the low, steady hum between my legs and the flush of embarrassment flooding my whole body. "Sir," I breathed, pressing my legs together to press the vibrator closer to my clit-- God, my thighs felt sticky. "What if I'm-- What if I get close?"

"Are you?" he asked, conversationally, as though discussing the weather, while he folded the newspaper in front of him and placed it on the edge of the table. 

"... No," Liar, liar, pants on fire. My fingers tightened around my fork as the vibrator buzzed away, relentless and patient with my poor clit. "Just clearing up the-- the rules."

Exactly-- Just clearing them up. Not that I had any say in the rules, anyway.

I watched as Mr. Godfrey dismissed my question and absentmindedly tilted his head sideways to read the headline of the newspaper, as though something suddenly grabbed his attention and he regretted folding it. 

He continued eating like everything was fine-- but if he was going to act like this was completely normal, maybe it was time for me to try as well? 

My throat felt tight as I reached for my tea. The mug was still hot, a small comfort in the storm of sensations uncoiling beneath the table; was it so smart for me to be handling hot beverages in this state? Certainly not. Still, I stirred it without thinking, once, twice, three times, just to keep my hands busy, and then--

A fourth stir.

The spoon made a soft clink as it circled the cup one more time. The moment was so brief, so small, I almost didn't register it until the air changed, thickened, stilled.

I looked up.

Mr. Godfrey's gaze was fixed on me like something in him had stopped breathing. His fork hovered above the plate, frozen mid-bite, his knuckles white where they gripped the handle. He looked like he'd been slapped. Or kissed? Possibly both. He didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't move, but the tightness in his body was undeniable.

Oh God.

Four.

I had stirred it four times. A mistake. A message I hadn't even meant to send.

Mr. Godfrey's jaw ticked once, like a tectonic shift beneath still waters. He set his fork down without a sound, and my stomach flipped as his hand moved slowly, with grave intention, to the remote beside his plate.

I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late.

Thrice; Click, click, click.

The pulse that tore through me wasn't a hum-- it was a jolt. A full-body convulsion that punched the air from my lungs and dragged a startled cry from my throat; it wasn't loud, but it was desperate, ragged, animal. I slammed my thighs together under the table like it would help, like it would contain the sudden cruel pressure that frankly hurt like a fucking bitch. This was torture-- this was unescapable.

My spoon slipped from my hand and hit the saucer with a muted chime, but I barely noticed; I was too busy trying to breathe.

"No-- fuck--" I gasped, my back arching just slightly, shame crashing through me in hot, breathless waves as my knees knocked together beneath the tablecloth. This was too much, this was painful, this was overstimulating beyond anything I had ever felt. Too much. 

Mr. Godfrey hadn't blinked in a while-- he stared at my tea, his other hand balled in a fist like he was locked in a stream of compulsive thoughts. "Two more," he hissed. "Fix it."

"I-- I can't--" My hand trembled violently on the table, hovering above the spoon.

"You will," 

I couldn't hold his gaze; I was afraid I'd break. My eyes dropped to the mug, staring at it as if it could save me, and my hand moved like it didn't belong to me. I felt my heartbeat in my ears, my throat, my chest, my fucking clit, as I finally managed one stir, and then the next.

Now the number was divided into two threes, six, just like he needed it.

The second the spoon clinked against the porcelain for the final time, Mr. Godfrey pressed the button again, and the vibrator from hell turned off.

Relief crashed over me like cold water as my body collapsed back into the chair, too weak to pretend anymore. I was panting, face flushed, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, and my thighs trembled like I had just ran a marathon. I was soaked-- I knew I was soaked. Every inch of me ached, but not from pain. From want? I wasn't sure. My brain had melted, and it was probably now seeping out of my damn pussy.

With a sharp inhale through his nose, Mr. Godfrey closed his eyes. Finally, he allowed himself to breathe. "You don't play with symmetry in my presence," he hissed, almost as a reminder to himself. "Never."

His fingers twitched once on the table, and then quietly, methodically, he began to move.

First, Mr. Godfrey tucked the remote into his pocket before he reached for the newspaper. He didn't unfold it or glance again at the headlines. He simply picked it up, smoothed it flat, and set it further aside. Then his water glass followed, his cutlery, mine, the folded napkin-- each item was relocated with silent, terrifying purpose to the edge of the table, like a man clearing a surgical tray. Was this his version of freaking out? 

I was still recovering, rubbing my aching thighs as I watched him. What was happening? Was this my cue to leave? 

The ceramic of my tea scraped gently across the tablecloth as Mr. Godfrey pushed it away from me, followed by my plate, even though I hadn't touched more than a few bites, and then he followed it up with his own. 

He didn't speak, didn't even glance at me-- he just kept clearing everything like it would somehow make him feel better. And then, when everything had been carefully placed at one edge of the table, he stood. The chair scraped back just enough to make a sound, deliberate and low, but I flinched like it had barked at me; was this just me still being overstimulated?

Mr. Godfrey came around to my side, ominous as ever. I caught myself trying to sit up, yet I barely had the energy, and accompanied by the sting of last evening's spankings, I gave up. "Sir," I tried, hoping to get his attention through what I could only assume was some sort of OCD-fog. "I didn't mean to-- are you alright?--"

"Get up," 

His voice was tight, restrained, and certainly unforgiving.

I didn't dare to hesitate-- with a shaky breath, I somehow got up from my chair, flinching at the loud scrape of it. Mr. Godfrey gave me no time to catch my breath, no comfort in the pause as his eyes flicked down, slowly, like he was taking note of the state he had left me in. "Up," he hissed, nodding to the cleared tabletop. "Lie down."

My heart slammed against my ribcage-- I was so screwed.

With my brain still fogged up from my leftover arousal, I did as told. The table wasn't cold, as it had absorbed some of the sunlight from the window, but I shivered as I climbed onto it anyway. The cloth shifted under me as I eased back, awkward at first, trying to find a position that didn't feel insane-- my skirt rucked up high on my thighs, and I froze halfway down, arms bracing behind me as I looked at him in silent disbelief.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes seared into mine, dark and contained for now. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt with slow precision, and his chest rose with slow strokes as he eased himself out of his OCD-mania. If I hadn't been so anxious about what was about to happen, I'd be more focused on how gorgeous his nose was-- Forbes nose, Forbes nose, Forbes nose. Then, the more I focused on how beautiful he was, the more I managed to calm down, block by block.

I dared to lie all the way down, back flat, spine stiff, breath shallow. The tablecloth rasped beneath me as my heels hung just off the edge; I so desperately hoped they wouldn't fall to the floor and make me look like even more of a mess than I already was. The ceiling above me looked suddenly unfamiliar... stark. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears; how had I ended up here? How had I managed to rope myself into this mess?

Mr. Godfrey's deep, dark voice sounded through my spiral; "Lift your hips,"

I obeyed again, my body no longer mine, and he slowly reached for the hem of my skirt, almost ceremonially, and pushed it to my waist with a clinical efficiency that made my stomach tingle with anticipation. Cool air kissed the wet heat between my legs, and my breath caught instinctively. I would've closed my legs, had I not been so eager to see what he would do to me next. How fucking wet had I gotten from this ordeal? It was humiliating that he was seeing this-- fuck, why did that make me feel so warm? Goddamn freak. Nasty fucker.

Then, Mr. Godfrey ran two fingers along the inside of my thigh without touching anything of consequence, and it was enough to make my hips twitch. "I'm wondering what to do to you next," he said, forcing his voice softer-- I could sense the way he held back from barking at me. "But that feels unfair. How could you have possibly known?"

I swallowed hard, scanning him over and over. I couldn't calculate his next moves, and it scared me. "Known what, sir?"

"That I need things to be in threes," he mumbled, trailing his fingers up and down my quivering thighs with a feathery touch. "You don't know me very well, after all."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey nodded to himself like he had finalized a good way to go from here. "Maybe you think I'm some pretentious asshole that implements fucked-up rules on my employees, like stirring my coffee thrice," he continued, absentminded. "And maybe you're right. I'm sick. You're sick. We're both sick. But you're... fresh. You're new. And as your dominant, I have an obligation to sometimes also just... forgive you."

He sighed through his (Forbes, Forbes, Forbes) nose, like this was all a burden for him to bear-- my trembling, my disobedience, the mess I had made of myself, and the fact that I existed under this roof at all. "As your dominant," he repeated, almost lazily, his fingertips brushing the tender skin near the hem of my underwear; "I have a duty to show restraint."

I wanted to answer, I wanted to say thank you, or please don't stop, or what are you going to do to me you little freak, but I couldn't seem to get my mouth to work. My throat was too tight, my head swimming with heat and adrenaline and fear and... whatever sick fascination had landed me on my boss's dining table like this.

"You didn't know the rules," Mr. Godfrey said, clearly to himself. I watched as that sentence calmed him, and his shoulders rolled forward just slightly. "So let me apologize." 

I let out a small whimper as he suddenly leaned down, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I braced-- but then, I realized that I could feel his breath on my skin. His lips hovered above my inner thigh for long enough to make me worried, and I jolted when his mouth finally touched me. 

Mr. Godfrey's lips pressed a single, maddeningly soft kiss where my mound met my thigh. It immediately sucked the air out of my lungs, and I felt my body melt at the contact. Had that just happened? To make matters even better, I sensed him reach into his pocket and click the remote thrice-- level three was my favorite. It was almost symbolic.

I allowed myself a small, frail moan, shuddering beneath my boss. Mr. Godfrey reached forward, tugging the fabric of my underwear upward, subsequently pressing the vibrator closer to my clit, and I brought my hand up to my mouth to suppress any further noise. 

There was a second kiss on that exact same spot, just on the other side, mirrored; Jesus fucking Christ, Mr. Godfrey was kissing me. The realization hit me like a truck, and I bucked up against the vibrator with a high-pitched whine when he placed a third, final kiss on my right hipbone.

"You're really wet," he said, breath warm against my skin. "Had I been a different man, I'd have allowed myself to taste you." He placed his hand flat on my lower abdomen, grounding and steady, pinning me there like I was something fragile that might float away. The weight of it made my thighs quake, and something about the placement of it made the pressure on my clit stronger-- how the fuck did that work? 

Just the thought of Mr. Godfrey's mouth on me, between my legs, licking a flat stripe up my sex, circling my clit with his tongue, sucking me in, bringing me over the edge whilst pinning my thighs down to the table as I shook through my orgasm; the though was too much, too tempting. "Please," I whimpered, bucking my hips up as though that would make a difference. "Why not?-- Please--"

"Stay still," Mr. Godfrey trailed his fingers down my sex, over my vibrator, over the wetness, before he retreated his hand and straightened up. The other went to my thigh, pinning me down, but something told me he did it simply to touch the softness of my skin, for selfish reasons. Was he taking liberties or was I imagining things...? "You're allowed to cum whenever as long as you tell me right before you do, and as long as you stay very, very still. Can you do that for me?"

I had to do everything in my power to not reach for his hand-- that would've probably felt so, so good, to ground myself with his direct touch. "Yes, sir," I whimpered, staring up at Mr. Godfrey with glossy eyes, feeling my brain fog up from the pleasure of the vibrator buzzing against my clit. 

Just as I let my head lull back against the table, melting under his gaze, I heard the sharp sound of a zipper. I didn't think much of it, wondering whether I had imagined it, until Mr. Godfrey's voice sounded through my fog-- "You like this, huh? You like taking my orders?"

"Yes, sir," I whimpered, my lashes fluttering.

Mr. Godfrey gave a small, choppy exhale through his nose. "Damn right you do," he muttered under his breath. "I knew who you were the second you walked into my office. Knew you'd like this shit, you sick freak."

My breath caught, and just as I tried to clamp my thighs together, he forced them apart again.

"Don't do that," he said, tone flat. "Don't make me stop this now. It was just starting to get fun."

I whimpered again, nodding, my whole body fighting itself-- one half trying to escape the intensity of the vibrator, and the other half begging for more. I wasn't even sure which side was winning anymore. 

Mr. Godfrey's fingers dug into the insides of my knee, bruising and possessive. There was another sound-- a belt unhooking, fabric shifting. "You poor thing... Didn't even last a week when you started working for me," His breath caught in his throat, like saying it out loud set him on fire. "It was so stupid. Stupid little girl, thinking I wouldn't notice... You wanted me to find out so bad, hm?"

The pressure in my core intensified until it felt like I was falling apart, my legs twitching under the restraint of his grip. I couldn't even think anymore-- I was a mess on his table, unraveling with every humiliating word that struck me with the most delicious pleasure. 

My eyes fluttered open, desperate to meet his beautiful green eyes, but that was when I saw it-- Mr. Godfrey's fingers were wrapped around his cock, breath catching in his throat as he stroked himself to the sight of me, wet, squirming, whimpering, and locked beneath him with a vibrator unrelenting against my clit. 

I wanted to stare; I wanted to look at him like this forever, but I was almost scared to. Would he stop this if he caught me looking? God, he was gorgeous like this, lips parted, pleasured. I had dreamed of seeing him like this for way too long-- I'd definitely get in trouble if I kept staring at his dick, that was for sure.

But then, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes snapped to mine, inviting me in. "Look at you now," he went on, choked out. "You proud of yourself, you sick fuck? Like me seeing you like this?"

I whimpered again, ashamed and undone, but somehow still nodding. "Y-Yes, sir,"

"Oh, I bet you are," His thumb grazed over the head of his cock with a sigh, and he stared at me like I was something on display. "You get off on being treated like fucking crap... What do you think that makes you?"

I could only look up at him through hooded lids, too far gone to answer.

"Go ahead," he said, towering over me as he stroked himself faster, his other hand digging deeper into my thigh-- I so desperately hoped it would leave a mark. "Say it. What are you?"

I wanted to cry from the heat crawling up my throat, from the way his words seared into me and made something inside me twist into a helpless, building knot; "I'm... I'm your-- your secretary," I managed, nearly choking on it. "Your secretary, your-- your--"

That was it. My thighs quivered as my back arched off the table, toes curling inside my heels as the knot in my abdomen only tightened. "Sir, I'm gonna-- gonna--"

Mr. Godfrey's fist didn't slow around his cock, but his eyes sharpened, locking on mine. "Yeah?" he breathed. "You that close already?"

I whimpered, nodding furiously, barely able to speak. "Please, sir-- I need, please--"

He let out a rough, satisfied sound, like he was drinking this in; he leaned in over me, stroking himself faster, his other hand still firm on my thigh. "Be a good fucking secretary... Cum for me, cum for your boss," 

It hit like a wave crashing through me. My whole body snapped taut before unraveling all at once, back arching off the table, thighs quivering as I whimpered at the unrelenting stimulation. The vibrator ground against my clit like it had been waiting for this moment, dragging the orgasm out until I was shaking, choking, nearly convulsing beneath him.

My head lolled to the side, tears slipping down my temple as the aftershocks made my body jerk and flinch beneath him. I was floating, dripping, barely alive-- what the fuck had just happened?

And just before I managed to answer that question, I felt two hands on my underwear, pulling it down with urgency, and I had no control over my body as it was pulled over my thighs, my legs, and threaded past my shoes. It was a relief for the vibrator to leave my aching, overstimulated clit, yet now, I felt my slick hit the cold office air, and it almost made me hiss-- I had never been this wet before, and it was almost worrying.

My lashes fluttered open at the sound of hitched breath. Mr. Godfrey's green eyes scanned the way I glistened beneath him, took in the sight of me being exposed like this, and the fact that I was allowing him to expose me in such an obscene way in his private dining room.

"Fuck," Mr. Godfrey groaned. His cock twitched in his hand as he jacked himself even harder, face flushed, mouth open. "Such a pretty fucking pussy-- knew you'd be-- perfect--" 

Then, hot and sudden, he spilled across my stomach in thick, endless streaks, groaning from the base of his chest like he'd never felt anything so good as the last drops dripped down on my sex, a warm droplet of cum landing perfectly on my clit. I could only whimper at the warmth and the heavenly sight of him-- undone and real. 

Mr. Godfrey stayed there, breathing hard, his hand still wrapped around himself like he hadn't realized it was over. For a second, I thought he might say something cruel again, or tell me how pathetic I looked spread out like this (not that I'd protest).

But... he didn't.

Instead, Mr. Godfrey blinked, glanced down at the mess between us, and gave a quiet, almost sheepish exhale; "Jesus Christ," he muttered, but there wasn't any bite to it. He sounded... surprised? Like he couldn't believe what we'd just done either, like he hadn't planned that last part, and it made my heart jump; what was I witnessing? Had this happened with his other women as well, those that came before me? 

Or... was he still seeing other women on the side? I didn't want to think about it, didn't want it to be real. 

Then, after a beat, Mr. Godfrey shifted awkwardly, tucking himself away. "Alright, then... Ten minutes," he said under his breath, almost like he was reminding himself more than me.

Right-- I was promised ten minutes with him every time something like this happened between us. He was supposed to act normal and not bark orders at me as usual. I nodded faintly, still lying back on the table, completely dazed. The air was too quiet. The vibrator had stopped buzzing somewhere, and all that remained was the echo of our breathing and the low hum of the light overhead. 

I felt sticky. Exposed. And then, I felt his fingers, gentle this time, as they peeled off my thigh with delicate precision, as if to make up for the improvisation at the end there. "That got out of hand," Mr. Godfrey mumbled, mostly to himself, as he reached for a napkin nearby. 

I blinked; "Did it?"

Mr. Godfrey remained quiet for a beat or two, assessing how to answer. "Didn't plan it at least," he mumbled. 

Something about the confession made a faint blush appear in my cheeks. "It was nice, though,"

"Yeah?" he said, absentminded, before he crouched and started cleaning me up without saying a word. No comments, no smug remarks-- just the press of warm fabric against my skin as he wiped his release from my stomach, from between my thighs, from the softest part of me that still pulsed in the aftermath.

Despite the fact that I had been exposed to him like this for a few minutes now, I still felt shy about Mr. Godfrey seeing me like this; I wanted to close my legs, hide, disappear, yet I couldn't with him between my thighs. But then, I remembered-- "So... you do think I'm pretty?" He'd said it enough times today to convince me, no matter what he answered. Perfect, too, for the first time.

With a sharp sigh, Mr. Godfrey rose up, smoothing down his sleeves even though they hadn't moved. The napkin was bunched in his fist before he put it down somewhere. "That's not a relevant conversation," he answered, reaching for my underwear, which had been messily tucked into his pocket in the heat of the moment. "I'm much more interested in how you're feeling. Was this alright?" His voice was steadier now, but it didn't match the faint twitch in his brow, or the way he kept his eyes down as he handed my underwear back like it was evidence. 

Huffing, I sat up slowly, legs still trembling a little, and took the fabric from his hand; I handed him the vibrator that was tucked in it. "I'm okay," I said. "Just... a little wrecked."

That got a flicker of a smile from him, barely there; "Noted,"

I started to slide my underwear back on, glancing at him once, half-daring, half-curious. He turned his back to me before I could finish, which surprised me. Mr. Godfrey didn't usually give me modesty-- it felt deliberate. 

With slow moves, I managed to get off the table without falling to my knees. Thank fuck. "What's freaking you out?" I called out, scanning him from top to toe. He was so tense now, like he hadn't cum all over me just minutes ago. 

Mr. Godfrey turned to look back at me, brows drawn in offence. "I don't know what you're talking about,"

"Are you freaking out that I saw your dick?"

"That's not!--"

"At least I didn't touch you this time, right?" 

I watched him suck in a sharp breath like he wasn't sure whether to argue or walk out; but a rule is a rule, right? "You're getting too comfortable," he huffed, contained. "You and that fucking mouth of yours will be the death of me."

I grinned as I smoothed the hem of my skirt like it hadn't just been bunched around my waist. "You say that like it's a bad thing, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey shot me a look, but didn't take the bait. Instead, he walked around the table and sat back down in his chair. He put the vibrator back in its box before he reached for the neatly folded copy of The New York Times that still waited for him, as if none of this had happened.

"It is a bad thing," he said, not looking up at me. Was I imagining things, or was he sort of ashamed to have cum on me in such an obscene way? But then-- "You're distracting. Infuriating. Impractical. And quite frankly, a walking HR liability. It is a bad thing, because despite all of that, I thought more about this lunch with you than I thought about any of the important things I actually had to do today. You fog up my brain."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey looked up, too fast, too quickly, and for one suspended second, we just stared at each other. The air between us crackled, my breath caught in my throat, he didn’t blink, didn’t move, until his gaze flicked to my lips. And just like that, I knew-- he was thinking about it what it would feel like to kiss me, didn't he? Or was I imagining things again?

The corner of his mouth twitched like he might say something more, but he tore his gaze away and muttered, sharp and sudden, like it would erase everything he'd just said; "I'm going to Geneva tomorrow,"

I blinked; "...What?"

"Geneva," he repeated like I was hard of hearing, going back to The New York Times and flipping a page. "Flight leaves early. I'll be gone a week."

A week? A week?! A whole week without Mr. Godfrey? I felt my brain actively melt with shock-- how was I supposed to function in the meantime? That week was going to feel like a decade. I already knew that I was going to miss him. My voice came out lower than I expected, like I had just gotten scolded; "I didn't know that," I softly whined. "That's not on your schedule, sir."

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes darted up from the edge of the paper. "I was invited this morning. I'm speaking at a conference,"

"Shouldn't you have... told me?" I continued, breathy with hurt. "I'm your secretary, I should-- I need to know these things to add them to your calendar, and-- and now I just feel incompetent. You already think I'm incompetent, but you're not making my job any easier!--"

"I should've told you," he echoed. "But I didn't. Get over it." With a loud sigh, he removed one hand off the newspaper and motioned for me to come sit down in his lap. 

I lingered on the edge of the offer like I needed permission to accept it. "I'm... sticky," Imagine I stood up from his lap and he had a fucking stain? Hell no.

But-- "I know," Mr. Godfrey said, his palm still out, waiting. "Sit."

Carefully, I lowered myself into his lap, feeling the brush of his trousers under my thighs and the quiet weight of his body beneath mine. He shifted just slightly to accommodate me, one arm curving around my waist as if it belonged there, the other folding the paper back with one hand like he didn't care that I was in his lap in a post-orgasmic sulk.

Still sulking, I decided to be crass; "Will you bring me something from Geneva?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't look up from his newspaper, flipping to the next page. "Brat," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm not so sure. Depends."

"On what?"

"On your behaviour when I'm gone,"

“What is that supposed to mean?” It came out fast, defensive, and a little too soft to sound convincing. "Seriously, I'm not incompetent, and I do a decent job! It's not like I crawl around the office on all fours and eat food off the floor! I behave just fine!"

With a hint of a quirk at the corner of his lips, Mr. Godfrey's thumb pressed slowly against my hip, a gesture so subtle it barely qualified as touch; it felt like a warning. “Right... that might be true on some level, but let’s not pretend you don’t crave consequences,” 

I made a noise, part groan, part protest, but Mr. Godfrey just adjusted me more securely against him. I felt him rub slow circles into my hip with one hand, coaxing me into stillness. It was odd to feel him like this, almost affectionate-- was this maybe just part of aftercare? I had read about it on the web, heard that it was a vital part of a dom/sub dynamic, but it felt personal, and it was therefore deemed dangerous territory in my mind.

I shifted, reaching for the salad I never finished. Stabbing an innocent tomato, I tried to make casual conversation; "Who will be interim CEO? It better not be me,"

Mr. Godfrey almost laughed; "There will be no need for that, I'm sure," he said, skimming the next page of the New York Times. "I'll be available on email, but in case of a crisis, my uncle Norman will be instated. I'll still be in charge."

Norman Godfrey? I had met him several times while I shared a dorm room with Letha in college. That was going to be a really awkward conversation if he saw the way I dressed around the office-- you best believe I didn't look like this outside of these four walls. "And what counts as crisis, sir?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't even glance up from the paper. "If someone's bleeding out in reception, or even worse, painting it orange, then you'll know. And if a government agency shows up unannounced, or if you decide you can't go seven days without begging to be put in your place in one way or another, those would all qualify,"

I nearly choked on the tomato I'd just bitten into. "Excuse me?"

"I'm being thorough," he said smoothly, flipping the page with one hand while the other pressed more firmly around my waist, holding me in place like I was something that might run. "You asked."

"I was talking about company policy!"

He hummed, patronizing. "And I was talking about you,"

My whole body went still against Mr. Godfrey. It was unfair how calm he remained.

He finally folded the paper and looked down at me like I was something he might study for fun. "You want rules?" he asked. "Fine. No playing snake. No trying to access my calendar while I'm gone, which I know you do. And absolutely no short skirts, because you never know what perverts lurk in the office when I'm not around."

I blinked at him-- did he not hear the irony? "Sir," I breathed, biting down on a smirk. "I think all the perverts will be gone when you leave."

I knew I was testing the waters with that one, perhaps even treading on flaming charcoal, but Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with that dangerous flicker of interest he usually reserved for moments right before saying something that made me feel feral. "Funny you say that..." he said. 

"Because I know about at least one that's gonna remain behind her desk all week."

(a/n: GAHHHH I WANT HIM SO BAD?? finally he whipped out his cock<3333 AHAHIFDJFI ILY IF YOU GOT THIS FAR, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE AND SWEET MESSAGES, I HAVE ENJOYED THEM ALL AHHHH MWAH MWAH!!<333)

← previous chapter | next chapter →

lovely little taglist:

@likecherriesinthespring @muchwita @fish-eyes-png @voidpixies

@voidofsunlight @sn0wybowie-blog @scarledy @carmillavalentine

@succubustacy @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @ohperiodtpoohhh

@kikibit @prismozo @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @scarledy

@useyourwandbro @malenoradgn @veesenya @immernixia

@lunaskye999 @555-hya-kai @a-differentbrandof-beans @humongoussweetscowboy

@melpomenismask @babyslilbee @halexdowney

[jellyfishsthings]

Don’t You Dare Die

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: injuries

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The air hung thick with the promise of rain, mirroring the tension that vibrated between us. It was supposed to be a milk run, a simple intel grab. In and out, no mess, no fuss. Just Jason and I, weaving through the grimy streets of Gotham, a city that thrived on the very chaos we were trying to quell. But Gotham, as always, had other plans.

The staccato bursts of gunfire ripped through the humid air, shattering the fragile peace. One moment, we were moving, scanning rooftops, the next, the world dissolved into a chaotic symphony of ringing ears and burning adrenaline. You saw the glint of metal, the flash of the barrel, and a primal instinct took over. Jason was in the line of fire.

Without thought, without hesitation, you moved. A surge of pure, unadulterated fear propelled you forward. The bullet slammed into your chest, a searing, brutal impact that stole your breath and sent you sprawling. The world tilted, the grimy cityscape blurring at the edges.

The last thing you saw before the darkness threatened to consume you was Jason. His face, a mask of disbelief, morphed into something feral, something terrifying. Then, black.

You woke to a cacophony of sirens, the acrid smell of smoke stinging your nostrils. Your chest throbbed with a dull, relentless ache. A tube snaked its way down your throat, the sterile taste clinging to your tongue. Panic clawed at your throat, a desperate, silent scream.

Then you saw him.

Jason.

He was a whirlwind of raw, untamed fury. He paced the sterile, white-tiled floor of the hospital room, a caged animal desperate to break free. His Red Hood helmet was gone, revealing the jagged lines etched into his face, the haunted depths of his eyes. He was a mess. Blood streaked his knuckles, his leather jacket torn and singed. And in his hands, clutched like a lifeline, was your bloodstained jacket.

The air crackled with the remnants of his rage. The faint scent of gunpowder and something else, something burning, clung to him like a shroud. You knew, without a doubt, that he'd unleashed hell. The entire building, the snipers, the whole damn operation – they were all gone, consumed by the inferno of his fury.

He didn't notice you were awake at first. He was too consumed, too lost in the vortex of his own internal storm. He muttered under his breath, a litany of curses and broken pleas that painted a stark picture of the torment raging within him.

Finally, his eyes landed on you. The frantic energy seemed to momentarily dissipate, replaced by a chilling stillness. He stopped pacing, his body rigid, and his eyes, usually shielded by cynicism and rage, filled with a raw, almost unbearable vulnerability.

He moved towards you, his steps hesitant, almost afraid. He looked like he was afraid, and the sight of Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the resurrected vigilante, looking afraid, was more jarring than the bullet that had ripped through your flesh.

He stood at the edge of your bed, his gaze locked on mine, his face a canvas of grief and anger. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, just a choked, ragged breath.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, a voice thick with unshed tears and choked with emotion, he asked, “Why? Why would you do that?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't a simple inquiry. It was a desperate plea for understanding, a desperate attempt to unravel the chaos that had consumed him.

Your throat was raw, your chest ached, but you forced the words out, each syllable a painful effort. “Because someone had to stop you from dying for once.”

The words landed like a physical blow. You saw the truth of them register in his eyes, the stark realization of his own recklessness, his own self-destructive tendencies. He understood. He understood that you hadn't just saved his life, you had saved him from himself.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy with unspoken emotions. He dropped your jacket, the bloodstained fabric landing with a soft thud on the floor. He reached for me, his hand trembling as he gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

His touch was feather-light, tentative, as if he was afraid to break me. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek. You could feel the frantic pulse of his heartbeat, the barely contained tremor that ran through his body.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't a tender caress. It was a desperate, raw, and primal claiming. It was a kiss born from fear and gratitude, from pain and relief, from a tangled mess of emotions he couldn't articulate.

His lips were hard, demanding, his tongue a fierce exploration. He tasted of smoke and blood and desperation. It was a kiss that scorched, a kiss that branded, a kiss that threatened to consume you whole.

He kissed you like he was drowning, like you were the only air left in the world. He kissed you like he was lost, and you were the only anchor tethering him to reality. He kissed you like you was the last good thing he had, the last flicker of hope in the desolate wasteland of his heart.

And in that moment, surrounded by the sterile white of the hospital room, the lingering scent of smoke, and the weight of our shared trauma, you understood. You understood the depth of his pain, the intensity of his love, the fragile, vulnerable heart hidden beneath the layers of armor he wore to face the world.

We were both broken, scarred, and irrevocably damaged. But in that moment, as his lips met mine, we were whole. We were connected. We were a fragile, fractured unit, bound together by a shared past and a desperate hope for a future we weren't sure we deserved.

The kiss broke, but he didn't pull away. He rested his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his emotions pouring into you.

"Don't ever do that again," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Don't you ever fucking do that again."

You didn't answer. You didn't need to. We both knew that in the split-second moment of decision, you would do it again. Without hesitation. Without regret. Because sometimes, the only way to save a monster is to stand in the path of the bullet. And sometimes, the only way to truly live is to be willing to die for the ones you love. Even if that love is as messy, as violent, and as beautifully broken as the one we shared.

[revelboo]

Been stalking your blog for the last few weeks... I cannot get enough of your fics they're so good and scratch the Transformers brainrot. I come requesting more IDW Starscream with maybe a reader who is on their period 🤲

-🦇 Anon

Sure! CW- blood/period 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Period

Starscream x Reader

• Waking up to your big mate curled around you, venting against your neck and rumbling softly, you roll to face him. Or try to. Blinking sleepily as you’re flipped onto your back, Starscream shifting to straddle you, wings flared aggressively. What is he doing? Can hear him loudly venting against you, nosing against you before scooting down your body. “You’re hurt?” He snarls and you blink in confusion.

• Wings flicking in distress, as he palms your thighs open and his spark hurts at the smear of red on your skin. Was he that rough with you? Why didn’t you tell him to stop? And you’re sitting up, frowning at him before noticing and your nose wrinkles. “Oh,” you mutter, grabbing for a blanket and trying to cover yourself. Frowning up at him when he catches your wrist to stop you. “I’m fine. This happens.”

• And he’s just staring at you, wings flaring out like he wants to lash out at something. Making it apparent he doesn’t understand human reproduction and you blow out a breath. Because you really don’t want to explain to him why you’re bleeding from his absolute favorite place. Especially when he already looks really freaked out. “It happens? You just bleed for no reason?” He snarls and you groan.

• “It’s part of my reproductive cycle. It happens. If you want to help though, I’m going to need some stuff,” you say, little face upturned and serious as you grab his hand and he allows you to press his palm against your lower belly. “You’re a decent heat pad, though.” And you relax somewhat under his touch to make him suspect you are hurting. Your biofield a prickly, uncomfortable mess against him to make him certain. ‘What do you need?’ He growls.

Knockout x Reader x Breakdown

• Plating ruffling up slightly like an affronted cat, you swallow a laugh at Knockout’s expression. Because while you’re sure he does love you in his obnoxious way, that love apparently has limits. “Breakdown!” He yells and you narrow your eyes at him to make him scowl. “You think I’m getting that sticky mess all over me? Under my plating and in crevices?” And you both look up as Breakdown pokes his head in to Medbay, frowning. “Human’s horny. Frag them for me, I’m busy.” Seriously? You’d wanted him to help you deal with the cramps, but at this point, you’re miserable enough to take what you can get.

• Venting as he reaches to curl his servos around you and lift you, Breakdown frowns slightly. Why are you warmer than normal? And you’re flushed, avoiding his optics. Making it apparent you’d wanted Knockout not him. Little brat. “Strip,” he growls, carrying you into his shared habsuite adjoining the Medbay and setting you on his berth, annoyed that he was your second choice. Because while he didn’t want you, he’s the one taking care of you most of the time. Making sure you have food, clothes, and water. And you still prefer Knockout. Venting, he frowns at the coppery scent in the air. What is that? Nudging you onto your hands and knees as he mass shifts to join you and frees his spike, he tries not to take it personally. What had you called Knockout that one time? Pure, unadulterated sex? It’s not like he can argue with that. Shifting behind you, he sheaths himself inside you with a growl, moving against you. Listening to you moan as you push back to meet his thrusts.

• Sterilizing tools, Knockout nearly drops a scalpel when he hears Breakdown yell his name. “Why are you fragging bleeding?!” Breakdown roars. Huh. He’d assumed you’d tell his partner what’s going on since you’d told him. Maybe you’d figured he’d say no, too. Venting tiredly as you say something too low for him to catch right before you and Breakdown start yelling at each other, he’s not about to get involved. It’s probably fine. You two can angry hate frag and then go hit the washracks. Not his problem, drifting over to his console, he begins researching human reproduction and hears Breakdown snarling. Apparently you two are angry fragging.

[pucking-rowdy]

[2.8k]

blowing smoke (2/?)

pairing: luke hughes x childhood best friend!reader, ethan edwards x fem!reader summary: adjusting to life without luke and with ethan proves to be more difficult than you thought

warnings: underage drinking notes: ethan edwards i love u so much!! all my luke lovers, don't fret he'll get his comeback in part 3 :)

part one | part three

unedited

the rink doesn't change — the sound of pucks clattering, blades sailing across ice, and the freezing air you've grown so accustomed to throughout the years. the boys laugh and yell, chasing each other down on the ice as practice ends. you briefly catch a glimpse of some familiar faces: dylan laughing by the bench, rutger digging for his water bottle. they offer you lazy waves and bright grins as you take your usual seat.

then, you see luke.

his helmet off, curls damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. his eyebrows are drawn tight in concentration as he listens to coach. the skin peeking out from beneath his gear is shining with a gleam of sweat, and you can't help but take notice of his broad shoulders.

he'd spent the summer working hard and eating right in an attempt to beef up before hockey season started. despite your initial annoyance at losing your late-night sweet treat buddy, you had to admit his work paid off. he looked good.

he doesn't see you. or at least if he does, he doesn't let it show.

it’s been a week since the party. since you left ethan’s room wearing one of his t-shirts and a knot of guilt in your stomach. since you passed luke in the hallway the next morning and he didn’t say a word. just brushed past you, eyes straight ahead.

"hey, sunshine."

you jump, startled out of your thoughts. you turn to see ethan. his cheeks pink from his time on the ice and hair damp from his shower. he smells like spearmint gum and the citrus body wash he swears by. it's familiar. safe.

you smile softly, "hey."

"he's still not talking to you?"

you don't have to ask who he is.

you shake your head, a tight-lipped smile on your face.

ethan huffs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "he's being an asshole."

you shrug, but it's stiff. "he doesn't owe me anything."

"that's bullshit," ethan mutters, more to himself. he tugs you into his side, pressing a kiss to your temple.

you used to know every corner of this rink like your own heartbeat — the annoyingly squeaky locker room door, the smell of rubber and sweat, the exact seat in the bleachers where luke always looked for you after he scored a goal. now, you feel like a stranger. and he doesn’t bother to look at you at all.

-

the kitchen is half-lit, the only light coming from a string of battery-powered fairy lights the boys had purchased after you and some of the other girls complained about sterile kitchen lights.

most of the boys are asleep by now. only a few stragglers hang out, half-sprawled across the living room, nursing protein shakes, still high on the buzz of tonight's win. you’re perched on the counter, feet swinging, scrolling through your phone while waiting for your frozen pizza to finish cooking. ethan stands between your legs, his head resting on your shoulder.

your voice is quiet, careful to not disturb his peace. "you tired?"

ethan nods, his arms tightening around you. you bring your hand up to his hair, softly stroking it.

the sound of a set of keys hitting the counter makes you jump. you turn to see luke. he doesn't say a word, but for the first time in over a week, his eyes meet yours.

there's a beat before he tears his gaze away, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. his voice is stiff and quiet, "didn't mean to interrupt."

he leaves without another word. the oven beeps and ethan pulls away to grab the pizza, muttering. "asshole."

-

the hockey house bustles with drunk college students. shitty pop music blares through the house, reminding you that dylan was playing dj tonight. the floor is sticky, and the air smells of cheap beer and sweat as you make your way through grinding bodies.

you find mark and adam in the kitchen, both of them already plastered as they watch you grab another drink. mark slings a friendly arm around your shoulders, his other hand grasping a red solo cup full of mystery liquid.

"so, you and eddy, huh?"

adam laughs, egging it on. "yeah, he's been obsessed with you since freshman year. thank god you finally threw him a bone."

mark nods, "i was honestly getting sick of listening to him whine."

you laugh, sipping your drink. you glance up, catching emma's eye. you can feel her eyes on you, her expression unreadable.

you hadn't told her. you, truthfully, hadn't told anyone.

she lets out a bitter scoff, storming out to the back patio. you let out a deep sigh, passing mark your drink as you follow after her.

"em-"

the autumn air is cool against your skin, sharp with the familiar bite of late october. the patio is dark, lit only by the dim outdoor lights. you're the only two outside, everyone else tucked away in the warm house.

she whirls around, her blonde hair whipping behind her. her voice is stern. "don't."

you clear your throat. “i was gonna tell you.”

emma laughs, dry and disbelieving. “really? when?”

you hesitate. “i don’t know. it just… happened.”

she turns, eyebrows furrowed. “right. it just happened. and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning to your best friend?"

“i wasn’t hiding it to hurt you,” you offer, trying to sound steady. “i just didn’t want to complicate things.”

“you mean like how you’ve been dancing around luke for years but swearing nothing’s going on?”

you flinch. “that’s not fair.”

“no, what’s not fair is finding out from adam and mark that my best friend slept with ethan. and then realizing maybe she was lying to me the whole time.”

you shake your head. “i didn’t lie.”

“you didn’t tell the truth either,” she snaps. “and you know what that makes me feel like? like I’m the last to know in a life i’m supposed to be part of.”

that hits harder than you expected.

she exhales, eyes glossy now, and you can tell she’s fighting tears. “i'm not mad about ethan. I like him for you. but this? you making me feel like I’m on the outside now? that’s what hurts.”

“don’t worry,” she says over her shoulder. “you’ve got ethan now. and maybe luke, too. you don’t need me.”

your heart stutters. “this isn’t about luke.”

her face twists, like she’s trying not to cry or scream. “isn’t it?”

you blink, stunned. you open your mouth — to defend yourself, to explain — but she’s already turning. you watch her walk away, a pit in your stomach.

-

you'd met emma during your freshman year.

the dorm hallway smelled like industrial-grade lemon cleaner and nervous sweat. students and parents clogged the corridor with boxes, carts, and mattress toppers spilling out of plastic wrap. you were already sweating, trying to maneuver your suitcase through the narrow door of room 133 when you hear it:

a loud thud, followed by a muffled “shit. sorry! that was a lamp, i think.”

you peered inside the room, half expecting chaos, and find it.

a girl crouched by one of the beds, a tangled mess of blonde hair falling out of her clip as she frantically checked over a box labeled “FRAGILE (pls be nice)” in big pink letters. she glanced up at you, eyes wide, slightly panicked.

you smiled, stepping fully into the room and dragging your suitcase behind you. “you must be emma?”

she stood, brushing dust off her jeans. “in the flesh.”

she looked around the room, then pointed at the left bed. “i kind of claimed that side? but if you’re a left-side sleeper or you feng shui better that way, i’m totally flexible. i’m not a monster.”

you laughed, already liking her. “right side’s fine. less sun in the morning.”

“look at us, already compatible.”

the two of you fell into an easy rhythm, unpacking, unboxing, and decorating. emma pulled out a string of fairy lights and insisted on hanging them up immediately.

at one point, as you hung up your clothes and emma unpacked her endless supply of hair ties and dry shampoo, she glanced over at you and said, “i was really hoping my roommate wouldn’t suck.”

you grinned, grabbing a sweatshirt to fold. “same.”

“i think we’re gonna be okay.”

you didn't say it then, but you agreed. something about this, about her, felt solid. like the beginning of something good.

-

the dim fairy lights seemed to mock you now. you'd left the party, only muttering a quick goodbye to seamus casey, who was keeping out by the front door. your dorm room is quiet except for the occasional buzzes of messages you’re not ready to read just yet. emma’s side of the room is empty, and you don't expect her back tonight. the thought of her curled in luke's warm, navy blue sheets made your throat tighten.

your chest feels heavy. it wasn't about ethan, not really. you know that.

there's a knock at the door. you almost ignore it before a familiar voice calls out.

"it's eddy."

you sigh, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands. "come in."

he opens the door, stepping inside. his face is different, more careful, unsure. unlike your usual ethan who cracks jokes first and thinks later.

he takes a cautious seat at the edge of your bed, like he's not sure where he belongs in your space. he glances at emma's side of the room. "mark said you two fought."

you nod, eyes rimmed red with tears.

"she thinks i've been lying to her. that's i've always wanted luke, and i've been keeping her out on purpose."

ethan's quiet. "have you always wanted luke?"

you close your eyes. the silence stretches too long.

"do i really have a chance here? with you, i mean."

your throat tightens.

"ethan..."

"i'm not mad," he quickly clarifies, "i'm just...confused, i guess. one minute, you're curled up in my bed, wearing my clothes, and everything feels good. the next, you're somewhere else."

"i care about you," your voice shakes, "but luke's been part of my life forever, and lately everything just feels...different. i hate different."

ethan nods slowly, as if he's trying to understand. it's quiet again.

"i think i always knew," he keeps his gaze on the linoleum tile of your floor, "that...maybe i was just here because he wasn't. i told myself it didn't matter, that at least i was here."

he lets out a shaky breath and you bite your lip to hold back tears.

"it's hard. when i'm sitting here, giving you everything that i've got, and i still feel like the second choice."

you vehemently shake your head. "you're not a second choice, eddy."

"but i'm not first, either," he looks at you, so soft and understanding that you can feel tears welling, "and i think i wanted to be."

it's quiet again.

"do you want me to go?"

"no," you whisper, "i don't ever want you to go."

ethan nods slowly, taking in the meaning behind your words. he slowly moves over, lying next to you. he tugs you into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"you deserve to be loved," his voice is soft, "even if you don't know what to do with it yet."

-

the semester was quickly coming to an end and christmas break was right around the corner. in the chaos of everything, you'd forgotten that you were due to spend christmas with the hughes family.

your parents were going out of town, and ellen hughes had graciously offered you a place with her family at christmas. at the time, you'd eagerly accepted, always excited to spend more time with luke and his family.

now, however, christmas break instilled a feeling of impending doom within you.

you let out a deep groan, laid back against ethan's pillows. he laughs.

"come on, it's not gonna be that bad."

you sit up on your elbows, giving ethan a deadpan look. he winces, "yeah, okay, it's not gonna be fun, but at least you get to see jack and quinn."

"it's gonna be so awkward," you flop back down, head hitting the soft sheets. ethan laugh again, hovering over you.

"baby, it's gonna be fine. they love you."

you let out a sigh, "gonna miss you."

ethan grins, leaning down to give you a gentle kiss. his lips are soft and he tastes like the strawberry chapstick he'd stolen from you. you grin against his lips, a wave of content washing over you.

his lips trail to your neck, pressing softly against your pulse point. "it's only two weeks. everything's gonna be okay."

-

the cold, michigan air nips against your skin, snow crunching under your boots as you make your way up the driveway. your duffel bag is slung over your shoulder, just as heavy as the feeling in your chest.

the house hasn't changed. a warm light emits from the windows, a homemade wreath is hung on the door, and you can see the faint flicker of a hockey game playing inside. it almost feels like peace again.

the door swings open before you can knock. luke stands there, his curls cut a bit shorter than the last time you'd laid eyes on him. he's wearing his favorite hoodie, one that you're surprised to see still in one piece with how much it's been worn.

for a moment, neither of you say anything.

"hey," he finally speaks, taking your duffel and letting you inside.

"hey," you reply, stepping into the warmth of the home.

ellen appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “there’s my girl!” she beams, crossing the room to wrap you in a hug that smells like peppermint. for a moment, all the tension leaves your body.

you catch quinn's voice floating from the living room, “tell her she’s on hot chocolate duty again. she makes it better than luke.”

luke snorts softly behind you. “still not true.”

you glance at him over your shoulder, the two of you wearing matching grins. for a moment, everything feels normal again.

-

the house was quiet. jack's loud laughter had faded hours ago, quinn's holiday playlist had stopped looping, and ellen and jim had retreated to bed with cups of tea.

you sat at the kitchen counter, the dim lights casting the room in a cozy glow. a cold cup of cocoa sits in front of you. soft footsteps approach and luke's voice fills the silence.

"you made the good kind."

"didn't feel like punishing everyone with your recipe," you shoot him an easy grin because that's how things were meant to be. easy.

that earns a soft grin. he opens the cabinet, grabbing his favorite mug. "funny."

it's quiet for a minute.

then, finally, he breaks it. "so, you and ethan?"

your chest tightens. "what about it?"

"i didn't realize it was serious."

you shrug, stiff, "you stopped asking about anything."

he flinches like you slapped him, and he thinks you might as well have.

luke pours the water, fixes his cocoa the way he always does. three marshmallows, not two. he leans against the counter across from you, mug warming his hands.

“you think I stopped caring?” he asks quietly.

“no,” you whisper. “i think we're not good with change.”

he swallows hard, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “you think I liked watching you with him?”

"i just know you stopped being my person.”

his breath catches, but he doesn’t look away. he crosses the kitchen slowly, sets his mug down beside yours. “you’re still mine,” he says, barely audible.

"i miss you," you whisper back. you heart aches as you watch the way his face twists, as if he's trying not to get too emotional.

"i'm right here."

"are you?"

luke doesn't answer, not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't know what the answer is.

instead, he shifts a little closer, and lets his head rest gently against your shoulder.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just lets out a quiet breath and leans his cheek against you.

you lean your head atop his.

you stay like that for a while, basking in the normality of having your best friend back.

as you both sit in silence, the soft hum of the fridge the only sound between you, your phone buzzes on the counter. you glance down. a message from ethan: "did you make it there okay? miss you!"

you don't answer right away. you just stare at the screen, thumb hovering, while luke breathes quietly beside you.

[moomine]

MORE DAISUKE PLEASSEEEEE

i literally love how you write him omg. if i could kiss you i would.

maybe a med intern reader perhaps????

it can me sfw or nsfw whatever you want just go crazy

thank you babygirl <3

-🍒

patchin things up | daisuke

author's note: hey... so uh, long time no see? sorry i died. not my best work, but this is my apology x (cover image credit)

summary: (daisuke x gn!reader) You're Anya's intern. While she's taking a break one day, Daisuke comes to you with a minor medical emergency.

word count: 871

warnings: no trigger warnings! all characters are 18+

now playing: LSD and the Search for God - "Starting Over"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Medbay was the coldest room in the Tulpar. While stinking of sterile equipment and antiseptic, you always seemed to make the otherwise depressing room quite homey. Warm. At least, that’s how Daisuke saw it. One of the perks of Anya having her own intern this haul was actually being able to take a break. You had a natural understanding of medicine, a fantastic work ethic, and a real desire to help people. It only made sense she felt comfortable leaving you alone for a while to eat or rest up a bit. 

Daisuke was in luck. You were equipped enough to handle minor emergencies in her absence. Approaching the door to medical, he took a deep breath and twisted the handle. He had already been chewed out by Swansea for touching live wires unknowingly, and he knew you’d likely give him an earful as well.

“Oh my god,” you said as the automatic door wheezed open, eyes blown wide with surprise. “What happened?”

Before Daisuke had the chance to respond, to explain why he was clutching his arm close to his chest, you were already by his side. One hand was wrapped around the wrist of his other, which hung limply in front of him, pointer and middle fingers bright red. 

Daisuke couldn’t help but admire the small crease between your brows as you gingerly took his injured hand in your own, observing the electrical burn that was already blistering on his skin. The way they were slightly furrowed with concern, your expression both pained and focused all at once. Your breath hitched at the sight, a sound that seemed to bubble out of your throat before you could surprise it. Not out of fear or discomfort, but innocent worry. Worry for the boy you loved.

“Hey, hey, hey. Relax, ‘kay? It’s just a little burn, I’ve had worse,” Daisuke explained, but the waver in his voice betrayed the pain he was in.

“Little burn?” You echoed. “This looks second degree, Dai. How did this even happen?” You ushered him toward the sink, turned on the cold water, and instructed him to hold his fingers under the stream.

Cool water washed over his inflamed skin, causing him to wince at the contact. His gaze flickered away from yours bashfully, like a puppy caught misbehaving. Daisuke absolutely hated worrying you. You had enough on your plate as it was; you didn’t need to waste your time worrying about what clumsy slip-up he managed this week.

“Oh, you know…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “I might have touched some cut wires without thinking… Maybe…”

“What?”

“I know, I know. Swansea said I was lucky it had such a low voltage, otherwise I’d probably be toast. But hey, I’m okay!” There was an air of humor in his tone, almost like he was trying to soften the blow with his typical optimism. It didn’t quite work, and he knew the second his eyes met your face once more. You weren’t looking at him, eyes fixed to his swollen fingers under the faucet’s stream. A small frown curled your lips downward, although the rest of your features had softened. Daisuke swallowed thickly before placing his other hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m okay, yeah? I’ll be more careful next time, I promise.”

The feeling of touch grabbed your attention  —the comforting warmth of his palm seeping through the cool denim of your jumpsuit. “You better be,” you murmured, turning off the water. “Take a seat. I need to clean and dress your burn.”

Daisuke obeyed quickly and walked to the cot in the middle of the room. As he took a seat atop the rough sheets, he shifted nervously, staring down at his injured hand in his lap. Just like before, you were in front of him at a moment's notice. You dragged a small rolling cart with you, equipped with bandages, antiseptic wipes, and burn cream.

“This might sting a little,” you said as you carefully took his hand in your own again.

“It can’t be that ba-” Daisuke started, but he quickly cut himself off with a hiss.

You did your best to stifle a laugh as you wiped the pads of his fingers. “Told you so.”

Once his burn was clean, you applied a generous layer of burn cream, and wrapped his fingers in a clean bandage. As you moved about the room with purpose, cleaning up your supplies and disposing of the used materials, Daisuke looked at his hand. The seared flesh beneath the bandage still stung, but it was soothed by the cooling ointment and your gentle touch.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile. “You forgot something though.”

You stopped what you were doing and looked back at him, raising a brow in questioning amusement. “Oh really? What is that?”

“Aren’t you gonna kiss it better?”

Daisuke outstretched his hand toward you, bandaged fingers in the cold air. Rolling your eyes, you moved in front of him once more and leaned down, then pressed a gentle kiss to his fingers.

“Better?” you asked.

“Much better.” A wide, infectious smile spread across Daisuke's face, stretching from ear to ear.

[its-avalon-08]

what are we even fighting for? (cs55)

✦ pairing - carlos sainz x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, fluffy ending

The air in the flat hung heavy, thick with the unspoken words of a fight that had fizzled out hours ago. Y/N sat on the couch, meticulously folding laundry, each crease a testament to the storm raging inside her. Carlos emerged from the bedroom, a shadow of his usual energetic self.

"Going for a run?" Y/N asked, her voice clipped. It wasn't a question, more a confirmation of the escape route he usually took during their arguments.

"Yeah," Carlos mumbled, avoiding eye contact. He grabbed his trainers, the familiar routine a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

"Great," Y/N said, the single word dripping with sarcasm. Carlos flinched, his shoulders slumping further. He paused at the doorway, finally looking at her.

"Y/N, do we really have to do this?"

"Do what?" she challenged, her gaze hardening.

"This," he said, gesturing vaguely between them. "The constant fighting, the silence."

"Maybe if you hadn't—" Y/N started, but Carlos cut her off.

"Here we go again," he sighed. "It's always my fault, isn't it?"

"No, it's not," Y/N snapped, her voice cracking with unshed tears. "It's just... everything feels so different lately."

They were at an impasse. Every conversation, every attempt to bridge the gap, ended in a fresh volley of accusations and hurt. The silence, once comfortable, now screamed with unspoken resentments.

Carlos ran. He pounded the pavement, his frustration mingling with the rhythmic thud of his feet. When he returned, showered, and hesitantly entered the living room, Y/N was gone. He found her in the bedroom, surrounded by open suitcases.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

"Packing," she said, her voice flat. "Maybe a change of scenery will do us both some good."

Carlos's heart hammered against his ribs. "A change? Or a break?"

Y/N stopped folding, her shoulders slumping. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over like a dam finally breached.

"I don't know, Carlos," she choked out. "Maybe... maybe this whole thing was a mistake."

The words landed like a physical blow. Carlos stared at her, the color draining from his face. A mistake? All the laughter, the late-night talks, the shared dreams - were they all meaningless to her?

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The fight had drained him, leaving him numb and speechless. With a defeated sigh, he turned and walked out, the click of the guest room door echoing the hollowness in his chest.

The roar of the engines at the Monaco Grand Prix was a dull thrum in Y/N's ears. She stood stiffly at the pit wall, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. It was race weekend, a time that usually buzzed with shared adrenaline and nervous excitement. Now, the atmosphere felt sterile, devoid of their usual pre-race ritual.

Carlos emerged from the garage, his helmet tucked under his arm. He scanned the crowd, his gaze finally landing on her. Their eyes locked, and for a horrifying moment, Y/N thought he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't come to her. A fresh wave of tears welled up, blurring her vision.

"Y/N," his voice was a croak, barely audible over the din. He hesitated, then began walking towards the starting grid, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Tears spilled over, tracing hot tracks on her cheeks. It was over. All the fights, the resentful silences, had finally driven them apart. A strangled sob escaped her lips.

Just then, the commentator's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, snapping her attention back to the track. "And Sainz is rushing into the paddock! What is he doing?!?"

Y/N's head whipped towards the pit lane, heart pounding in her chest. Through a haze of tears, she saw Carlos sprint past the mechanics, his face etched with determination. He tore through the crowd, his eyes fixed on her.

He skidded to a halt in front of her, his chest heaving. Before she could react, he cupped her face in his calloused hands and pulled her into a desperate kiss. The roar of the crowd faded into the background, replaced by the frantic drumming of their hearts.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Carlos looked at her, his eyes raw with emotion. "Y/N, I messed up," he rasped. "That was never supposed to happen. This… this whole thing, us… it can't end like this."

"Carlos," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Can we fix it?"

He held her gaze, his voice firm. "I promise. We'll fix it. Whatever it takes." He squeezed her hand, the familiar spark of warmth a lifeline thrown across the chasm that had grown between them. "Now, I have a qualifying to win."

Y/N wiped her tears, a flicker of hope rekindled in her eyes. "Go get 'em, champ," she said, her voice hoarse but determined. "And remember, we're in this together."

Carlos offered a shaky smile, the ghost of his old grin. With one last, lingering kiss, he turned and sprinted back towards the grid, leaving Y/N with a renewed sense of possibility. The roar of the engines no longer sounded like a dirge, but a challenge, a call to face their problems head-on, just like they faced every race.

The qualifying session concluded with Carlos securing a decent starting position. Relief, however, battled with anxiety as he rushed back to the drivers' room. Y/N stood by the window, her back to him. He took a deep breath, the image of her tearful eyes fueling his determination.

"Y/N," he called out gently, his voice raspy.

She spun around, her face etched with a mixture of worry and hope. As their eyes met, the dam broke. Tears welled up anew, spilling down her cheeks. Carlos hurried towards her, his arms outstretched.

"Carlos," she choked out, rushing into his embrace. They clung to each other, the roar of the track a distant echo compared to the storm of emotions within them. Tears soaked their shirts, silent apologies mingling with the salty sting.

"I'm so sorry," Y/N whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. "We haven't been communicating, and I shouldn't have said what I did back in the flat."

Carlos held her tighter, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Me too, cariño," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I've been so focused on the championship that I forgot what truly matters. You matter, Y/N. We need to talk, to listen to each other."

He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands. Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them.

"We can fix this," he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear. "We just need to try."

Y/N nodded, a small smile trembling on her lips. "I know. I just… I got scared, Carlos. Scared of losing you."

He leaned in, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "You won't lose me," he promised, his voice firm. "Not if you don't want to."

His lips grazed hers, a question lingering in the air. Y/N met him halfway, the kiss a rekindled flame, burning away the hurt and doubt. It was a kiss filled with a newfound appreciation for each other, a promise to rebuild their trust and communication.

Pulling back, foreheads resting against each other, a comfortable silence settled between them. The weight of unspoken words had lifted, replaced by a fragile hope for the future. They knew the road wouldn't be easy, but with each other, they were ready to face whatever came their way. The roar of the engines seemed less daunting now, replaced by the steady beat of two hearts determined to race together.

[sume3luvv]

April Doesn't Wait.

synopsis: if he could trade the world for just a few more moments with you, he would.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ o.dazai x fem!reader

A hospital is a place of contrasts—where life began and ended, where grief and hope existed side by side. Time feels different here—either dragging endlessly or slipping away to quickly when moments are precious. Some find the hospital a temporary space of healing before returning to the outside world, while others find it their final resting place.

You hated the hospital. Boring, white halls, the quiet humming of machines mixed with the rhythmic beeping of monitors and distant murmurs of doctors nearby. The weird, unfamiliar smell of antiseptic—sharp, clean, and almost metallic, like the alcohol wipes and disinfectant lingering in the air that would always give you headaches.

"What a beautiful day. Isn't that right, Y/n-chan?" a rather annoying voice said, snapping you out of your thoughts.

Too exhausted and frail (at the moment) to get out of bed, you turn your head towards a man standing at the window by your hospital bed. He gazed outside with a calm smile, causing you to scowl.

"Whatever." you muttered, turning your body away from him.

Dazai Osamu. You didn't know where he came from, or what made him want to stay in your room and annoy you half to death. He was twenty-two, but had such a childish and happy personality, which made you jealous. You were jealous over the fact that he didn't have to spend his whole life in the hospital. Jealous over the fact that he can look forward to a long existence, to seeing life at seventy—maybe even more.

The brunette could only chuckle to your bad attitude, finding it amusing even if others didn't. "Don't be such a downer, Y/n-chan! Spring is a chance of growth and new beginnings, so cheer up!"

"And yet here I am, too weak to even move a finger." you retorted, eyebrows furrowing.

"You're acting as if you're going to die any second now, Y/n-chan." Dazai shook his head and turned to face you.

You looked at Dazai, shooting him an irritated glare—one that only made his smirk widen. "Would it kill you to shut up for once? You're like an annoying fly."

"You know, have you ever considered smiling? That pretty face of yours would look much more charming if you did." teased Dazai as he leaned in closer, the close proximity causing your cheeks to turn a light hue of pink.

Dazai chuckled at your flustered expression, tilting your chin up. "Falling for me already, Y/n-chan?"

Your eyebrows creased together in irritation and began to protest in defense. Just then, a nurse walked in with a wheelchair and a sickening smile that you disliked so much.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," The nurse said with her normal, sweet tone. You rolled your eyes in annoyance and swatted Dazai's wrist away. "Shall we go outside for some fresh air, L/n-san?"

You sighed, nodded, and watched as the nurse helped assist you into the wheelchair. As you were pushed towards the door of your bedroom, you turned your head to Dazai with a death-glare.

"You better be out of my room by the time I'm back." you threatened. Dazai flashed you an amused smile, waving to you as the nurse wheeled you outside.

Of course, Dazai got bored within minutes of your absence. And, of course, he couldn't resist following you outside—just so he could pester you like always.

As Dazai finally made it to the courtyard, his attention was caught when he saw you sitting at a bench while gazing at the garden, hair blowing gently in the light breeze.

"Hey." Dazai spoke up with a calm expression and sat down next to you, though he kept a distance.

"Hey." you replied, not taking your attention off of the garden. You took a deep breath of the fresh air, savoring its purity—a stark contrast to the sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital room.

And, for a fleeting moment, you forgot about your heart disease. You felt as if you could do anything without being held back. You felt free.

Dazai's gaze lingered on you for a moment before he found himself caught in the trap of your beauty. The way the gentle sunlight played with your features, seeming to make you shine. You were absolutely ethereal to Dazai.

He was quiet for a moment, just watching you. After a beat, Dazai spoke up again, his voice soft. "You look happy for once." he noted, lips quirking up into a small smile.

You blinked at Dazai's blunt compliment, your face heating up as you turned to him—only to quickly look away, brows furrowing. "S-Shut up! Do you always have to ruin the moment by pointing things out?"

By your annoyed response, it only filled Dazai's amusement more as his smile widened. "Ruin the moment? I didn't do anything, I just stated the obvious." he said, crossing his arms and leaning back on the bench.

"Maybe keep your 'obvious' thoughts to yourself, then." you retorted, glancing back at Dazai.

Dazai let out a dramatic sigh, resting the back of his hand against his forehead. "Ahh, but where's the fun in that? Watching you get flustered is the highlight of my day."

Your cheeks burned hotter, and you huffed, turning away. "You're impossible."

He chuckled, tapping a finger against his chin. "Impossible? No, no, I'm quite real. But if you keep looking that cute when you're annoyed, I might just start thinking you're the one trying to fluster me."

You let out a groan and buried your face into your hands. Did he have to be like this?

Dazai smiled innocently at your flustered state. "You know, you're much more pleasant when you're not trying to sew my mouth shut." he sighed, watching you with an unreadable expression. "Can you at least try and enjoy the moment, for once?"

You scoffed. "Easy for you to say."

"Oh? And why is that? Because I don't dwell on unfairness at all? Because I don’t waste my energy being angry at a world that won’t change just for me?" He asked, his voice teasing as always, but the was an unmistakable sharpness behind it.

You stiffened. Dazai took that as a invitation to press on. "Tell me, does your anger make anything better? You could keep glaring at the world all you want, but it won't glare back. It won't apologize, it won't make things fair."

Your gaze fell onto your lap, gripping your hospital gown tightly. As much as you hated to admit, Dazai was right.

"You're right." you replied quietly. "But, with so much I wanted to do and such little time now—you'd start to lose hope. You start to lose happiness and feel angry at the thought of missing out on a life you could've lived to the fullest."

"I know I'm pathetic because I'm whining over the unfairness of the universe, but can you blame me? My heart is failing, and I can't even get up properly without somebody's help. I can't even live to see the world at twenty-five." You said with a hint of bitterness behind your tone. Dazai's eyebrows knitted together.

"But it's better than not doing it at all, right? Make the most of what you can. That way, when it's time, you can pass peacefully knowing you at least experienced a bit of that thrill." Dazai said. He couldn't believe he was encouraging living, of all things. "There's still things to enjoy, even if you only have a year left."

He grinned. "And think about it—if you play your cards right, this could make your most dramatic, tragic art yet. A beautiful, fleeting existence... like a candle burning both ends."

"Wow, Dazai. What an uplift way of putting it." you stated, shooting him a flat look.

"You know me, I have a knack for making things grim things sound poetic." Dazai chuckled and leaned closer. You blinked, feeling your cheeks grow hot. "Besides, imagine all the fun things we can do! Swapping files in the doctors office? Slipping silly notes into other patients foods? How about sneaking out of your room late at night to stargaze?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You really know how to turn my life into a novel, huh?"

Dazai beamed. "Exactly! And who better to co-star in this final chapter than me?" He winked, his tone teasing, but underneath it all, there was something more sincere—like he truly meant to make your remaining time something worth smiling about.

You couldn't help but smile warmly at Dazai's antics, letting out a small chuckle at the thought of all the scandalous and fun moments you guys could share together.

Wow. Dazai's nonexistent heart did a few jumps at your beautiful smile. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he wondered if you could hear his heartbeat—or feel it, too. But he quickly masked the turmoil and returned your smile.

"That's what I'm talking about." he whispered, his gaze softening in admiration. Not only did he feel happy for you, he felt proud of himself for finally making somebody smile, instead of staring at him in fear.

After that day, your behavior did a complete backflip. You were seen giving compliments to nurses, thanking your doctor, got out of bed frequently, and smiling more often. You tried make an effort to clean up your attitude, something that didn't go unnoticed to Dazai.

"My, my, look at you! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're turning into a model patient." Dazai smirked as he leaned against the doorframe of your room.

You rolled your eyes, returning Dazai's smirk. "Maybe I just got tired of looking like a disaster."

Dazai chuckled, approached your bed, and sat down beside you. He stared at you with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "That's a shame. I was beginning admire your bedridden aesthetic. You're cute when you're angry."

You ignored Dazai's playful compliment. "Well, maybe I found something or someone I look forward to seeing everyday." You countered.

For a second, Dazai's teasing demeanor faltered slightly, his brown eyes softening. Then, he returned to his charming and teasing personality. "Ah, you mean my visits, don't you?" He clasped his hands together in a mock delight. "I knew it, my wise words finally knocked some sense into your thick skull!"

Your eye twitched in annoyance to Dazai's words. Did he always have to ruin good moments like these?

Dazai leaned forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as he watched you. "I'm glad to see you like this, though. It's almost... refreshing." You felt your cheeks grow hot and you turned your head away in attempt to hide your embarrassment. Dazai's lips curled into a small smile. "I was right, a smile does suit you much better."

"Y/n-chan. Y/n-chan, wake up." A soft voice coaxed you, tapping your cheek.

You grumbled and slowly opened your eyes, the sot glow of the moonlight bleeding through the curtains and casting delicate patterns across your room. You turn to your side, deadpanning when you were met by Dazai, who flashed you the dumbest smile you've ever seen.

"Dazai? What the hell are you doing here?" you asked gruffly and turned your head towards the alarm clock. An vein popped on your forehead when you read the time. "Dazai, it's four fucking am. What could you possibly want at this time?"

Dazai kept his innocent smile, as if he didn't ruin your peaceful slumber. "I was feeling a little... restless, you know?" he raised an eyebrow, his usual mischievous glint in his eyes. "And I thought, who better to share the night sky than you?"

You blinked in disbelief. "You woke up at four in the morning to stargaze?"

"Bingo!"

You pinched the bridge of your nose in annoyance and irritation. "Are you always this rambunctious so early in the morning?"

"Maybe. But it's still dark outside, and the stars won't wait forever. What do you say?" Dazai chuckled.

"Fine."

"Great! Let's go before the stars change their mind." Dazai cheered while helping you into a wheelchair.

As Dazai wheeled you out in the courtyard, the cold air hit your cheeks, causing you to shiver as you clung to your cardigan in desperation for body warmth. Dazai pushed you to a bench and helped you sit down before taking a seat next to you. He gave you a sideways glance, his mischievous smile softening when he noticed your discomfort.

"You look cold." he commented.

"Thanks for noticing, genius." you huffed, pressing your lips together as the wind blew past you. "Can we go back inside?"

Dazai smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Why? We're getting to the best part of tonight! It's highlight in your life before you, well... pass on."

"Way to make this memorable." you shot Dazai a flat look. The brunette chuckled and took off his jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders.

You blinked as you look down, holding the sleeve. Huh. His choice of sweaters were awfully soft and cozy. "I didn't ask for this."

"Yeah, but I figured you'd rather be warm than cold." Dazai replied plainly, tilting his head up to gaze at the stars, his brown eyes reflecting the twinkling lights.

You did the same, turning your head up to gaze at the stars. Your expression softens at the breathtaking sight. The night stretched out before you, filled with the kind of stillness that made you forget the passage of time.

"Not so bad, huh?" Dazai asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You finally relaxed, leaning your back against the bench, letting the chill of the air and the warmth of his coat mix together. "Yeah, not so bad."

As the moment the two shared together progressed, what seemed like minutes turned into hours, and the black canvas of the night slowly faded into the pastel colors of orange, blue, and yellow.

Dazai blinked as the sun hit his view, peaking from over the horizons, its light spilling across his face, softening his features for a brief moment before the familiar smirk returned to his lips.

"I guess it's morning. Perhaps we should head back inside—" Before Dazai could finish, he felt a mass weighing down his shoulder. He turned his head to see you sleeping against his shoulder. Dazai's eyes softened as he observed you, the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each steady breath.

Dazai wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer towards his side as he continued to watch the sunrise. "You know, sometimes I feel this strange, unsettling feeling at the thought of you dying so soon."

Dazai paused before continuing. "Crazy, isn't it? How even a fleeting person can leave a mark on me."

Minutes turned into hours, and hours faded into days. As time progressed, you began to feel more exhausted than usual, each moment began to feel heavier than the last. A constant dizziness clouded your senses and the uncomfortable feeling of nausea creeping onto you. Even the simple act of breathing felt like a struggle, each inhale more labored than before.

Even then, Dazai stilled stayed by your side, even when moments fell into silence, filling the small hospital room with an almost unbearable stillness. Of course, he kept his usual playful, teasing personality with relentless antics—but beneath it all was a fear he refused to voice. The fear of losing you to far soon.

"Hey, Dazai?" you called out, turning your body to Dazai, who was seating in a chair next to your bed.

Dazai hummed in response, not taking his attention off his book. You sighed at the lack of attention and flopped back down on your back while staring up at the ceiling.

"I'm bored." you stated plainly with a blank expression. "Can you read to me?"

Dazai exhaled softly, but nonetheless cleared his throat and began to read aloud. Just as his voice settled in the rhythm of the words, you suddenly interrupted him.

"Y'know, as much as I hate to admit it, I think I'd miss your stupid face when I pass..." you muttered.

Dazai paused, his grip unconsciously tightening on the spine of the book as his gaze flickered toward you. For a moment, the usual playfulness in his expression wavered, replaced by something quieter—something unreadable.

"Don't say that."

You chuckled, though there was no hint of humor behind it whatsoever. "Sorry."

Dazai pressed his lips together and looked back down at the pages of his book. He then turned his head to you, his shoulders hunched. "If I could trade the world for just another year or two with you, I would."

"That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" you murmured, trying to mask the warmth creeping into your painful chest.

A lopsided smile tugged on Dazai's lips, his eyes holding none of their usual mischief. "Dramatic? Maybe. But for once, I'm not exaggerating." he tilted his head back. "The world is overrated, anyways."

You snorted, smirking at Dazai. "What happened to Mr. Optimism himself?"

"What's the point of having if it means losing you?" Dazai countered, his voice quieter.

You blinked, caught off guard by Dazai's words. A warmth crept up to your cheeks as your fingers hesitated gently resting over his.

"You're not losing me just yet, you know," you said softly, avoiding his gaze. "I'm still here, Dazai."

Daziai's usual playful facade had cracked, leaving behind something far more vulnerable—something he rarely let anyone see. You bit the inside of your cheek before continuing. "You always act like you have to carry everything alone," you muttered. "But you don't. Not with me."

Dazai was silent for a moment, then letting out a small chuckle. He turned his hand over and intertwined your fingers with his. "How cruel," he mused, his voice now gentle. "Comforting a man who specializes in deception.

You met Dazai's gaze, a faint smile stretching across your lips as you gave his hand a small squeeze. "Even you deserve it sometimes."

Dazai smirked and leaned closer, wiggling his eyebrows. "How sweet, my Y/n-chan is being so kind to me, finally!"

You rolled your eyes. "Don't get use to it."

Dazai chuckled. After a small moment of silence, Dazai broke it by sneakily planting a quick kiss on your lips. It was short and sweet, but you savored the feeling of Dazai's soft lips against your chapped ones. You touched your lips where Dazai had kissed you, blushing furiously.

"You!—"

"Stop acting like you didn't like it, Y/n-chan. We both know how we feel about each other." Dazai interrupted, sending you a playful wink.

"W-Whatever! You're so annoying..."

Dazai let out a light laugh in response, then pressing a kiss onto your cheek and forehead, only causing your face to grow hotter.

"Stop it, you weirdo!" you flushed.

"Why though?~ I can't help it. It's not everyday when I get the privilege to kiss such a beautiful goddess." he teased, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His lips curling into a mischievous grin as he leaned back, watching your face turn even redder.

That night, Dazai held you close, his head resting gently on your chest as he listened to the soft, uneven rhythm of your heart—each beat a reminder of how fragile time was. His grip remained firm, his eyes scanning for any shift in the familiar pulse, his mind alert to the slightest change. He stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, ensuring you were safe. Soon after you drifted into a quiet sleep, the weight of the night finally pulled him under as well, his breath steadying in time with yours.

The next morning, the soft morning glow of the sun bled through the fabric of the curtains, landing on Dazai's face. The brunette stirred from his sleep, slowly opening his eyes as he sat up. Dazai let out a yawn and stretched his arms over his head, turning back to look at your peaceful sleeping figure.

Something felt... off.

Dazai gently took your hand, his fingers brushing against your skin. But the moment his fingertips made contact, a chill shot through him, and the blood drained from his face as he felt just how cold you had become. His grip tightened instinctively, his heart skipping a beat as panic gripped him. He quickly raised your hand to his lips, pressing them against your skin in a desperate, unconscious attempt to warm you. The coldness seeped deeper into him, his mind racing, but he kept his composure, determined not to show the fear that was bubbling just beneath the surface.

That's when Dazai realized. You had finally departed from Earth, and it hurt him more than he wanted it to. Dazai let go of your hand, letting it flop back down to your side limply as he stared at you with unspoken tears.

You were gone, and you weren't going to come back.

Dazai wanted to shout and scream, curse the universe for making his life so unfair and unfortunate, but he held himself back. He reminded himself that it wouldn't change the fact that you had passed.

After that day, the world appeared more dull and lifeless to Dazai, as if the colors had faded away. Everything felt empty without your presence, each moment stretching on in muted shades of gray.

a/n: i think you'll need these... passes tissue box. anyways i love you guys! (≧ڡ≦*)

[unfgvien]

seeds of a dream chapter one

pairing - dom!mother rhea x sub!mummy reader

summary - Rhea and Yn, are devised to find out that yn has endometriosis The condition causes inflammation and pain, impacting yn's fertility. They research fertility treatments like IVF, donor eggs, and surrogacy, but the medical terminology feels impersonal. Their love and commitment guide them through the challenges, proving their resilience and shared dream of parenthood. In a fertility clinic, they face the responsibility of finding potential sperm donors, each contributing to their future child. Their love serves as the foundation for their journey and their shared journey.

word count - 5.5k

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the polished wooden floor of Rhea and Yn’s apartment. Dust motes danced in the golden light, a serene scene at odds with the storm brewing within Yn. The crisp white envelope sat on the coffee table, unopened, a silent, yet menacing presence. Rhea, perched on the arm of the sofa, nervously flipped through a magazine, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a quiet anxiety that mirrored Yn’s own. The air crackled with unspoken fears, the comfortable silence of their usual evenings shattered.

Yn finally reached for the envelope, her fingers tracing the sharp edges as if hesitant to break the seal. She knew what it contained, the results of the tests she’d undergone, tests that had hung over her like a dark cloud for weeks. The weight of possibility and dread pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She ripped open the envelope, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The words swam before her eyes, blurring into a chaotic mess of medical jargon. Endometriosis. The word hit her like a physical blow, a jarring truth that stole the breath from her lungs.

She sank onto the sofa beside Rhea, the paper crumpling in her hand like a discarded autumn leaf. Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each tick a relentless reminder of the passing time. Rhea, sensing the gravity of the situation, gently took Yn’s hand, her touch conveying a silent promise of support. The warmth of Rhea’s hand offered a small measure of comfort, a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty that had suddenly engulfed them.

“What does it say?” Rhea whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and apprehension.

Yn’s voice trembled as she read the report aloud, each word a painful confirmation of her fears. The doctor's explanation replayed in her mind: the endometrial tissue growing outside her uterus, causing inflammation and pain, significantly impacting her fertility. The dream they had both nurtured for so long, the dream of building a family, felt suddenly fragile, threatened by a medical condition they knew little about.

Tears welled up in Yn’s eyes, hot and stinging. The image of a family, a happy, bustling household filled with laughter and love, flickered like a candle in a strong wind. The reality of their situation crashed down upon them, the weight of it almost unbearable. Rhea pulled Yn close, holding her tightly, offering the comfort only a loving partner can provide. In that moment, the cozy apartment, usually a haven of warmth and intimacy, felt cold and sterile, a stark reflection of their suddenly uncertain future.

They spent the next few hours lost in a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, anger, sadness, and a deep sense of loss washed over them in waves. The initial shock gradually gave way to a grim determination. They wouldn't let this diagnosis define their future. They would find a way. They would fight for their dream.

Their research began immediately. They spent hours scouring the internet, poring over medical journals, and seeking information from support groups. The world of fertility treatments felt overwhelming, a complex labyrinth of procedures, medications, and probabilities. IVF, donor eggs, surrogacy – the options felt both hopeful and daunting, each path fraught with its own set of challenges and uncertainties. The sterile medical terminology felt cold and impersonal, a stark contrast to the intimate and personal nature of their desire to have a child.

The initial despair gradually transformed into a focused energy, a collaborative effort to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of infertility. They learned about the different types of endometriosis, the various treatment options, and the success rates associated with each. They discussed their options openly and honestly, their communication a testament to their enduring love and commitment to each other.

Yn's pain became a shared experience, a bond that strengthened their relationship even as it tested its limits. Rhea learned to understand the often-unseen struggles that Yn faced – the chronic pain, the fatigue, the emotional toll of dealing with a condition that affected every aspect of her life. They were a team, facing a daunting challenge together, their love a beacon in the darkness.

The weight of their decision hung heavy in the air. Each option presented a unique set of challenges. IVF was expensive and invasive, with no guarantee of success. Using a donor egg would mean that Yn wouldn't be genetically related to the child, a thought that initially brought a pang of sadness. Surrogacy presented its own set of logistical and emotional complexities. Each path involved sacrifices, compromises, and a leap of faith into the unknown.

The conversations were long and sometimes difficult. Tears were shed, doubts were voiced, and fears were acknowledged. But through it all, their love remained a constant, a unwavering force that guided their decisions. They found comfort in each other's arms, in shared silences, and in the quiet strength they discovered within themselves as they faced this new reality. Their love story wasn’t just a fairytale; it was a testament to their resilience, a demonstration of their unwavering commitment to their shared dream of parenthood.

They were not simply a couple facing infertility; they were partners navigating a challenging journey, their love strengthening with each step. The journey would be challenging, full of uncertainty, but their determination remained firm. They would find a way to build their family, together. Their love was their strength, their compass, and their unwavering hope.

The diagnosis had been a blow, but it hadn’t broken them; it had forged a new strength in their bond, a determination that would guide them through whatever lay ahead. Their path might be unconventional, but their love was the foundation, solid and enduring. The seeds of their dream, though planted in challenging soil, still held the promise of flourishing.

The sterile white walls of the fertility clinic felt a world away from the cozy intimacy of their apartment. The air hummed with the low thrum of unseen machinery, a constant, almost unsettling background noise to the hushed conversations of other couples navigating the same complex terrain. Rows of identical chairs lined the waiting area, each occupied by a couple wrestling with their own hopes and anxieties. Yn clutched Rhea’s hand, the familiar comfort a small anchor in the sea of uncertainty that surrounded them. Rhea squeezed back, offering silent reassurance.

The counselor, a kind woman with gentle eyes and a calming demeanor, greeted them warmly. She guided them through the process, explaining the extensive database of sperm donors, each profile a carefully curated collection of information – physical attributes, medical history, genetic predispositions, personality traits, even hobbies and interests. The sheer volume of information felt overwhelming, a stark contrast to the simplicity of their initial desire: to have a child, together.

They spent hours poring over the profiles, a meticulous process that felt both clinical and deeply personal. Each donor was a potential father, a genetic contributor to their future child. The weight of that responsibility settled heavily on their shoulders, the gravity of their decision echoing in the silent clinic. They discussed each profile in detail, their voices hushed, their words carefully chosen. Did they prioritize physical resemblance? Genetic compatibility? Or did they focus on qualities they hoped to instill in their child? The questions felt endless, the answers elusive.

Yn, ever practical, focused on the medical details: genetic screenings, family history, and potential health risks. She meticulously checked off boxes, noting details that seemed insignificant to Rhea, yet held profound importance for her. Rhea, however, found herself drawn to the personal narratives, the snippets of life offered in the brief descriptions. She searched for a glimpse of personality, a spark of connection, a sense of shared values. It felt strange to choose a father for their child based on a carefully constructed profile, on a collection of data points, rather than through the familiar dance of love and attraction.

The process felt impersonal, almost mechanical. The clinic, with its clinical sterility, seemed to stand in stark contrast to the intimacy of their shared dream. They were creating a family, but the act of creation felt strangely detached, lacking the raw, organic energy of natural conception. It felt surreal, navigating the world of sperm donation, a world they hadn't anticipated when they envisioned their future family. Yet, here they were, determined to navigate this unfamiliar landscape, together.

They studied photographs, each image a snapshot of a potential father they would never know, a stranger whose genetic material would shape the life of their child. The smiles in the photos were generic, devoid of the warmth and intimacy of their own relationship. Rhea found herself searching for a resemblance to herself, a shared glint in the eye, a similar curve of the smile. Yn, however, focused on the factual data, seeking genetic compatibility, an assurance of health and well-being for their future child. Their different approaches, however, reflected a shared commitment to making the best possible decision for their family.

Days blurred into weeks as they immersed themselves in the process. They debated, discussed, and argued, their anxieties and hopes interwoven in a complex tapestry of emotions. The clinic became a second home, a space filled with both anticipation and apprehension. The weight of their decision pressed upon them, a constant, persistent pressure that challenged their resilience. Yet, their love remained a constant, a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of uncertainty. They relied on each other, offering comfort, support, and understanding. Their conversations were long, filled with both joy and apprehension, each word carefully weighed, each decision pondered.

The donor profiles became less like documents and more like stories, each containing a fragment of someone's life. They started seeing glimmers of potential parenthood in these brief descriptions, weaving narratives about the potential father and the child he might help them create. They imagined the child's future, their personality, and their potential, a tapestry woven from the threads of their love and the genetic blueprint they carefully chose. It was a delicate balance between practicality and emotion, a dance between the scientific and the deeply personal.

One profile, in particular, caught their eye. The donor was a musician, a graduate of a prestigious university, with a history of philanthropy and a passion for outdoor activities. His medical history was impeccable, and his genetic profile matched well with Yn's. The accompanying photograph showed a kind smile, intelligent eyes, and a gentle demeanor. He seemed like a good fit, a responsible and caring individual who would be a good genetic contributor to their child.

But the process didn't solely involve analyzing data and photographs; it was also about exploring their own hopes and expectations for their child. They talked about the kind of person they envisioned their child to be – intelligent, kind, compassionate, resilient. They discussed their dreams for their child's future, hoping that their offspring would lead a fulfilling and meaningful life, one filled with joy and purpose. Their conversations were a testament to their love, a reminder of their shared vision, and a testament to their commitment to building a family.

The final decision was a culmination of weeks of careful consideration, a mix of data-driven analysis and heartfelt intuition. It was a compromise between their individual preferences, a balance of logic and emotion. As they finally selected the donor, a wave of emotions washed over them – relief, anticipation, and a touch of bittersweetness. They had made a choice, a pivotal decision that would shape their future and the future of their child. It was a choice born out of love, determination, and the unwavering hope that their dream of building a family would come true. The sterile environment of the clinic receded into the background, replaced by the vibrant vision of their expanding family.

The weight of the decision didn’t vanish completely, but it felt lighter. There was still anxiety, the uncertainty of the unknown lingering, but now it was accompanied by a cautious optimism, a sense of hope and anticipation. They had chosen a path, a seemingly unconventional one, but a path paved with their love, their resilience, and their unwavering commitment to creating a family.

Leaving the clinic, hand in hand, they walked towards the sunset, their shadows lengthening, their hearts filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation, but primarily, with an unyielding love. The seeds of their dream were finally sown, ready to germinate and blossom into the family they had always envisioned. The journey would be challenging, certainly, but the path ahead, though unconventional, was paved with their love, and that, they knew, was more than enough.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of appointments, ultrasounds, and the slow, steady bloom of a life within Rhea. The stark white of the fertility clinic faded into a background memory, replaced by the warm glow of their apartment, now meticulously rearranged to accommodate the imminent arrival. Yn, ever the planner, had transformed a spare room into a nursery, a haven of soft pastels and gentle lighting, filled with tiny clothes and miniature furniture, each item a testament to their meticulous preparation and burgeoning love.

Rhea’s body, once a familiar landscape, transformed in subtle yet significant ways. The initial nausea subsided, replaced by an insatiable hunger that seemed to defy logic and reason. Yn, ever attentive, catered to her every whim, bringing her cups of chamomile tea in the morning, preparing her favorite meals, and gently rubbing her aching back at night. Their kitchen, once a space of shared culinary adventures, became a sanctuary of nourishing meals, tailored to Rhea’s ever-changing needs.

The first flutter of movement was a revelation, a moment both ethereal and profoundly real. It was a subtle shift, a faint tremor deep within Rhea’s belly, a sensation so delicate it could have been imagined. Yet, it was undeniably there, a confirmation of the life growing within her, a living testament to their shared dream. Tears welled up in Rhea’s eyes, a mix of joy, wonder, and a profound sense of awe. Yn held her close, her embrace a silent expression of shared joy and overwhelming emotion.

The physical changes continued, each day bringing new and surprising developments. Rhea's belly, initially a subtle swell, grew larger, more prominent, a tangible manifestation of the life growing within. The once-flat abdomen blossomed into a rounded curve, a living testament to the miracle of life. Her clothes, once comfortable and familiar, became increasingly snug, a constant reminder of the burgeoning life within. She started a pregnancy journal, meticulously documenting her changing body, her fluctuating moods, and the overwhelming emotions that accompanied this remarkable journey.

The weight gain wasn't just physical; it was emotional, too. The anxieties intensified, evolving into a complex mixture of excitement, apprehension, and the gnawing fear of the unknown. Rhea found herself overwhelmed by a wave of protectiveness, a primal instinct to shield this precious life from any harm. Sleep became elusive, her nights punctuated by frequent trips to the bathroom and the unsettling pangs of restless legs. The once-peaceful slumber was replaced by a series of interrupted moments, filled with anxieties and vivid dreams. Yn was her constant rock, a beacon of calm amidst the storm. She massaged Rhea’s feet, read her stories, and simply sat beside her, offering silent comfort and unwavering support.

The monthly checkups became milestones, each visit a small victory, offering a glimpse into the growing life within. The images on the ultrasound screen, initially grainy and indistinct, became clearer, more defined, revealing tiny fingers, tiny toes, and a tiny beating heart. With each visit, the reality of parenthood felt closer, more tangible, the weight of their responsibility becoming more profound. These regular checkups provided not just medical updates but emotional reassurance, each visit strengthening their resolve and nurturing their hope.

Rhea's relationship with her body evolved as well. She found herself strangely connected to her changing form, appreciating the subtle nuances of her burgeoning motherhood. The stretch marks that appeared on her abdomen, initially a source of self-consciousness, became badges of honor, marks of transformation and a testimony to the miraculous journey she was undertaking. The shifting center of gravity, the sudden fatigue, and the intense sensitivity – all were accepted as part of this extraordinary experience, a testament to the power and beauty of motherhood.

Their social life underwent a subtle transformation, too. Dinner dates were replaced by cozy evenings at home, conversations turning increasingly towards the practicalities of baby care and childcare. Friends and family rallied around them, offering advice, support, and gifts – a tangible manifestation of their love and support. Baby showers, filled with laughter, joy, and thoughtful presents, became a celebration of their expanding family. Rhea savored the warmth of connection, the outpouring of love and support from her loved ones.

Rhea's cravings became legendary. One day it was pickles and ice cream, the next, it was spicy noodles and orange juice. Yn, ever the accommodating partner, fulfilled her every whim, even at 2 am. Their shared laughter during these culinary adventures became a cherished memory, highlighting their unwavering commitment and the joy of shared experience. Their fridge became a kaleidoscope of strange and wonderful combinations, a testament to Rhea's ever-changing palate and Yn's unwavering devotion.

As the weeks turned into months, Rhea’s emotions ran a full spectrum. There were moments of pure joy, of overwhelming love, and intense excitement for the upcoming birth. But there were also moments of fear, doubt, and overwhelming anxiety. The unknown loomed large, a dark cloud hovering over the horizon of their bright future. The thought of childbirth, once a distant idea, now felt immensely real, filled with both excitement and trepidation. She sought reassurance from Yn, her words a steady balm on her troubled mind, a comfort in the face of uncertainty. They talked, they shared their fears, and their love for each other, and for the child growing within Rhea, grew stronger and more profound.

The preparation for the baby's arrival was more than just purchasing cribs and changing tables; it was a process of emotional and mental preparation as well. They attended parenting classes, read countless books, and discussed every aspect of newborn care – feeding schedules, swaddling techniques, and the art of soothing a crying infant. The once-distant concept of parenthood was now rapidly approaching, each detail a tangible step towards their dream of building a family.

Yn, ever practical, meticulously planned every aspect of the transition into parenthood. She researched different types of baby carriers, designed a detailed feeding schedule, and prepared a comprehensive list of emergency contacts. Rhea, however, focused on the emotional aspects of motherhood. She spent hours reading books about attachment parenting, imagining the joy of holding their child, the warmth of their skin against hers, the deep connection between a mother and her child.

The final weeks of pregnancy were a mix of excitement and anticipation. Rhea’s body was now fully prepared for the arrival of their child. Her belly was large, and her movements were slow and deliberate. She spent her days resting, tending to her garden, and connecting with Yn. The connection between them grew deeper, strengthened by the shared experience of their upcoming parenthood. Their love was a constant, a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of hormones and anxieties.

The apartment, once just a home, was now a sanctuary, a place filled with love, anticipation, and the unwavering hope that their dream of building a family would soon come to fruition. The seeds they had carefully sown, nurtured with their love and determination, were now ready to blossom. The journey had been challenging, filled with complexities and uncertainties, but their love remained their guiding light, the unwavering foundation upon which their future family would be built.

The air in the delivery room crackled with a nervous energy, a palpable tension that hung heavy in the space between the whirring of machines and the hushed whispers of the medical staff. Rhea, her breath coming in ragged gasps, focused on the rhythmic contractions that pulsed through her body, each wave a surge of pain and anticipation. Yn, her hand clasped tightly in Rhea's, offered silent support, her presence a steadfast rock amidst the storm. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor provided a constant, if somewhat unsettling, soundtrack to the unfolding drama. Sweat beaded on Rhea's brow, her face contorted in a grimace of exertion, yet her eyes, despite the pain, held a spark of unwavering determination.

The room, initially sterile and impersonal, had slowly transformed into a haven of shared emotion. The clinical white walls seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the warm glow of the bedside lamp and the soft light emanating from the monitors. The air thrummed with anticipation, a tangible energy that vibrated through the room, connecting the three of them – Rhea, Yn, and the tiny life growing within.

The contractions intensified, each wave more powerful than the last, bringing Rhea closer to the brink of exhaustion. Yn’s words of encouragement, whispered softly into her ear, were a lifeline, a source of strength that helped her navigate the turbulent waters of labor. She stroked Rhea's hair, her touch a soothing balm on her aching body and troubled mind. The nurses, efficient and reassuring, moved around the room with practiced ease, their presence both reassuring and professional.

Then, a shift. A change in the rhythm, a subtle alteration in the intensity of the pain. Rhea felt a primal urge, a powerful instinct that guided her through the next series of contractions. The pain became more intense, more all-consuming, yet within the throes of exertion, a new feeling emerged – a sense of purpose, a clear understanding of what she was doing, of why she was enduring this.

With each breath, each push, Rhea felt a profound connection to her body, a newfound respect for its strength and resilience. The pain was immense, but it was also a part of something beautiful, something extraordinary. It was the pain of creation, the agony of birth, and the exhilaration of bringing new life into the world.

Yn, her eyes filled with a mixture of awe and anxiety, watched with bated breath. She held Rhea’s hand, her grip tightening with each contraction, offering unspoken support and unwavering love. Their shared gaze, filled with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, spoke volumes of their shared journey, their shared dream. The room was a sanctuary, a shared space where their hopes, fears, and dreams converged into one powerful moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the moment arrived. A wave of indescribable relief washed over Rhea as she felt the pressure release, the culmination of hours of effort, a release that signaled the beginning of a new chapter. The cry that followed was a primal sound, raw and powerful, a sound that echoed through the delivery room, filling it with the promise of new beginnings.

A tiny, wrinkled face emerged, a perfect miniature of their combined features. Lilly. Their daughter. The nurses quickly worked to clean and wrap the newborn, their movements swift and efficient. The first glimpse of their daughter was a moment etched in their minds forever – a moment of overwhelming joy, of profound love, of an emotion so deep it transcended words.

Rhea reached out, her trembling hand gently touching the soft, delicate skin of her daughter’s cheek. The sensation was extraordinary, a connection so profound, so immediate, that it brought tears to her eyes. The exhaustion, the pain, all faded into insignificance as she gazed upon her child, her heart overflowing with love.

Yn, overcome with emotion, moved closer, her eyes filled with tears of joy. She gently touched Lilly’s tiny hand, her touch both tentative and reverent. The overwhelming emotion was palpable, a shared sense of wonder and gratitude that resonated through the room. They were parents. Their family was complete.

The bustling hospital room, previously filled with the sounds of medical activity, now hummed with a quiet, peaceful energy. The beeping of the machines faded into the background, replaced by the gentle sounds of Lilly’s soft breathing. The room, once sterile and impersonal, became a sanctuary of love and new beginnings. The three of them – Rhea, Yn, and their precious daughter – were a unit, a family bound by an unbreakable bond.

The nurses left them alone, giving them a moment of private reflection. The silence that followed was not an uncomfortable silence; it was a moment filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet celebration of their remarkable journey. Rhea, cradling Lilly close, felt a surge of protectiveness, an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Yn watched them both, her heart filled with a depth of love that seemed impossible to contain.

Hours passed in a blur of tender moments. Rhea gazed at her daughter, marveling at the tiny features, the delicate fingers, the soft downy hair. Yn gently cleaned Lilly, her movements precise and loving, while Rhea recounted their journey, sharing their fears, anxieties and the sheer joy that had overcome them. They whispered stories and dreams, their voices soft and filled with wonder.

The journey to this moment had been challenging, filled with uncertainties and complexities. The path to parenthood had been fraught with emotional and physical trials, demanding perseverance and unwavering commitment. But they had overcome the obstacles, their love serving as a beacon, guiding them through the darkest moments.

This love, their shared dream, had blossomed into a tangible reality. The seeds of their dream, sown with love and nurtured with patience, had finally yielded its most precious fruit. Their family, unconventional yet profoundly real, was a testament to their resilience, their unwavering commitment to each other, and their profound desire for family. In the quiet moments, they whispered promises of love, commitment, and shared adventures to come. Lilly, nestled securely in her mother's arms, seemed to soak in the warmth and security, the love that enveloped her completely. This was just the beginning of their story, a story filled with the promise of love, laughter, and the joys of building a family in their own unique way. The sounds of the hospital faded into the background as they focused on this small, perfect miracle of love. The future stretched before them, infinite and full of hope.

The hospital faded into a distant memory, replaced by the comforting chaos of their own home. Lilly, no longer a fragile newborn, was a tiny, gurgling bundle of energy, demanding and rewarding in equal measure. The transition from the sterile environment of the hospital to the warm embrace of their home was jarring, yet somehow profoundly right. The first few weeks were a blur of feeding schedules, diaper changes, and a sleep deprivation that stretched the limits of their endurance. The idyllic picture of parenthood they had envisioned, filled with gentle lullabies and peaceful moments of gazing at their sleeping child, was replaced by the stark reality of relentless exhaustion and a constant, low-level hum of anxiety.

Rhea, despite her own exhaustion, felt a powerful surge of protectiveness towards Lilly. Every coo, every gurgle, every tiny grasp of her finger was a source of immense joy. Yet, the relentless cycle of feeding, burping, and soothing quickly morphed from a sweet adventure into a relentless marathon. Nights were a particular challenge. The peaceful silence they had craved was replaced by the frantic cries of a hungry infant, the soft glow of the nightlight illuminating the frantic dance of feeding, burping, and rocking. Yn, her usually calm demeanor slightly frayed at the edges, would often take over during the night, offering Rhea precious moments of rest, her love and support a silent testament to their commitment to one another.

Their carefully constructed routines crumbled under the weight of Lilly's needs. The meticulously planned schedules, the romantic dinners, the quiet evenings spent curled up on the sofa, all fell by the wayside. Their lives, once their own, now revolved around the tiny human who had stolen their hearts. There were moments of frustration, moments when the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm them. There were times when arguments erupted, fueled by sleep deprivation and the sheer pressure of adapting to this new reality. But amidst the chaos, their love remained their anchor. They learned to lean on each other, to share the burden, to find moments of connection amidst the storm. A shared glance across the room, a silent nod of understanding during a particularly difficult night, these were the small moments that sustained them.

Yn, ever the pragmatist, took charge of organizing their new lives around Lilly's needs. She created meticulous charts tracking feeding times, diaper changes, and sleep patterns, her organizational skills proving invaluable. Rhea, more intuitive and nurturing, focused on Lilly’s emotional needs, soothing her cries, responding to her subtle cues, and building a strong bond through skin-to-skin contact and gentle rocking. They discovered that their different approaches complemented each other, their strengths balancing out the challenges. The division of labor, initially a carefully planned strategy, morphed into a fluid dynamic, adapting to the ever-changing needs of their daughter and themselves.

As Lilly grew, so did their understanding of parenthood. The early anxieties, the fears of inadequacy, began to fade, replaced by a growing confidence and a deeper connection to their daughter. The first time Lilly smiled, a radiant burst of pure joy, it felt like the world paused. The first time she reached for them, a small hand grasping their fingers, it was a moment of profound connection, a testament to the bond they were forging. They celebrated her milestones with a mixture of awe and excitement – her first roll, her first crawl, her first word. Each achievement felt monumental, a reminder of the remarkable journey they were undertaking.

Life wasn't always perfect, of course. There were still moments of frustration, moments of exhaustion, moments when they questioned their ability to do this. There were challenging days, filled with tantrums, sleepless nights, and the sheer overwhelming nature of raising a young child. But through it all, they found strength in each other, their love for Lilly binding them together, their resilience forged in the fires of shared challenges. They learned the art of teamwork, of finding joy in the small moments, of appreciating the preciousness of this journey.

Their unconventional path to parenthood had been challenging, yet it had also strengthened their bond in ways they couldn't have anticipated. The experience of creating their family, navigating the complexities of fertility treatments and overcoming the hurdles of unconventional family building, had forged an unbreakable connection between them. Their love story, woven with threads of determination, resilience, and unwavering commitment, continued to unfold, enriching their lives with the joy and challenges of family. They learned to navigate the delicate balance between individual needs and the demands of parenthood, maintaining their personal space while creating a secure and loving environment for their daughter.

They rediscovered the importance of communication, learning to express their needs and concerns openly and honestly. The exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the moments of doubt – they shared these experiences, finding solace in their shared vulnerability. They celebrated their successes, both big and small, cherishing the moments of quiet connection amidst the chaos. They learned to embrace imperfection, to accept the unpredictable nature of parenthood, and to find beauty in the messiness of family life.

As Lilly grew older, their focus shifted, but the challenges, though different, remained. The joy of watching her learn, grow, and blossom continued to inspire them, solidifying their commitment to one another and their family. Their love, their shared dreams, had not only brought them together but had created something profoundly beautiful – a family, unique and fiercely loved, a testament to the power of love, perseverance, and the unwavering desire to build a life together.

They sought support from other parents, sharing their experiences and finding comfort in knowing they weren't alone. They discovered the hidden joys of early parenthood - the quiet moments of connection, the laughter that erupted amidst the chaos, the shared sense of wonder at witnessing the growth of their child. The exhaustion was still a constant companion, but it was now tempered by the immense love they felt for each other and for their daughter. Their family, though unconventional, was undeniably strong, their bond woven with threads of shared experiences, unwavering commitment, and an abundance of love.

The challenges of early parenthood served only to strengthen their relationship, highlighting the resilience of their bond and the unwavering love that lay at its heart. They created rituals, small moments of connection that became anchors in the ever-changing landscape of their lives. Bedtime stories, snuggles on the couch, weekend adventures – these moments became sacred, preserving their bond amidst the demands of daily life.

Their home, once a haven of quiet intimacy, now echoed with the laughter and cries of a growing child, a beautiful testament to their journey together. They learned to adapt, to evolve, to navigate the complex terrain of parenthood, their love serving as their compass, guiding them through the joys and challenges. And as they looked at Lilly, their hearts overflowing with love, they knew they had found something truly special – a family, built on love, resilience, and the unwavering belief in the power of their dream.

DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY PUBLISH OR EDIT MY WORKS, I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORKS BEING PUBLISHED ON ANY 3RD PARTY WEBSITE. © bunbun 2025 - 2027˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚